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#1 - Passing the Torch (feat. Starman)
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GM Post Catalog
#1 - Passing the Torch (feat. Starman)
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mickilennial The Elder Fae
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0-24 hrs ago
Justice Society of America Headquarters
Opal City, United States — New Years Eve, 1967
Opal City, United States — New Years Eve, 1967
“You’re getting old, Ted.”
Ted Knight frowned as he looked at the portrait on the wall.
He was younger, well-painted. Battle-worn. It was now 1968 and the only thing he could feel was the aching in his bones. Some days he could barely hold onto the Cosmic Staff. It was getting harder to fight crime. Harder in general. The last thirty years felt like a hundred. He wasn’t sure how Wesley could keep going. He knew Diana was part-god or whatever the story was. Clark was an alien. Ted was just a man with a lot of money and a knack for building things, but he couldn’t build anything to stop father time. Nobody could.
“You need to quit.”
He was fifty-six years old next week. It was becoming hard, even considering the fact that he had stayed vigilant since his very first outing as a hero. He was a public icon.
When people thought of “superhero” he was one of the go-to names. And with how the JSA had miraculously fucked up the whole ‘protecting America’ thing in the last decade he wasn’t sure he deserved the praise or the recognition. Tomorrow was the first day of 1968 and things were only getting worse. His lobbyists in Washington weren’t being effective at putting a stop to Vietnam, Senator Kelly was stoking division with his push for metahuman accountability, and street crime had hit an all-time high. No invention or fame he had created could push back against it. It bothered him. With all the power and prestige in the world he still couldn’t fix the world. Someone new needed to run the JSA and get Washington to change their minds. His time was coming to an end.
Hopefully, there would be something to be optimistic for as he looked to pass the torch.
The crackle of fireworks over the Maryland skies made him faintly smile, though he knew there was more work to be done. The JSA annual celebration was ongoing in the main hall, he could hear the chattering. It wasn’t often all of them got in the old building all at once. Only when the Injustice Society or another group were threatening the world did they often head into the only war room and figure out a plan. Usually Mr. Terrific had something laid out. On a few occasions Diana. They were the strategists. It was nice when they were together when it wasn’t to stop a world-threatening event.
He was going to miss it.
coGM
HALY'S CIRCUS
Gotham City, New Jersey
September 16, 1966
The ground is forty feet below me.
There’s no net.
Nothing holding me up. I let go of the flying trapeze and, for a moment, I’m flying. I can hear the gasps, the collective holding of breath, and even a few shrieks rise from below. I’m starting to fall, but I’m not afraid. I just stretch out my arms, and I know she’ll be there to catch me. Because she’s always there. Because she always does.
The gasps echo, louder this time, as we both go sailing through the air. Me, dangling in mid-air, and my mother holding onto my arms with her legs hooked around the trapeze bar.
Then she lets go.
The screams pierce the air. I shut out the audience - the blur of faces and lights - as I tuck into a ball and flip through the air. Once. Twice. What they don’t see is my father, standing on the platform. He let the trapeze bar go right as I finished the first rotation. Coming out of the second, I plane my body out. My hands open wide, the trapeze bar smacking right against the palms. Holding fast, I sail through the air. Dismount, tuck into a backflip, and make the landing on the platform.
The cheers break out, even as my mother is following suit, until all three of us are standing on the platform together. The applause grows in intensity as she dismounts and joins us, then transforms into a standing ovation as we take a bow.
“The fearless Flying Graysons! Let’s have a great Gotham round of applause for ten year old Dicky Grayson. The youngest acrobat performing today!”
I step back, and soon I’m the only one standing on the platform. The performance goes into the second act and I’ve got the best seat in the house.
Stepping back from the platform, I put my back against the tent pole and slide down. The strength seems to go out of my legs and I’m starting to realize that my arms are numb. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m still trying to catch my breath. Below, it probably feels a little cool inside the tent. Up here, with all the lights, it feels like it’s a hundred degrees.
There’s a strange twang overhead. I look up, but it’s just the tension wires. In between the platforms, mom and dad are really putting on a show. I know every move. I know each routine. But it’s still incredible to witness. It takes my breath away, and I get to see this every day. The audience below? Amazed would be an understatement. I wish that I could be out there with them, but I’m still too little. Mom and dad are worried that I’ll get tired. Tired during practice is one thing. We have nets and safety harnesses while we learn a new routine. It gives us that little extra security to push ourselves to the limit to figure out what works and what doesn’t. Which, in my case, usually doesn’t. I hit the net four or five or even a dozen times some days.
But that’s practice, and this isn’t. So I come in at the start of the performance for the first act, then I’m sidelined for the second, and come back toward the end of the third. But I don’t really have any stunts after the first act.
The sound again. Louder, the cable and support structure giving a snap-CLAP of protest that echoed like a roll of thunder. I heard it. I bet the audience below heard it.
My parents heard it.
They’ve paused their routine, missing the jump. They’re lower than they should be. From this vantage point, I can see that the trapeze is sagging. My dad’s looking up at the cables. My mom’s looking at me. I can see her face.
I can see her fear.
“Mom?”
The cable snaps before I can even get back to my feet. “DAD!” I see them drop, and lunge forward. I collapse onto the platform, peering over the ledge and I see everything.
I see the end of the world.
There’s no net.
Nothing holding me up. I let go of the flying trapeze and, for a moment, I’m flying. I can hear the gasps, the collective holding of breath, and even a few shrieks rise from below. I’m starting to fall, but I’m not afraid. I just stretch out my arms, and I know she’ll be there to catch me. Because she’s always there. Because she always does.
The gasps echo, louder this time, as we both go sailing through the air. Me, dangling in mid-air, and my mother holding onto my arms with her legs hooked around the trapeze bar.
Then she lets go.
The screams pierce the air. I shut out the audience - the blur of faces and lights - as I tuck into a ball and flip through the air. Once. Twice. What they don’t see is my father, standing on the platform. He let the trapeze bar go right as I finished the first rotation. Coming out of the second, I plane my body out. My hands open wide, the trapeze bar smacking right against the palms. Holding fast, I sail through the air. Dismount, tuck into a backflip, and make the landing on the platform.
The cheers break out, even as my mother is following suit, until all three of us are standing on the platform together. The applause grows in intensity as she dismounts and joins us, then transforms into a standing ovation as we take a bow.
“The fearless Flying Graysons! Let’s have a great Gotham round of applause for ten year old Dicky Grayson. The youngest acrobat performing today!”
I step back, and soon I’m the only one standing on the platform. The performance goes into the second act and I’ve got the best seat in the house.
Stepping back from the platform, I put my back against the tent pole and slide down. The strength seems to go out of my legs and I’m starting to realize that my arms are numb. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m still trying to catch my breath. Below, it probably feels a little cool inside the tent. Up here, with all the lights, it feels like it’s a hundred degrees.
There’s a strange twang overhead. I look up, but it’s just the tension wires. In between the platforms, mom and dad are really putting on a show. I know every move. I know each routine. But it’s still incredible to witness. It takes my breath away, and I get to see this every day. The audience below? Amazed would be an understatement. I wish that I could be out there with them, but I’m still too little. Mom and dad are worried that I’ll get tired. Tired during practice is one thing. We have nets and safety harnesses while we learn a new routine. It gives us that little extra security to push ourselves to the limit to figure out what works and what doesn’t. Which, in my case, usually doesn’t. I hit the net four or five or even a dozen times some days.
But that’s practice, and this isn’t. So I come in at the start of the performance for the first act, then I’m sidelined for the second, and come back toward the end of the third. But I don’t really have any stunts after the first act.
The sound again. Louder, the cable and support structure giving a snap-CLAP of protest that echoed like a roll of thunder. I heard it. I bet the audience below heard it.
My parents heard it.
They’ve paused their routine, missing the jump. They’re lower than they should be. From this vantage point, I can see that the trapeze is sagging. My dad’s looking up at the cables. My mom’s looking at me. I can see her face.
I can see her fear.
“Mom?”
The cable snaps before I can even get back to my feet. “DAD!” I see them drop, and lunge forward. I collapse onto the platform, peering over the ledge and I see everything.
I see the end of the world.
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STATELY WAYNE MANOR
Bristol Township, New Jersey
January 1, 1968 | Present Day
”HAPPY NEW YEAR!”
The young boy sat up, not entirely awake.
To be honest, he didn’t remember going to sleep. It left the child disoriented as he was jostled amid the whooping and hollering. Blinking several times, a yawn gripped him as the fog began to lift from his brain, even though his body felt like it weighed a ton.
This was... well, Dick didn’t know what it was ‘sposed to be called. The living room? Except half the rooms in the place were living rooms. It was the one next to Mister Wayne’s study. The one with the clock.
Yeah, that clock.
Anyway, Dick found himself halfway in the lap of Miss Agnes. Which, that wasn’t her name. Well, it was her name. But not, like, her official name. That was Mrs. Walden. She was Old Money. One of the Wayne Foundation’s biggest donors. Apparently, she’d been Mister Bruce’s mom’s teacher. Or, maybe she’d been Bruce’s teacher too? Anyway, she knew the Waynes or the Waynes knew her. Alfred would even go and get her for these kinds of things.
She was different from most of the people who came to these events. She actually talked to Alfred. Like, not to complain about the food or ask for more wine. She and Alfred would talk about the war. That’s what they called it. The war. Like it was the only one, or something. They never said which war. It was just the war.
Miss Agnes liked Dick. Said he reminded her of her son. Now, Dick didn’t know much ‘bout folk, especially old folk, but he thought that Miss Agnes must be really sad. Her husband had died in some kind of crash in a stock market. Like, airplane or car? Dick didn’t know. He didn’t know what a stock market was either, but apparently, Miss Agnes had been alone for a long time.
Her son, the one that Dick reminded her of, he’d died when he was about Mister Bruce’s age. He’d been an officer in the Navy stationed in Hawaii on some ship called Arizona. She had a daughter, but Dick got the sense that she didn’t anymore. Miss Agnes never talked about her much.
Around them, the whooping and hollering had no sign of letting up. These people were louder than the circus. And this was a damn monkey suit to boot! Shifting uncomfortably, Dick reached a hand up to tug at the collar of the shirt and bow tie that was choking him. Alfred had some stupid tuxedo thing tailored to fit him. Like everything else, it had been Mister Wayne’s.
Everything in this whole goddamn house belonged to Mister Wayne. Including, it seemed, Alfred and Dick.
Ol’ Man Lincoln had freed the slaves. Could circus freaks get some relief here?
This party was some kind of gas. The boy’s steel-blue eyes moved across the room. He quickly found Mister Fox. There wasn’t a lot of colored folks. Well, colored folk who weren’t, like, hired on to help Alfred with the party. But, what Dick didn’t see was a colored kid.
Luke had probably split to mellow out in Dick’s room. Shit, Luke was crazier for it than Dick was. It was just big and empty, like the rest of this ol’ house. But there were all four G.I. Joes -- that was all of them, except for the colored one -- and Dick had gotten the operation game for Christmas. If he had to guess, Luke was probably playing operation.
Aw, nuts. Who was he foolin’? Luke was probably under the covers asleep. Which was where Dick wished he was right now.
They had another day before they started back to school from Christmas break. Mister Wayne had said that Luke could sleep over since it was a New Years Party and Mister Fox was coming. And where was Dick? Smack dab in the middle of Oldsville, New Jersey. The last exit off the highway to hell.
“Isn’t it exciting!” Miss Agnes remarked, a hand squeezing Dick’s shoulder. For his part, Dick’s head just rolled back as he sagged against the elderly matron. “Nineteen sixty-eight. It’s almost a new decade,” the woman mused aloud.
“Heavens,” she uttered a moment later, her other hand clutching at the pearls she wore. She seemed to be looking off into the distance as she said, “I suppose it will be a new century before any of you know it.”
The remark prompted the boy to adopt a quizzical expression. Rolling his head so that he was looking up at the lady, the boy asked, “What is a sentry?” When she looked back at him, the boy explained, “People always say deal of the sentry and stuff.”
“Cen-tur-ee,” Miss Agnes said, in that drawn-out tone that instantly reminded Dick that the old lady was a teacher. He could totally picture it, as she continued, “A sen-tree is someone who stands guard. A cen-tur-ee is one hundred years. The year eighteen hundred to the year nineteen hundred is a century.”
“I expect that Master Richard should find his bed.”
No one talked like that. Except for one person. Who was also old. Well, maybe not as old as Miss Agnes.
As Alfred appeared at the end of the settee, the immaculate British butler looked down at the matron “And what of you, madam? Shall I freshen your drink? Or would you prefer I fetched your coat instead?”
Miss Agnes gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I am perfectly capable of fetching my own coat, sir,” the woman remarked, as she leaned forward.
Then, she seemed to stall there a moment, before she settled back against the seat with a sigh of defeat. “However, I may not be capable of getting up from this seat,” the woman remarked flatly. Then, extended a hand out toward the boy as she said, “Some help, Dicky.”
While Dick labored at getting Miss Agnes off the seatee, Alfred slipped back into the crowd to get some additional help of his own.
The young boy sat up, not entirely awake.
To be honest, he didn’t remember going to sleep. It left the child disoriented as he was jostled amid the whooping and hollering. Blinking several times, a yawn gripped him as the fog began to lift from his brain, even though his body felt like it weighed a ton.
This was... well, Dick didn’t know what it was ‘sposed to be called. The living room? Except half the rooms in the place were living rooms. It was the one next to Mister Wayne’s study. The one with the clock.
Yeah, that clock.
Anyway, Dick found himself halfway in the lap of Miss Agnes. Which, that wasn’t her name. Well, it was her name. But not, like, her official name. That was Mrs. Walden. She was Old Money. One of the Wayne Foundation’s biggest donors. Apparently, she’d been Mister Bruce’s mom’s teacher. Or, maybe she’d been Bruce’s teacher too? Anyway, she knew the Waynes or the Waynes knew her. Alfred would even go and get her for these kinds of things.
She was different from most of the people who came to these events. She actually talked to Alfred. Like, not to complain about the food or ask for more wine. She and Alfred would talk about the war. That’s what they called it. The war. Like it was the only one, or something. They never said which war. It was just the war.
Miss Agnes liked Dick. Said he reminded her of her son. Now, Dick didn’t know much ‘bout folk, especially old folk, but he thought that Miss Agnes must be really sad. Her husband had died in some kind of crash in a stock market. Like, airplane or car? Dick didn’t know. He didn’t know what a stock market was either, but apparently, Miss Agnes had been alone for a long time.
Her son, the one that Dick reminded her of, he’d died when he was about Mister Bruce’s age. He’d been an officer in the Navy stationed in Hawaii on some ship called Arizona. She had a daughter, but Dick got the sense that she didn’t anymore. Miss Agnes never talked about her much.
Around them, the whooping and hollering had no sign of letting up. These people were louder than the circus. And this was a damn monkey suit to boot! Shifting uncomfortably, Dick reached a hand up to tug at the collar of the shirt and bow tie that was choking him. Alfred had some stupid tuxedo thing tailored to fit him. Like everything else, it had been Mister Wayne’s.
Everything in this whole goddamn house belonged to Mister Wayne. Including, it seemed, Alfred and Dick.
Ol’ Man Lincoln had freed the slaves. Could circus freaks get some relief here?
This party was some kind of gas. The boy’s steel-blue eyes moved across the room. He quickly found Mister Fox. There wasn’t a lot of colored folks. Well, colored folk who weren’t, like, hired on to help Alfred with the party. But, what Dick didn’t see was a colored kid.
Luke had probably split to mellow out in Dick’s room. Shit, Luke was crazier for it than Dick was. It was just big and empty, like the rest of this ol’ house. But there were all four G.I. Joes -- that was all of them, except for the colored one -- and Dick had gotten the operation game for Christmas. If he had to guess, Luke was probably playing operation.
Aw, nuts. Who was he foolin’? Luke was probably under the covers asleep. Which was where Dick wished he was right now.
They had another day before they started back to school from Christmas break. Mister Wayne had said that Luke could sleep over since it was a New Years Party and Mister Fox was coming. And where was Dick? Smack dab in the middle of Oldsville, New Jersey. The last exit off the highway to hell.
“Isn’t it exciting!” Miss Agnes remarked, a hand squeezing Dick’s shoulder. For his part, Dick’s head just rolled back as he sagged against the elderly matron. “Nineteen sixty-eight. It’s almost a new decade,” the woman mused aloud.
“Heavens,” she uttered a moment later, her other hand clutching at the pearls she wore. She seemed to be looking off into the distance as she said, “I suppose it will be a new century before any of you know it.”
The remark prompted the boy to adopt a quizzical expression. Rolling his head so that he was looking up at the lady, the boy asked, “What is a sentry?” When she looked back at him, the boy explained, “People always say deal of the sentry and stuff.”
“Cen-tur-ee,” Miss Agnes said, in that drawn-out tone that instantly reminded Dick that the old lady was a teacher. He could totally picture it, as she continued, “A sen-tree is someone who stands guard. A cen-tur-ee is one hundred years. The year eighteen hundred to the year nineteen hundred is a century.”
“I expect that Master Richard should find his bed.”
No one talked like that. Except for one person. Who was also old. Well, maybe not as old as Miss Agnes.
As Alfred appeared at the end of the settee, the immaculate British butler looked down at the matron “And what of you, madam? Shall I freshen your drink? Or would you prefer I fetched your coat instead?”
Miss Agnes gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I am perfectly capable of fetching my own coat, sir,” the woman remarked, as she leaned forward.
Then, she seemed to stall there a moment, before she settled back against the seat with a sigh of defeat. “However, I may not be capable of getting up from this seat,” the woman remarked flatly. Then, extended a hand out toward the boy as she said, “Some help, Dicky.”
While Dick labored at getting Miss Agnes off the seatee, Alfred slipped back into the crowd to get some additional help of his own.
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"The Happening In Hub, Prelude" | Issue #1
RORY'S ROARIN' RECORDS SHOP
Ditko Street, The Wedge; Hub City, Illinois
3:48 PM, December 22nd, 1967
"I, can't, get, no... Sat-is-fac-tion..."
Rory eyed the disheveled man as he carelessly dug through the newest records with a mixture of contempt and caution. These fucking bums always going in and out of her shop without buying anything, "just browsing" they always said. Screw that. You go into a store, you buy something. Normally she'd shout at them to get out if they messed with the merchandise and loitered for longer than fifteen minutes, but she had a bad feeling about this guy. The grimy and tattered suit jacket the man wore over a white t-shirt stained in what looked to be blood, combined with his haggard face covered in unkempt stubble and crazed black eyes, gave Rory pause. If this guy was some violent bum, she didn't want to be the bum's next victim.
The man turned, as if sensing that he was being watched, and looked Rory dead in the eyes. He smiled, revealing yellow, decaying teeth that looked like they hadn't been brushed in ten years. A cold hand gripped Rory by the spine, sending a chill through her body. That man was evil. Rory didn't want to look at him any longer. "Hey, man. You've been loiterin' in my shop 'bout forty minutes now. I need you to get out if you ain't gonna buy nothin'."
The man ran a hand through greasy shoulder-length brown hair, letting out a laugh that sounded more like a barking cough at Rory's words. "O-oh, right, don't mind me, I-I must've lost track of time. Being in a record shop w-with a pretty lady? Wow, t-that I ain't used to. Just gonna g-get on my way, y'know? Places to be, gotta hop o-on my bike and get g-g-g-GOING! VHROOM! Gotta get lost, baby!" Despite saying he'd leave, the man walked closer to Rory, that devilish grin still wide across his face as he advanced upon her. Rory backed away as the man got closer, before feeling her hip bump against the counter. The gun under the register! She had to get to her gun!
"Get the hell away from me, you creep!" Rory screamed, smacking the man in the face with an open palm. His head snapped to the left and he quickly whipped his head right back around to look at the woman. A red hand print was bright across his pale skin, but his expression had only changed slightly; gone was the amused glint in his dark eyes, replaced by a cold fury with furrowed brows. His grin had grown wider, if that was even possible.
Rory was about to bolt behind the counter when his hands shot out and gripped her neck, squeezing tightly and wringing out her throat. She coughed and gasped, bringing her hands up to smack and claw at the man, but he didn't budge. Just kept squeezing, tighter and tighter, looking her dead in the eyes. He pushed her onto the counter and slammed her head into the wood once, twice. One hand was lifted off her neck to deliver a vicious punch to her cheek, splitting it open.
The Rolling Stones continued to play over the speakers in the store, Mick Jagger's vocals drowning out Rory's choked out curses and shouts. The man kept wringing out her neck even as her resistance grew weaker and her protests quieter. Not long after, she went limp underneath him. He let go of Rory's neck and let her body slump to the floor, staring down at his handiwork and laughing loudly. The man made his way to the door, grabbing a record off the racks, The Doors' Strange Days, along the way.
Outside the shop, the man got on his motorcycle, started it up, and went flying down the road.
Rory eyed the disheveled man as he carelessly dug through the newest records with a mixture of contempt and caution. These fucking bums always going in and out of her shop without buying anything, "just browsing" they always said. Screw that. You go into a store, you buy something. Normally she'd shout at them to get out if they messed with the merchandise and loitered for longer than fifteen minutes, but she had a bad feeling about this guy. The grimy and tattered suit jacket the man wore over a white t-shirt stained in what looked to be blood, combined with his haggard face covered in unkempt stubble and crazed black eyes, gave Rory pause. If this guy was some violent bum, she didn't want to be the bum's next victim.
The man turned, as if sensing that he was being watched, and looked Rory dead in the eyes. He smiled, revealing yellow, decaying teeth that looked like they hadn't been brushed in ten years. A cold hand gripped Rory by the spine, sending a chill through her body. That man was evil. Rory didn't want to look at him any longer. "Hey, man. You've been loiterin' in my shop 'bout forty minutes now. I need you to get out if you ain't gonna buy nothin'."
The man ran a hand through greasy shoulder-length brown hair, letting out a laugh that sounded more like a barking cough at Rory's words. "O-oh, right, don't mind me, I-I must've lost track of time. Being in a record shop w-with a pretty lady? Wow, t-that I ain't used to. Just gonna g-get on my way, y'know? Places to be, gotta hop o-on my bike and get g-g-g-GOING! VHROOM! Gotta get lost, baby!" Despite saying he'd leave, the man walked closer to Rory, that devilish grin still wide across his face as he advanced upon her. Rory backed away as the man got closer, before feeling her hip bump against the counter. The gun under the register! She had to get to her gun!
"Get the hell away from me, you creep!" Rory screamed, smacking the man in the face with an open palm. His head snapped to the left and he quickly whipped his head right back around to look at the woman. A red hand print was bright across his pale skin, but his expression had only changed slightly; gone was the amused glint in his dark eyes, replaced by a cold fury with furrowed brows. His grin had grown wider, if that was even possible.
Rory was about to bolt behind the counter when his hands shot out and gripped her neck, squeezing tightly and wringing out her throat. She coughed and gasped, bringing her hands up to smack and claw at the man, but he didn't budge. Just kept squeezing, tighter and tighter, looking her dead in the eyes. He pushed her onto the counter and slammed her head into the wood once, twice. One hand was lifted off her neck to deliver a vicious punch to her cheek, splitting it open.
The Rolling Stones continued to play over the speakers in the store, Mick Jagger's vocals drowning out Rory's choked out curses and shouts. The man kept wringing out her neck even as her resistance grew weaker and her protests quieter. Not long after, she went limp underneath him. He let go of Rory's neck and let her body slump to the floor, staring down at his handiwork and laughing loudly. The man made his way to the door, grabbing a record off the racks, The Doors' Strange Days, along the way.
Outside the shop, the man got on his motorcycle, started it up, and went flying down the road.
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RORY'S ROARIN' RECORD SHOP
Ditko Street, The Wedge; Hub City, Illinois
5:24 PM, December 22nd, 1967
As the detective pulled up to the crime scene, he couldn't help but see the dozen or so civilians that were swarming the record store, uneasy murmurs rippling through the crowd. Isidore O'Toole sighed, snuffed out his cigarette after lighting another with the cherry, took a long drag from the newly lit smoke and exhaled with another heaving sigh. His left hand flew up to massage his temples as he felt a sharp migraine coming on. Just one of those days. Izzy climbed out of his beat up '57 Ford Ranchero and walked up to the storefront, pushing past the crowd of onlookers to duck under the police tape and into the store proper.
Officer Walter Ellington was there to greet him, having arrived first on the scene. "Izzy, you're finally here."
"What's it lookin' like, Wally?" O'Toole asked, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"We got one stiff, the owner. Rory Fairfield. Twenty-nine, unmarried. From the looks of it, she was killed by asphyxiation. Strangled with the perp's bare hands. Officer Lawrence figured she's been dead less than two hours, 'cause rigor mortis hasn't set in yet."
"Anythin' missin' from the store? Cash, belongings?" O'Toole scanned the room. Aside from the officers snapping pictures and the corpse on the ground covered by a tarp, it looked like it hadn't been disturbed.
"Nothing. Register's full, Fairfield's wallet was still in her pocket. The perp didn't take anything as far as we know."
"There a safe in the back?"
"That was my first thought too, but there wasn't anything."
"Hrmm." O'Toole took a drag and asked, "What'd you get from the interviews? There anyone that'd want to do this to the owner?"
Officer Ellington nodded. "From what I heard, Rory was a bit of a, uh... She was rough around the edges to put it lightly. She'd go off on anyone that kept loitering in her store, y'know, just browsing the records. Tell 'em to get out and if they stuck around, she'd pull a gun on them and say it again. Most people leave after that. We found the gun behind the counter, under the register. A Colt Cobra, chambered in .38 Special. Wasn't fired."
"Hm." O'Toole mulled this over as he walked around the shop, taking a drag from his cigarette. He spied dried blood on the countertop, then looked over at Ellington. "There's blood on the counter. She have any wounds? Aside from the bruising from the neck-wringin'."
"Yeah. Got a gash on her cheek, probably from a strong punch, and another gash on the back of her head. Probably had her head bashed on the counter a few times."
O'Toole whipped out another cigarette and lit it with the cherry of his near dead one, snuffing the butt out with his fingertips and sticking it in his coat pocket. "Right... Perp didn't use a weapon, Rory didn't have time to get the gun... Or she didn't even think to get it at all. Might've been someone she trusted, at least enough not to threaten them at gunpoint. A friend or a lover, I'm thinkin'. Crime of passion. If not, maybe a customer that lingered too long for her tastes and didn't take too kindly to her tellin' them to get out of the shop. Spur of the moment murder."
Ellington nods. "That's what I'm thinking, too. The customer, that is. We should keep the personal acquaintance angle in mind, though."
"Right... So, any witnesses see someone enterin' or leavin' the shop around the time she died?"
"Some of the folks outside said they saw a real raggedy looking guy walk in not long past 3 PM and leave just shy of 4 PM. There were about five who saw him, all from different places on the street. I can get Alderson to work on a composite sketch."
"Hop to it," O'Toole said, waving the officer off. Ellington left to go grab Officer Alderson. O'Toole barely had a moment to himself before another officer, Parker, came up to him. "What is it?"
"There's a journalist outside, Detective. Asking for an interview," Parker replied, a troubled expression on his face.
"Tell 'im to get the fuck outta here," O'Toole said, waving a hand dismissively.
"I uh, I did sir. He's real insistent that he talk to the detective."
"Well why don't you try bein' insistent and tell 'im to fuck off again."
"... It's Vic fucking Sage. You know he'll just try busting into the crime scene to talk to you himself."
Sage. That little shit. O'Toole felt a sharp spike being driven into his skull just hearing the name. There it is again. Migraine. Izzy made for another cigarette only to find his pack was empty. Typical. "... I'll go deal with this prick. You go canvas the area some more." Parker nodded and ducked under the tape to head outside, O'Toole doing the same shortly after.
Officer Walter Ellington was there to greet him, having arrived first on the scene. "Izzy, you're finally here."
"What's it lookin' like, Wally?" O'Toole asked, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"We got one stiff, the owner. Rory Fairfield. Twenty-nine, unmarried. From the looks of it, she was killed by asphyxiation. Strangled with the perp's bare hands. Officer Lawrence figured she's been dead less than two hours, 'cause rigor mortis hasn't set in yet."
"Anythin' missin' from the store? Cash, belongings?" O'Toole scanned the room. Aside from the officers snapping pictures and the corpse on the ground covered by a tarp, it looked like it hadn't been disturbed.
"Nothing. Register's full, Fairfield's wallet was still in her pocket. The perp didn't take anything as far as we know."
"There a safe in the back?"
"That was my first thought too, but there wasn't anything."
"Hrmm." O'Toole took a drag and asked, "What'd you get from the interviews? There anyone that'd want to do this to the owner?"
Officer Ellington nodded. "From what I heard, Rory was a bit of a, uh... She was rough around the edges to put it lightly. She'd go off on anyone that kept loitering in her store, y'know, just browsing the records. Tell 'em to get out and if they stuck around, she'd pull a gun on them and say it again. Most people leave after that. We found the gun behind the counter, under the register. A Colt Cobra, chambered in .38 Special. Wasn't fired."
"Hm." O'Toole mulled this over as he walked around the shop, taking a drag from his cigarette. He spied dried blood on the countertop, then looked over at Ellington. "There's blood on the counter. She have any wounds? Aside from the bruising from the neck-wringin'."
"Yeah. Got a gash on her cheek, probably from a strong punch, and another gash on the back of her head. Probably had her head bashed on the counter a few times."
O'Toole whipped out another cigarette and lit it with the cherry of his near dead one, snuffing the butt out with his fingertips and sticking it in his coat pocket. "Right... Perp didn't use a weapon, Rory didn't have time to get the gun... Or she didn't even think to get it at all. Might've been someone she trusted, at least enough not to threaten them at gunpoint. A friend or a lover, I'm thinkin'. Crime of passion. If not, maybe a customer that lingered too long for her tastes and didn't take too kindly to her tellin' them to get out of the shop. Spur of the moment murder."
Ellington nods. "That's what I'm thinking, too. The customer, that is. We should keep the personal acquaintance angle in mind, though."
"Right... So, any witnesses see someone enterin' or leavin' the shop around the time she died?"
"Some of the folks outside said they saw a real raggedy looking guy walk in not long past 3 PM and leave just shy of 4 PM. There were about five who saw him, all from different places on the street. I can get Alderson to work on a composite sketch."
"Hop to it," O'Toole said, waving the officer off. Ellington left to go grab Officer Alderson. O'Toole barely had a moment to himself before another officer, Parker, came up to him. "What is it?"
"There's a journalist outside, Detective. Asking for an interview," Parker replied, a troubled expression on his face.
"Tell 'im to get the fuck outta here," O'Toole said, waving a hand dismissively.
"I uh, I did sir. He's real insistent that he talk to the detective."
"Well why don't you try bein' insistent and tell 'im to fuck off again."
"... It's Vic fucking Sage. You know he'll just try busting into the crime scene to talk to you himself."
Sage. That little shit. O'Toole felt a sharp spike being driven into his skull just hearing the name. There it is again. Migraine. Izzy made for another cigarette only to find his pack was empty. Typical. "... I'll go deal with this prick. You go canvas the area some more." Parker nodded and ducked under the tape to head outside, O'Toole doing the same shortly after.
? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ? - ?
RORY'S ROARIN' RECORD SHOP
Ditko Street, The Wedge; Hub City, Illinois
5:39 PM, December 22nd, 1967
I pushed to the front of the crowd, muttering "excuse me" and "sorry, coming through" to the onlookers as I did so. At the front of the crowd, I eyed the officers canvassing the area, before waving one down. He approached me, quirking a brow. "Do you know something about the crime, sir?" he asked.
"No, but I was wondering if the cops in there do. You see, I'm a journalist, writing for Starrstruck Monthly." I replied, shoving my press pass forward. The officer took it and looked it over. "Vic Sage."
The officer wrinkled his nose and handed it back to me. "Look, Sage. You are persona non grata at any crime scene, especially after the stunts you've pulled. Get going."
"I implore you to reconsider that, Officer... Parker. Please, go and fetch Detective O'Toole for me. I've got some questions for him." Parker sighed and I had to suppress a grin at that. I think he was finally getting it through his head that I'd just keep on hounding the cops until I got an interview. "Please? I won't take longer than five minutes."
"... If I go and get him, you promise you'll leave after you've asked him what you want?"
"Of course."
"And you won't show up demanding an interview every time the cops show up at a crime scene?"
A smirk made its way across my face despite myself. "That, I cannot promise."
Parker sighed and pinched his nose. "... Fuckin' good enough. I'll go grab him." Parker left me to go head into the store and grab O'Toole. I used this time to take some notes.
-rory's roarin' record shop (stupid name)
-murder (robbery?)
-crowd doesn't look torn up about it. unpopular?
-o'toole is finally gonna give me that interview. gonna hav
"Sage."
I looked up from my notes to see Izzy O'Toole, the HCPD's top detective and most corrupt cop before me. His bulldog-like face was contorted into a scowl, green eyes boring holes into me. If looks could kill, I'd be dead ten times over. "Detective O'Toole! I was just wondering if I could ask you some questions about the cri-"
"You got sixty seconds, then you leave. 60. 59. 58."
Shit. Should've known O'Toole wouldn't give me long, but I didn't expect this little time. "Uh... Ahem, the victim's name?"
"Rory Fairfield. 49. 48."
"Cause of death?"
"Strangled. 42. 41. 40."
I scribbled the facts down as O'Toole continued counting down. "Any suspects? Jealous ex? Robbery?"
"It wasn't a robbery and we've got a perp in mind. We'll be releasing a composite sketch to proper newspapers sometime tonight so it can make it into tomorrow's paper. 23. 22."
"And you can't release it to Starrstruck Monthly because...?"
O'Toole's scowl deepened. His voice cut like glass as he spat out, "Because some fuckin' hippy magazine ain't a newspaper, you little shit. We aren't gonna release information to some magazine that'll fuckin' drag us through the mud in the same article." O'Toole fidgeted, reaching for his pocket, only to sigh and stop. "... Your time is up, Sage. Now get the hell out of here."
I gave O'Toole a strained smile. "Of course, detective. Gotta let you get back to stuffing your pockets with the Sinners' money. You have a nice day now." I tipped my hat to O'Toole, almost seeing the hot anger building inside of him as I do, then turned to leave, pushing through the crowd to do so.
Hopping into my car, I started it up and pulled out into the street, heading back to Starrstruck Monthly's office to get right to work on my article. Deadline for January's issue was coming up and I needed a story. Some murder in The Wedge is less of a step down from my rallying cry for the youth of the nation back in November and more of a drop from the top of the Empire State Building to the sidewalk. Still, it's better than not turning in anything, considering I'm Sam's only full-time writer.
At a red light, I finished scribbling my notes down in my notepad and tossed it into the passenger seat, spying the pseudoderm mask in the seat as I did so. Perhaps I could do some investigating of my own tonight. This didn't seem to be more than a random act of violence, but maybe, just maybe, something more could turn up.
"No, but I was wondering if the cops in there do. You see, I'm a journalist, writing for Starrstruck Monthly." I replied, shoving my press pass forward. The officer took it and looked it over. "Vic Sage."
The officer wrinkled his nose and handed it back to me. "Look, Sage. You are persona non grata at any crime scene, especially after the stunts you've pulled. Get going."
"I implore you to reconsider that, Officer... Parker. Please, go and fetch Detective O'Toole for me. I've got some questions for him." Parker sighed and I had to suppress a grin at that. I think he was finally getting it through his head that I'd just keep on hounding the cops until I got an interview. "Please? I won't take longer than five minutes."
"... If I go and get him, you promise you'll leave after you've asked him what you want?"
"Of course."
"And you won't show up demanding an interview every time the cops show up at a crime scene?"
A smirk made its way across my face despite myself. "That, I cannot promise."
Parker sighed and pinched his nose. "... Fuckin' good enough. I'll go grab him." Parker left me to go head into the store and grab O'Toole. I used this time to take some notes.
-rory's roarin' record shop (stupid name)
-murder (robbery?)
-crowd doesn't look torn up about it. unpopular?
-o'toole is finally gonna give me that interview. gonna hav
"Sage."
I looked up from my notes to see Izzy O'Toole, the HCPD's top detective and most corrupt cop before me. His bulldog-like face was contorted into a scowl, green eyes boring holes into me. If looks could kill, I'd be dead ten times over. "Detective O'Toole! I was just wondering if I could ask you some questions about the cri-"
"You got sixty seconds, then you leave. 60. 59. 58."
Shit. Should've known O'Toole wouldn't give me long, but I didn't expect this little time. "Uh... Ahem, the victim's name?"
"Rory Fairfield. 49. 48."
"Cause of death?"
"Strangled. 42. 41. 40."
I scribbled the facts down as O'Toole continued counting down. "Any suspects? Jealous ex? Robbery?"
"It wasn't a robbery and we've got a perp in mind. We'll be releasing a composite sketch to proper newspapers sometime tonight so it can make it into tomorrow's paper. 23. 22."
"And you can't release it to Starrstruck Monthly because...?"
O'Toole's scowl deepened. His voice cut like glass as he spat out, "Because some fuckin' hippy magazine ain't a newspaper, you little shit. We aren't gonna release information to some magazine that'll fuckin' drag us through the mud in the same article." O'Toole fidgeted, reaching for his pocket, only to sigh and stop. "... Your time is up, Sage. Now get the hell out of here."
I gave O'Toole a strained smile. "Of course, detective. Gotta let you get back to stuffing your pockets with the Sinners' money. You have a nice day now." I tipped my hat to O'Toole, almost seeing the hot anger building inside of him as I do, then turned to leave, pushing through the crowd to do so.
Hopping into my car, I started it up and pulled out into the street, heading back to Starrstruck Monthly's office to get right to work on my article. Deadline for January's issue was coming up and I needed a story. Some murder in The Wedge is less of a step down from my rallying cry for the youth of the nation back in November and more of a drop from the top of the Empire State Building to the sidewalk. Still, it's better than not turning in anything, considering I'm Sam's only full-time writer.
At a red light, I finished scribbling my notes down in my notepad and tossed it into the passenger seat, spying the pseudoderm mask in the seat as I did so. Perhaps I could do some investigating of my own tonight. This didn't seem to be more than a random act of violence, but maybe, just maybe, something more could turn up.
TOP ROOF URBAN GARDENS
Kowloon Walled City, Hong Kong
Late December, 1967
The great cycles of upheaval in the Celestial Empire always begin with conquest.
It began with Yu The Great succeeding the last of the Five Emperors and taming the great riverways. It began with the Xiongnu staging a grand invasion from infertile soil that only bred the strongest of warriors. It began with Mengde betraying the world, fracturing the Middle Kingdom in three. It began as bloodshed watered the steppes and cultivated Temüjin, who built a castle of skulls from those who did not yield. It began twice with the northern frontiers of inhospitable rock and ice uniting The Eight Banners of they who would become Jin and Qing. It began with the men of Rìběn showing that those same Manchu emperors have always been weak. Soon, it will begin again with the Red Chairman and his cronies thinking that we too are weak.
Yet, after all these cycles have end and started anew, we still stand. Men of The Persistent Way, it is time we strike first! No longer shall we be passive and suffer humiliation! For we shall let the dragon howl and bring the mortal realm to its knees. Behold, our secret weapon...
But first, how about we teach our unexpected guest that it's rude to eavesdrop?
THE AMERICANA HOTEL
New York City, New York
8:32PM, December 31st, 1967
"That concludes... recording sent with severed... cut off scream... informant gone missing." Surprisingly, it was only now on its fifth rerun that the audio tape started to wear out. Not exactly as good as the Reds with their recording bugs but he'll take cheaper equipment if it means he gets to keep on staying in first class accommodations. After all, what was the point in being an international saboteur if you didn't get to see the world in the style he was already accustomed to: a fine tuxedo that he could actually fight in, a luxury watched that doubled as a communicator, a cummerbund made out of bulletproof synthetically enhanced spidersilk, and a sturdy pair of non-slip dress shoes. He was dressed to impress and was heading out of his room to catch an elevator down to the bustling ballroom.
As he entered the lift, the young operating attendant was left mouth agape. "Y-you're..!" the bespectacled teen in an ill-fitting uniform one size larger than it ought have been struggled to push the words out of his mouth. "Dragon. Richard Dragon." Luckily for the attendant, the actor-turned-agent has already been in many similar situations before and took out a white handkerchief in order to sign it with an ink pen that doubled as a laser. Though, come to think of it, it has been awhile for someone to be as star struck as this boy. While it was a brief ride, the experience must have been quite the thrill for the attendant as he took off running once they reached the ground floor, yelling "I've gotta tell my friends!"
For Richard though, the New Year's eve party he was attending was unfortunately not for pleasure. Across the hotel lobby and past the double doors guarded by private security goons was a verifiable party of elites that just so happens to include an elusive target that he had been tracking for quite some time. Suspected of supplying stolen armaments to Communist-linked terror cells, the Dragon's mark was high up on the Interpol list.
As he entered into the room, an audible wave of jazz from the big band ensemble gave off a great party vibe but this would immediately be interrupted an all too familiar ally.
"Dragon, come in. Do you read me?" a muffled voice would state via the audio receiver ringing in Richard's right ear. How it could possibly drown out and overwhelm live music from a band no more than twenty feet away from him was the real mystery Richard needed to solve. Instead of verbally replying back, he would simply turn on his watch's outgoing frequency and *tap* *Tap* *TAP*
"Agh! Alright, I get it. Anyways, our field agents are sure that Guano Cravat's gonna show. If you see a pudgy fella' with a dame he shouldn't be with and a cadre of jamoke bodyguards wearing sunglasses indoors, that's your man. Ling out."
Exactly as Barney described, a rotund businessman with a scraggly beard and a receding hairline was at the center table surrounded by women, men, Champagne, and lobsters. It was quite the sight, enough to make Richard smirk at the blatant audacity of the display. For a man that was quite hard for MI6 to track, Cravat sure did party without a care in the world. Specifically for the suit he wore which was now covered in butter and seafood juice.
His objectives were simple enough. Get close to the illegal arms dealer, plant a small tracking device on him, find out where his hideout is, and report him to the Feds for extradition. He would observe from afar at first and try to gauge how many bodyguards he had posted. Based on the information he got from Barney, he counted five at most. As the clock struck nine, he would make his move.
The plan basically wrote itself, he thought as he started to swagger his way to the heart of the party while grabbing a glass of bubbling liqueur from a passing server with a two-bit moustache and thinning comb-over. As Richard approached, the crowd took notice of the karate celebrity.
"Hey, that's Richard Dragon! I loved him in the Temple of the Red Lotus remake!"
"Bah! The '28 version was far superior. Dragon's cameo was the only saving grace of that bastardization by the Shaw Brothers company."
"Richard Dragon? I thought that guy died and they had his stunt double finish his last movie for him."
"I read on Starrstruck magazine that he caught a bullet with his bare hands on The Ed Sullivan show but the FCC wouldn't allow them to show it."
"You're going to overplay your hand, Dragon. Or should I call you Byakko?"
A chill rolled down his spine. Immediately losing his cool, Richard immediately snapped into a fighting stance and clenched his fists before turning around to see who had just whispered to him. The glass in his hand was crushed like it was paper, embedding shards unto his palm. Yet, he felt no pain for he knew that worse was just around the corner as she stood in front of him once more. Just like all those years ago on Lantau, the fighter who bested him on that faithful night was right in front of him. Fierce, tiger-like eyes. Hands adorned with black, bearskin gloves. Lips touched by onyx-coloured gloss. A silkvelvet cheongsam dress with the mark of twin, dark dragons entwined at the center.
"Lady Shiva... You haven't aged a day." Now, it was him who was awestruck. Moments passed that seemed like eternities. Richard did not know what exactly was going to happen next. However, without a doubt, no one in the room could have possibly expected that a martial arts melee was about to happen... In the particular way it was going to unfold.
A ruckus from outside the ballroom entrance had spilled over as a crowd of ruffians dressed in karate gi flooded on to the dance floor, causing panic among the crowd. Some of them were notably roughed up, most likely from fighting the security staff, but one of them stood out for he dressed in a black gi and had a red headband along with a red belt. His sideburns would put many a man's to shame, even Ringo's. Yet perhaps what was most outlandish were the obviously fake, prosthetic fangs that he had on.
"Rithard Dragon! My thtudent informed me of your prethenthe! How dare you encroath on the territory of the Poithon Fitht dojo! I, Marquith D'Maq, thhall punithh your intholenthe!"
Stunned. Completely and utterly dumbfounded. What even was this. But yet again history repeats itself as Lady Shiva strikes the Marquis square in the jaw with an open palm strike before Richard could even react. The foolish fighter's fangs flew for fifteen feet, a ferocious feat! As the Marquis dropped to the floor, the lift attendant from earlier immediately rushed to his aid and started fanning him with the same handkerchief Richard had handed him earlier in the night. So that's wh-
Wait, focus. Guano! The chaos and commotion had scared off the wanted criminal he was originally after who was now being escorted out through a fire exit.
"Your target is getting away." Shiva would state, fending off the third rate karate chumps who decided to attack her one by one. She wasn't breaking a sweat as she gracefully dodged and countered their oafish attempts at taking her down with lightning quick kicks and strikes.
With a simple nod of acknowledgement, the Dragon would leave his former ally behind once again as he chased his goal once more.
Retired "Hayao Miyazaki"
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I M P U L S E
The Future ♦ 62 Years Ago ♦ 2030
Happy Harbor, Rhode Island
Happy Harbor, Rhode Island
The ground shook and the sky thundered as the world Bart Allen knew was slowly torn apart. Huge expanses of ground cracked and split miles in each direction, cities collapsed in eruptions of dust, and the oceans boiled away. The very air itself burned his lungs with every shallow breath, and the purple flashes of energy far above brought with them deafening explosions that rattled the young man to his core.
It had only been five hours since the World Devourer had begun feasting upon the planet itself. Less than three since the first sign of structural damage to the Earth's surface. Merely an hour following that when the ozone layer had been ripped from the atmosphere like a bandaid from flesh. Thankfully, the citizens of the planet, what little remained, would be long dead before they suffered from the unfiltered radiation of the sun. At best estimate, the world had less than a dozen minutes before complete and total annihilation.
Max Mercury had made sure to utilize every single second left to its fullest.
Shortly following the arrival of the cosmic colossus that now loomed over the Earth and blotted out the sun, the one-time history professor turned resistance fighter turned adoptive father had put the final stages of his plans into motion. Or, relative motion. If there had been any onlookers remaining to witness, the pair of Bart Allen and Max Mercury would seem to be entirely unmoving. In fact, Max and his young mentee were holding a comprehensive conversation that had been lasting for nearly five hours but spanned decades worth of information. At closer inspection, the lips and lower jaws of the two speeders would appear entirely as a blur; their conversation taking place at such a heightened tempo that their voices were virtually soundless.
It was a monumental effort, even for the two of them, but it was one that must be taken. Everything hinged upon their exchange. Upon the attention and memory of one seventeen-year-old boy whose thoughts were dominated by the realization of what he was about to leave behind.
"Do you understand?" The older man asked after delivering the final, critical piece of instruction. "Can you do this?"
Bart grit his teeth and nodded. His muscles were sore, his head ached, and he knew that the moment he reverted to normal velocity the tears that had begun welling up hours ago would finally spring forth.
"Yeah," he choked out. "I know what I have to do. All of it. I promise I won't forget."
Max smiled softly and pulled the boy into a hug. "I know. I believe in you."
The two stayed like that a moment longer, though to the outside world nothing seemed to change.
"Max, I—"
"I'm afraid there's not much time left, kid. Even for us. I don't know about you, but I'm about at my limit." Max pulled away gently and turned towards the sky where the inconceivably monumental figure could be seen amid the stars. "And the moment we slow down is the moment you need to be gone. I know there's still a lot left to say. Not even a lifetime of words could change that. But this has to be it, kiddo. It's now or never."
Bart bit down hard, forcing the anguish he felt down inside. He knew Max was right. Even though part of Bart didn't want to go through with the plan; didn't want to leave.
Max stepped back and gestured toward the hunk of metal a few feet beside them. "It's now or never," he repeated softly as if reading Bart's mind.
Nodding once more, the teen steeled himself and entered the machine. The interior was barely large enough to house his body, and the exterior was only mildly better. It contained no inner controls, no visible circuitry, nothing at all to distinguish the highly sophisticated yet crudely constructed device from a random junkyard art piece. The only accouterments were a series of straps along the back wall meant to secure the passenger during the journey. The apparatus had been designed with one goal in mind, and its preprogrammed routine would take over the instant it was engaged.
As Bart fastened the straps across his shoulders and waist, Max approached and set one hand on the thick hatch door that hung open. In his other hand was a small device with a single touchpad button displayed; the normally blinking red light to indicate its safety was disengaged was frozen in time.
"I'd ask if you're all set, but we both know the answer to that," Max said.
The younger speedster looked away to gather himself before he dared to speak. When he did, he looked the man who had raised him the last twelve years in the eye and said with absolute conviction, "I'll find a way one day, Max. I'll make it back. I'll fix everything, I'll do just as you said, and then I'm going to find a way back. I don't care if it's not possible. I'll do it."
Max smiled back at the boy. "Kid, I believe you can do anything you set your mind to. It's why I know the future's safe in your hands."
As he moved to close the hatch, Bart caught Max's arm.
"Thank you, Max. For everything. I..." He hesitated, the words caught in his mouth, unable to come out.
Max's smile only grew larger. He knew what Bart had wanted to say. And that was all he needed.
The hatch closed and the locking mechanism settled into place. The two maintained eye contact through the tiny viewport as Max raised the device in his left hand up high, his thumb hovering over the screen just an inch above the red button.
Bart watched as his mentor suddenly dropped to regular celerity. The onrush of fatigue Max must have felt in that moment as his body screamed in pain caused him to stumble slightly, but he remained upright and smiling. Bart didn't dare do the same for fear of losing consciousness and missing even a nanosecond of seeing Max's face one last time. The older man's lips moved slowly, the time differential meaning Bart couldn't truly hear the words, but he could tell what was said just the same.
"I'm proud of you, son."
Then Bart's vision was cast in a disorienting white glow as the inside of the time machine he was strapped into seemed to rock back and forth, and the youth was jettisoned into the past.
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Supermaxx dumbass
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Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters
Salem's Center, New York
January 1st, 1968
Logan popped open his ninth bottle of Rheingold and let the eighth break against the floor. That first pack was almost empty, but a second awaited. He didn't expect to sleep tonight- not with that constant thoom, thoom thoom going off over head. Every firework resonated in his chest like it'd gone off right next to him. Charles had told him that wasn't normal; most people couldn't hear or feel so acutely. Part of his mutation, supposedly, but he didn't understand that. Lotta things he didn't understand.
Like why Slim had gotten snappy at him for drinking around the students. Him, 'Ro and the Tin-Man were sharing champagne in the parlor, but big, bad Wolverine had to go out to the gazebo. "Psh," he blew air between his teeth before downing another bottle in a single swig. Best to grab the last three and set 'em on the handrail so he didn't have to keep leaning down to grab a new one. "Like it better out 'ere anyways."
It was peaceful. Nobody out here to bother him but the fireflies. He leaned against the railing, the wooden frame bending under his weight. The forest stretched out in front of him, densely packed and evergreen. Shadows clung beneath its canopy, only broken up by the intermittent flashes of light coming from above. It reminded him of another forest from his dreams: where the trees were taller, where the ground was covered in snow and bodies, and explosions lit the dark. Logan took another drink.
A series of fireworks popped in the sky, shining bright greens, reds and blues. Trails of sparkling light fell across the night air like paint across a canvas, drawing all sorts of nonsensical patterns. People were shouting and clapping back at the manor. The scent of expended gunpowder suffused through the air, sharp against his nostrils.
He could smell unused gunpowder, too.
One of the fireworks exploded in the same moment the gunman fired, masking the sound. He was good. The bullet popped Logan's left eye and crunched up against his skull. He was really good-- anybody else would'a dropped, but all Logan did was snarl.
"Come'n out ya bastard! Ya picked the wrong sucker'ta try this on-"
Feet hit the floorboards behind him. He whipped around and caught a foot to the nose, stumbling back. A beer fell off the rail, shattering. Tragic. Another two hits came for Logan's chest, knocking the wind outta him. His assailant was an oddity, to be sure-- some weirdo in their black pajamas, or a Halloween costume. Someone else dropped from the top of the gazebo in the same getup, drawing a weapon from their back. A sword?
"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me." Logan caught the ninja's next punch in his palm. The two locked eyes, staring hate into the other's soul. "That's enough Kung-Fu bullshit, pal." Logan whipped the attacker's hand down, snapping his wrist in twain. There was bone n' muscle tissue hanging out, but to the fella's credit he didn't scream.
The ninja retreated to his comrade's side, using his good hand to unsheathe his weapon as well. A third flipped up onto the railing behind them.
Logan's eye bulged in its socket, ejecting the spent bullet in a splurge of blood. He blinked a few times before the pupil popped into existence, granting him a blurred picture of the three suckers in front of him. They were armed, but looked hesitant. Smart of 'em. Not smart enough to book it, though. "Gotta be honest with you, fellas, I'on't really want'ta do this," He explained, rolling his shoulders. "I'm tryin' to turn over a new leaf, ya dig? What's Chuck call it...conflict resolution. That's where you three-- four, with your friend in the woods-- all get ta walk away with ya limbs intact."
Another set of fireworks thundered in the sky above, and a hail of bullets struck the Wolverine: two in the back, one straight through his throat. 'Guess we're done talkin'.'
The first guy stepped up to slash at Wolverine's left arm, his other buddy dancing around to come from the opposite side and under.
Logan walked into the left one's sword, letting it tear through flesh, muscle and all other sorta shit until it smacked against his bone. Claws kissed his sternum, pinning him to a beam behind him.
Wolverine pulled out and let the corpse hit the floor as the third leapt in, planting his heels into Logan's skull.
That, along with the second guy cutting into Logan's back knee, took him to the ground.
Adamantium sang as it turned that katana to ribbons. Steel lasted about as long as any squishy human body.
Wolverine was roaring the moment he felt his vocal cords squirm back into place. Red foam and spittle splashed out of his mouth and onto the face of his second victim as he buried his claws into the guy's shoulders.
More gunfire entered the wall-less pavilion, no longer timed to the pyrotechnics. Desperate, rapid, but still well aimed-- the last surviving ninja was never in any danger of gettin' shot. Plenty chance of gettin' stabbed, though, as Logan stumbled back to his feet and turned the guy's head into a shish kabob.
"Peaceful thoughts," Logan muttered, standing back to his feet as the body fell in tandem. Bullets popped out of stitching wounds, clanging against the floor.
"Forgiveness. Reconciliation. When's violence ever solved anythin', Logan?"
The last man in black pajamas dropped his rifle to the forest floor and took off running toward the fence. He never made it as far as the hedge maze before a tiny mass of hair and rage brought him to the ground and knocked the lights outta him.
"We're gonna have a talk when you wake up, bub. Better hope ya don't."
Like why Slim had gotten snappy at him for drinking around the students. Him, 'Ro and the Tin-Man were sharing champagne in the parlor, but big, bad Wolverine had to go out to the gazebo. "Psh," he blew air between his teeth before downing another bottle in a single swig. Best to grab the last three and set 'em on the handrail so he didn't have to keep leaning down to grab a new one. "Like it better out 'ere anyways."
It was peaceful. Nobody out here to bother him but the fireflies. He leaned against the railing, the wooden frame bending under his weight. The forest stretched out in front of him, densely packed and evergreen. Shadows clung beneath its canopy, only broken up by the intermittent flashes of light coming from above. It reminded him of another forest from his dreams: where the trees were taller, where the ground was covered in snow and bodies, and explosions lit the dark. Logan took another drink.
A series of fireworks popped in the sky, shining bright greens, reds and blues. Trails of sparkling light fell across the night air like paint across a canvas, drawing all sorts of nonsensical patterns. People were shouting and clapping back at the manor. The scent of expended gunpowder suffused through the air, sharp against his nostrils.
He could smell unused gunpowder, too.
One of the fireworks exploded in the same moment the gunman fired, masking the sound. He was good. The bullet popped Logan's left eye and crunched up against his skull. He was really good-- anybody else would'a dropped, but all Logan did was snarl.
"Come'n out ya bastard! Ya picked the wrong sucker'ta try this on-"
Feet hit the floorboards behind him. He whipped around and caught a foot to the nose, stumbling back. A beer fell off the rail, shattering. Tragic. Another two hits came for Logan's chest, knocking the wind outta him. His assailant was an oddity, to be sure-- some weirdo in their black pajamas, or a Halloween costume. Someone else dropped from the top of the gazebo in the same getup, drawing a weapon from their back. A sword?
"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me." Logan caught the ninja's next punch in his palm. The two locked eyes, staring hate into the other's soul. "That's enough Kung-Fu bullshit, pal." Logan whipped the attacker's hand down, snapping his wrist in twain. There was bone n' muscle tissue hanging out, but to the fella's credit he didn't scream.
The ninja retreated to his comrade's side, using his good hand to unsheathe his weapon as well. A third flipped up onto the railing behind them.
Logan's eye bulged in its socket, ejecting the spent bullet in a splurge of blood. He blinked a few times before the pupil popped into existence, granting him a blurred picture of the three suckers in front of him. They were armed, but looked hesitant. Smart of 'em. Not smart enough to book it, though. "Gotta be honest with you, fellas, I'on't really want'ta do this," He explained, rolling his shoulders. "I'm tryin' to turn over a new leaf, ya dig? What's Chuck call it...conflict resolution. That's where you three-- four, with your friend in the woods-- all get ta walk away with ya limbs intact."
Another set of fireworks thundered in the sky above, and a hail of bullets struck the Wolverine: two in the back, one straight through his throat. 'Guess we're done talkin'.'
The first guy stepped up to slash at Wolverine's left arm, his other buddy dancing around to come from the opposite side and under.
Logan walked into the left one's sword, letting it tear through flesh, muscle and all other sorta shit until it smacked against his bone. Claws kissed his sternum, pinning him to a beam behind him.
Wolverine pulled out and let the corpse hit the floor as the third leapt in, planting his heels into Logan's skull.
That, along with the second guy cutting into Logan's back knee, took him to the ground.
Adamantium sang as it turned that katana to ribbons. Steel lasted about as long as any squishy human body.
Wolverine was roaring the moment he felt his vocal cords squirm back into place. Red foam and spittle splashed out of his mouth and onto the face of his second victim as he buried his claws into the guy's shoulders.
More gunfire entered the wall-less pavilion, no longer timed to the pyrotechnics. Desperate, rapid, but still well aimed-- the last surviving ninja was never in any danger of gettin' shot. Plenty chance of gettin' stabbed, though, as Logan stumbled back to his feet and turned the guy's head into a shish kabob.
"Peaceful thoughts," Logan muttered, standing back to his feet as the body fell in tandem. Bullets popped out of stitching wounds, clanging against the floor.
"Forgiveness. Reconciliation. When's violence ever solved anythin', Logan?"
The last man in black pajamas dropped his rifle to the forest floor and took off running toward the fence. He never made it as far as the hedge maze before a tiny mass of hair and rage brought him to the ground and knocked the lights outta him.
"We're gonna have a talk when you wake up, bub. Better hope ya don't."
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mickilennial The Elder Fae
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Gotham City, New Jersey, United States
Approximately 12:11 AM, Gordon Residence
1.1
Approximately 12:11 AM, Gordon Residence
1.1
You can put dad behind a desk and call him commissioner, but you can’t take his instincts away from him.
Thud! The sound of the old ‘65 revved to life. It was late. Too late for the Commissioner of the entire Police Department to go on patrol. But it didn't stop him.
It must be genetic. I’m the same way. Not long ago, I started feeling similar. Though, unlike dad my life isn’t falling apart by choice. What tears at the seams of my life is forces I can’t control. Makes me feel like I’m stuck in a trance with no control. I hate that; having no control. I feel like I’m in the backseat of a very old Cadillac as I watch the driver make terrible mistakes.
Not that there’s anything wrong with mistakes. God knows I’ve made plenty. But when I’m not the one behind the wheel I just… I can’t stand it. Makes me feel totally out of it. I guess that’s part of why I’m doing the thing. Other part is to piss my parents off. After Jimmy being thrown in Arkham, I felt it in my bones. I quit gymnastics despite everything. Nearly flunked out of school. I didn’t care that we had ‘finally made it’. Everything made a whole lot more sense when dad was a detective and mom hadn’t gotten her tenure at Kane College yet. Before dad started having the affair and mom started drinking. Way before she packed her bags.
Everything unraveled in an instant. Like a bad acid trip.
Still trying to make sense of it. How do you make sense of it? Never really occurred to me that you could get divorced. Thought marriage was sacred. Guess not.
Not like I care. I just want control again. To feel the pulse, the vibrations in the air. Reason number three I decided to do it, I guess. And well, I’ve already come this far. Not like dad’s around to pay attention. Divorce left him pretty ragged. The only thing he pays attention to is his whiskey, his work, and The Batman. It’s something I’m constantly reminded about but can never talk about. Not allowed to mention Vietnam, either. But the ‘B-Word’ feels even more taboo. I think he hates that he relies so much on a vigilante. Reminds him too much of the days when we Gotham was new to us. Back when the lampshade vigilante had a penchant for sand and dreams rather than bats. Not sure why the distinction for good mattered. Whether you wear a badge or a cape, if you cared about Gotham what was the harm? Why couldn’t we talk about it? Is this why he got tense every time the JSA was brought up?
I sigh, grabbing an empty bottle of Jack Daniels before putting it in the bin.
Doesn’t matter if he approves. Doesn’t matter if anyone does. When I first put on the cowl I felt alive. Like I belonged. Like I could feel that energy in the air again. Like I’m seven feet off the ground and everyone’s watching. But most importantly, I’m in control.
And that’s the important thing.
Nothing is going to take that away from me. Not when I'm doing something important.
NeverEnding Շђє Ŧเภคɭ Ŧг๏ภՇเєг
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"Splintered" | Issue #1 | Prague
It was always cold. Russia was cold. Prague was cold. He was cold. Always. The Winter Soldier adjusted the scarf around his neck to cut off the breeze threatening to go down his jacket. According to the news it had gotten down to 3 degrees last night. The day had yet to warm up at all. The sun was barely above the horizon and making no headway through the clouds.
The soldier tromped his way down the cobblestone road. The brick houses were looking run down, but well loved. The yards were clean, plants trimmed, and some even had fresh coats of paint. Someone who wasn't familiar with Czechoslovakia might even believe the country had been hard hit from the war and was now recovering. It was a solid theory. The country had been invaded in the second world war. Liberated by Russia. Restructured to the Soviet ideal. It had works in many different countries across the Soviet Block. But the Soldier knew that wasn't the case here. Czechoslovakia had been spared the worst of the war. And now that the soviets had control, things were worse. The economy was shrinking. Police and others abused their powers. People barely had enough to survive.
The soldier paused in front of a warn, pealing poster. The face of Stalin was gone. The former First Secretary Klement Gottwald's face was barely visible. It appeared someone had scribbled a crude drawing on top of it. But the meaning of it had faded over time. Stalin set himself up as a savior to Prague. Hate and resentment only boiled forth when Russia failed to keep their promise. Tanks enforced peace after the war. Elections were a mockery. The people cried out for socialism.
The Soldier moved on from the poster. Over the past few years unrest had again risen to unmanageable levels. Antonín Novotný stood at the brink of ruin. Rumblings of replacing him were becoming louder. If they replaced the First Secretary with a socialist the power the Soviet Union could wield would be diminished. Something he could not abide by. Nor his superiors.
He had been here since October. The KSČ Central Committee had been holding meetings undermining Novotný. So far Alexander Dubček was the man who was best poised to take over. It didn't help that the Secretary of the Communist Party, Leonid Brezhnev, failed to support Novotný and instead choose to support the KSČ. A political maneuver that he hoped would dump a failing ruler and empower the local communists to choose anew. Someone better and brighter. The Soldier had his doubts though.
The man stopped in front of a small food cart. The elderly woman manning it looked up and smiled at him.
"Ah, you have come again Dušan." Hana gave him a friendly gapped tooth smile.
"Yes. Your cooking has not scared me off yet." He smiled back, handing over money for his usual order.
Hana hummed under her breath as she gathered some sausage links and added a houska, a braided bun, to the mix.
The man, masquerading as Dušan, stayed and chatted a small while with Hana. Catching up on any of interesting local gossip. His days had been busy since December when Brezhnev gave his go ahead to replace the Secretary. Acting as an aid to Sucharda, one of the KSČ members, was his other main source of information.
"Are you going to watch him?" Hana veered off her normal topics of gossip.
"Novotný?" The Soldier was quick to catch her meaning. "No. Not on the television. I will be there, off in some corner scribbling notes. As always." He flashed her another one of his winning smiles.
The motherly woman huffed and blushed. She whipped him with her towel. "Oh get on then. If you're late you might be in trouble."
The man known as Dušan laughed, shoved the last sausage link in his mouth and moved off down the street. The sun had moved higher in the sky and some vestiges of warmth were beginning to appear.
HenryJonesJr
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DocTachyon Teenage Neenage Neetle Teetles
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GREEN LANTERN in: EIGHT MILES HIGH
“You ready?” Kilowog asked.
“Asking me a fourth time won’t make me ready,” Hal said.
The two Lanterns flew side by side, green dots against the swathes of gray dominating the clouds. It had only been days since Hal had started flying, but something felt different today. Like the air slid past his body too easily, the atmosphere didn’t drag so heavily on his body. Lower air pressure, maybe. A storm was brewing.
Hal hated storms growing up. All it took was one drum roll of thunder to send him running to cower underneath his mom’s bed sheets. He didn’t like them much more as an adult. A storm was a day you couldn’t fly, when the universe reminded him that his feet had to be planted firmly on the ground…. But maybe this ring could change that.
“Thought you might’ve prepped on the way over,” Kilowog said. His flight was different than Hal’s. Where the human flew straight and true, pointed like an arrow, Kilowog drifted with the breeze, up and down, side to side. He had two nubs of green energy on his shoulders, sticking out from the rest of the energy sheathe that coated his body. They looked almost like the remnants of wings, long since fallen off.
“... You’ve been with me this whole flight. You’ve asked me on this flight,” Hal said. He banked in the air, now facing Kilowog, who had summoned a shimmering green panel, interfacing with it as he flew.
“You went five minutes without complaining. I thought you calmed down.” Kilowog’s fat fingers squished against his console, prompting flashes of emerald and sending digits flying across the screen.
“Shove it, Kilowog. Are we there yet?” Hal asked.
“A minute out or so. He’ll be waiting for us above the clouds,” Kilowog said, dismissing his readout. Hal never liked the way Kilowog talked about him, the man they were going to see: Thaal Sinestro. Kilowog was always joking with Hal or ribbing him, telling Hal the parts of being a Green Lantern he knew and bullshitting the parts he didn’t. When it came to Sinestro, all the cumulative hours Hal had spent learning what each twitch of muscle might mean in the aliens expression meant nothing. His big, dopey hippo jaws were set against one another, and his brow closed down on the black points of his eyes.
It was a little like what he imagined Carol must look like, hunched over the control console while Hal pulled some stunt or other in Ferris Air’s jets, her asking him to slow down for just one minute. Hal had come to think of it as business mode. And Kilowog? Well, when it came to Sinestro, it looked like he meant business.
Hal and Kilowog shifted their paths and shot up through the cloud cover, to find themselves greeted by a sheet of green force, situated firm and flat against the top of the clouds. It had to be as long as a football field, but looked as thin as a sheet of paper. One man stood in the center, garbed in the same black and green uniform as Hal and Kilowog. As they neared, Hal realized the man wasn’t standing so much as floating off the platform, keeping his body as taught and measured as his red face that was coming into view.
“Are you prepared to begin, Lantern Jordan?” From the platform Thaal Sinestro had an inch on Kilowog, but if they were level, Kilowog had him by a foot and a half. Most of his face was forehead, to better contain his ego with Kilowog had said, rounding out a face of hard edges and high cheekbones. There were no blemishes to him, unless you counted his permanent frown or the trim mustache that lived above it.
Hal and Kilowog touched down, and Kilowog thumped Hal’s back. “Show ‘im how it’s done, little poozer.”
“Yessir,” Hal said, half to Kilowog and half to Sinestro. “It’s just a quick lesson, right? I’ve been playing hooky with my job for a week now because of all this, and my boss is starting to get --”
“You will provide whatever time the Green Lantern Corps requires of you,” Sinestro cut him off, “approach me.” Hal glanced back at Kilowog, but the big guy was staring straight through him, eyes locked on Sinestro. Hal stepped forward.
“As a Green Lantern, you are expected to study, develop, and apply a variety of techniques with your issued power ring, be they for combat or otherwise. Against most threats, you will find typical constructs next to useless, especially those generated by a Lantern that is… Well, as green as you,” Sinestro said.
“On this occasion, it is my duty as your superior to introduce you to these concepts in a simple trial. The technique I will demonstrate for you today is known as Ganthet’s Alembic.” Sinestro presented his hand as the light from his ring began to pulse and glow, collecting itself into a bubble the size of Hal’s head. It may as well have been any other construct, green shapes broken as easily as they were created, but there was something… Different about this one. About the snaking flow of the energy within.
“Your task is to overcome this technique, and, if you are able, to score a hit on me.” Sinestro said.
“Uh huh...” Hal spread out his stance, trying to remember the bits and pieces he’d heard from Kilowog about fighting, or the half-forgotten memories of his schoolyard tussles… But this was probably going to be a little different. “Got any words of advice, teach?”
For the first time, Hal saw Sinestro smile. “Remember, Jordan. No fear.”
Sinestro flicked his wrist and the ball launched from his ring as fast as any fighter Hal had ever been in control of. Dodging was out of the question. He did as he had been taught, searching in his heart and his mind and making something manifest of his will. Hal’s ring sparked to life and an aegis leapt from it, directly in the path of Sinestro’s attack. Get through this you son of a --
The ball collapsed Hal’s shield on impact, causing it to crumple and fold in, like the attack was a black hole. The constructs sparked against each other as Hal’s sputtered and died, energy consumed by the ball. Now past his only line of defense, the ball subsumed his ring hand, and locked itself in place.
But he was… Fine. Hal wiggled his fingers inside the sphere. Nothing. Wrist felt a little heftier than usual, maybe.
“What is this thing? A Green Lantern boxing glove?” Hal shouted over to Sinestro. The other Lantern was still, balancing himself in flight. He beckoned Hal.
“Come find out.” Sinestro said.
“Your funeral,” Hal joked. He brought himself into the air and surged forward, sending out bolts of emerald from his ring. Sinestro swerved, dodging each in turn, but something was wrong. Hal had done this before, shooting beams at old cans with Kilowog, but something about each of his shots looked weaker than usual. Less glow, less speed. His flight balance didn’t feel right, either, like was drifting to the side.
Hal dropped back to the platform and shook his hand out. His wrist was heavier, his whole hand was, even more than before. He tried to waggle his fingers and it felt like dragging weights over sand. What?
“Are you quite finished shooting?” Sinestro called to him. Hal ignored him, focusing on the sphere. He could still move his hand at least, but if it got any heavier there would be problems. Hal chanced a look back to Kilowog, whose beady eyes were still firm on Sinestro. No help from there. Thunder cracked somewhere in the cloud cover below. The storm was starting. Hal’s heart thumped heavy in his chest. He swallowed. He could do this.
Experimentally, Hal willed the energy to flow steady from his ring, suffusing into the sphere around it. His hand grew heavier still, it was starting to feel like he was lugging around a steel block instead of a hand. He stopped the flow, and just as quickly the weight stopped growing. Could it be that my ring is...?
“Ganthet’s Alembic is so called for its apparent alchemical ability,” Sinestro said, “converting your energy into mass. But understanding this will no longer help you, you’ve already lost your freedom of movement,” his smile widened, “feel free to tap out.”
“We’ll see about that!” Hal shouted. If there was any one thing he knew about constructs, it was that, unless destroyed, their creator was always in absolute control of them, which meant he had to get Sinestro to release it…
Hal took off at a sprint, boots thumping against the green platform, he brought his hand to bear and swung the ball at Sinestro. He sidestepped, and Hal came around for another strike, throwing his body weight into it. Sinestro dodged backward and Hal threw himself off balance, tumbling across the platform. Hell. Hal eyed Sinestro, and then the open sky above him.
No fear.
Hal locked his left hand around his right wrist, supporting the weight as he rocked up to his knees. He pushed himself into the air, kicking off the platform and using his ring to bring him higher.
Sinestro observed from below, showing no expression but for the remnants of his smile. Hal had to be high enough by now, a hundred feet in the air over his opponent, but he could still hear the roar of the thundering clouds beneath. He banked hard, yanking the alembic along with him -- dive bombing Sinestro.
“Dodge this!” Hal’s ring pulsed as he dropped, funneling more and more energy into Sinestro’s construct, letting its weight pull him down faster. It felt like he was guiding a freight train. Hal’s vision was too blurred to quite see -- the Green Lantern domino mask didn’t come with prescription glasses, unfortunately -- but he hoped he’d wiped the grin from Sinestro’s face. Whatever way he’d try to dodge Hal could follow the blob of his body. No matter what, this haymaker would hit home.
In the last moments before impact, Hal caught Sinestro’s face. No smile, no frown, just a brow crinkled in concentration. Sinestro’s ring flared and the ball around Hal’s hand exploded into a plume of green light and smoke.
The explosion threw Hal like a ragdoll, slamming him shoulder first into the platform and then streaking over it, bouncing and crushing his shoulder against the platform, again and again. Hal pushed himself up. It felt like someone hit his shoulder with a sledgehammer. Hal rolled over to face Sinestro. He’d already recovered from the explosion, but there was a tear across the front of his costume, leaving the Lantern logo sagging.
“Did I pass?” Hal asked, chest heaving. Sinestro had definitely lost his smile. He displayed his ring. Lightning sparked in the clouds below.
“Count yourself lucky, Jordan. I am going to further your education.” A green sheathe began to manifest across Sinestro’s body as Hal struggled to his feet.
The green outline forming around Sinestro seemed to sizzle and pop, reacting to the air around it. Hal couldn’t quite make out what it was from this distance, not without his glasses. It was some kind of full body construct, but not like the ones most Lanterns used for flight.
Something hit Hal, laying a weight across his chest. He teetered backward. It wasn’t a projectile, or any kind of attack -- it felt like the wind itself was moving against him. Through the semitransparent platform, Hal saw the clouds roll and shift as electricity crackled between them.
The weight shifted and Hal jerked the other way, wind whipped across his skin and ruffled the folds of his Lantern outfit while his hair ran freely, no longer constrained by whatever product goop was holding it steady before, come loose in the gale. Sinestro maintained his calm, sweeping his arms around him in movements that seemed practiced, yet forceful. He was like a typhoon. Whatever this was, Hal couldn’t beat it, at least not without seeing it.
He was sure he couldn’t just wave his ring around and hope it would work. Kilowog said that any good construct only needs two things: will and understanding. He had to believe he had the will. The ring chose him, after all. But understanding…? Well, Hal had been wearing glasses all his life, hadn’t he?
Hal stumbled across the platform. The wind was picking up, it was like feeling turbulence in his jet but this time he got to feel it against his skin, shaking him to the bone, it felt like the wind could just grab him and throw him away. Thunder screamed below them, shaking the surface of the platform. Hal shuddered. He had to act fast.
Hal turned his ring on himself, drawing out motes of energy. This would need to be precise, the shaking in his hands be damned. The motes struggled against the wind, winking and sputtering as thunder crashed beneath, but they made it through the holes in his domino mask, laying themselves onto his eyes.
It felt like when he opened his eyes in a chlorine pool, a stinging burn that made tears well up, but Hal fought the urge to close his eyes as they adjusted. The energy settled in, molding to them, settling themselves as a lens, fit just to his prescription.
Through the sundering gale Hal finally got a true glimpse of Sinestro. The other Lantern had made himself a suit, wired by glowing pipes into the platform below, feeding gaping holes all along the suit’s arms and chest. The wind was ferocious enough near Sinestro that Hal could actually see it, rippling across the surface of Sinestro’s construct. Sinestro shifted, raising an arm and sending a zephyr Hal’s way. It was like he was guiding it, somehow… But there was a change.
A well appeared in Sinsestro’s half of the platform, opening to the fabric of the sky beneath, and a cloud began its ascent, through the whole and being vacuumed into Sinestro’s armor. Sinestro wasn’t bothering to hit Hal with wind, he was winding up for something. Hal caught notes of dashing yellow, spriting and weaving all across Sinestro’s armor.
Could it be?
A sound like thunder welled up, a roaring rumble of the whining construct and the hiss of raw electricity. He felt it then, the fear, rising up through his chest and making an electric cage around his heart. Every beat sounded like a bass drum. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He was a little boy again, hiding under mom’s covers, and this was it.
“Enough!” It was Kilowog. Big man could move quiet when he wanted to. He planted himself in front of Hal, surging with energy like Hal had never seen, where there had once been vestigial nubs, it was like there was a whole green creature growing from Kilowog’s back, its flesh riddled with boils that popped with Kilowog’s movement.
Sinestro jerked his hand upward and a rainbow erupted from his hand, spewing color and light, flashing and zagging as the main arc of his thunderbolt split the sky above.
“Enough, indeed.” Hal could hardly hear Sinestro over the ringing in his ears -- had the thunder really been that loud? He felt Kilowog’s arm slipping under him, rough pink skin dragging across the back of his costume as Kilowog hauled him to his feet. The energy had left Sinestro’s body and he stood as them, but another Lantern.
“You have passed this trial, Lantern Jordan, despite your partner’s interference. Leave me. You will both receive assignment shortly.” Sinestro did not break Kilowog’s gaze as he spoke.
“Let’s go, Hal.” Kilowog guided him to the edge of the platform.
“What… What was that?” Hal asked, but he already knew the answer. It was no simple construct, no trick of the light or the senses, but the power of the ring, no, of Sinestro’s technique, used to its fullest potential.
“It was something you shouldn’t have had to see. Can you fly?” Kilowog asked.
Hal rolled his shoulder. It still stung like a mother, but that shouldn’t stop him. He nodded.
Hal didn’t look back to Sinestro as he stepped off the platform, but Hal could feel his yellow eyes following, like electricity down his spine.
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Mao Mao Sheriff of Pure Hearts (They/Them)
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WONDER WOMAN
"FATE OF THEMISCYRA"
January 1st, 1968
Another New Year
Jusice Society of America Headquarters, Opal City
Her fellow colleagues cheered at the sight of fireworks in the skies of Opal City, marking the beginnings of another new year. The rental band resumed playing their instruments but with such power that energized the party even more. Diana of Themyscira watched almost everyone flooding the dance floor to celebrate with a glass of red wine in one hand and a pack of cigarettes on the table. There was a somewhat genuine smile on her face. Of course, she loved reuniting with colleagues when it wasn't about the Injustice Society. But it was another painful reminder that everyone around her was getting older. Her colleagues were getting wrinkles on their face and gray hair while she remained young and beautiful. Was it a blessing or a curse?
Diana already knew the answer but couldn't bring herself to say it. Instead, she took a drink of the wine imported from France. It was good enough to wash away the pain... for one night. Then, she placed down the glass and left her table to take a smoke break. But in the hallway, she saw something in the corner of her eye that caught her attention. Upon closer inspection, it was a photo of her and the founding members in front of the large double doors to the headquarters taken before her membership to the Justice Society of America was made official by Starman. She still remembered that day in full detail, from the tour to the moments before that photo was taken. It was one of the pleasanter memories from that period of her life.
"Diana." a familiar voice called out her name in distaste.
"It's been a while." Diana turned to greet Joan Dale, the successor to the mantle of Miss America after Madeline Joyce retired a few years ago.
Joan nodded. "Indeed. The last time we saw each other was in Vietnam, where you were preventing American troops from neutralizing Viet Cong combatants."
"Funny how the very same troops were going to burn the entire village down and slaughter innocents because they were assumed to be hiding them." Diana responded with a hint of hostility in her voice towards the American troops and, to a certain extent, Joan. But realizing that it wasn't the right place and time to argue, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. "Look, can we not fight during the party? It's the only time of the year that we can be together without having to worry about the world. And in all honestly, I'd rather just forget about Vietnam for one night."
Joan looked away for a moment and then gave her the answer with some attitude. "Fine. I'm going to see if Terry is still around. See you around, Diana."
"You too, Joan." Diana bid farewell to her and felt relieved that the argument was stopped before it got out of control. She finally made it to the backyard, where a few of her colleagues were talking while smoking. It was more peaceful out here than inside. She sat down on the brick planter and took a cigarette out of the package, but realized she forgot to take the lighter with her. Diana dreaded the idea of going back inside just to get it. However, her friend approached her with two glasses of wine and placed one down next to Diana. Elizabeth Lawrence, or known as Liberty Belle, was one of her friends still around from the Second World War.
Whenever the American press wasn't following her around, Elizabeth spent time with Diana and talked about their future after the war. Jay Garrick, the Flash, was a lovely person based on the brief interactions they had with each other--whether in combat or hanging out with Elizabeth. Diana was saddened that both of them chose to remain in the military. But, she felt good knowing that her friend wasn't alone. The both of them didn't see each other until Elizabeth retired from the military and joined the Justice Society of America in 1956. When she was asked about her absence, Elizabeth only revealed that she was on an assignment with Jay before his sudden disappearance. That's all she talked about regarding her service.
Elizabeth sat down beside Diana, with the other glass on hand, and greeted her friend with a one-sided hug. "Nice to see you, Diana."
"You too, Elizabeth." Diana hugged back and then looked at her glass. "How did you know to bring me a drink?"
"I heard Joan complaining about you to Terry inside. So, I'd assume you two got into another heated exchange and got you a glass to calm down." Elizabeth answered with a grin on her face.
Diana placed her glass down and then pulled her long black curly hair back in frustration. "Even after a decade of being falsely labeled, some of the members still treat me like a foreign enemy--especially the newcomers. I still have to deal with the FBI stalking me whenever I travel to the states. Not to mention the number of people that still think I am a communist sympathizer..."
"Hey, you did everything possible to make people trust you. It isn't your fault that some people are stubborn as a mule." Elizabeth placed a hand on her friend's shoulder to show support. "But let's not spend all night talking politics. I want to know more about you buying... Thinyseria?"
"Themiscyra." Diana corrected her friend lightheartedly. "And what can I say? I have been interested in archaeology lately, and I want to learn more about my culture. So it's a win-win."
"Well, I hope you find what you're looking for." Elizabeth smiled at her friend and then realized it was her turn. "I suppose it's my turn to tell you about how this year treated me. Let's see... umm... I think that my story is getting nominated for a Pulitzer Prize."
"Congratulations! I knew that the story will eventually get you the much-needed recognition."
Elizabeth blushed at the compliment. "It isn't nothing special. Besides, I'm facing off against Ronnie Sarasky and her in-depth story of the anti-war march in Washington D.C. I would be surprised if I win against her..."
"Have fate."
"I will have to find it first." Elizabeth laughed before realizing that her friend wasn't laughing; instead, she was a little sad. After an awkward cough, she moved on to a different topic. "Then, there's my daughter who's doing well in school. I got her the thing that she has been bothering me about for weeks."
Diana looked down at her drink and then asked in a serious tone, "Does she have your powers yet?"
"No... not yet anyway." Elizabeth responded with a smile like she was grateful. "But Jesse is still growing up. According to the family doctor, he thinks the odds of developing powers are higher during puberty. So hopefully, once she grows up, her chances start to decline. And who knows, she might never get my powers in her lifetime..."
"And if she does?" Diana asked, but Elizabeth remained silent with a frown. "I see. If you ever need help with Jesse, contact me and I will be over to assist."
"Thank you, Diana." Elizabeth's smile returned after hearing that promise. Then, she reached over to her glass of wine and picked it up. "Now, let's toast... to better years."
Diana graabed her glass and lifted it up. "To better years."
Diana already knew the answer but couldn't bring herself to say it. Instead, she took a drink of the wine imported from France. It was good enough to wash away the pain... for one night. Then, she placed down the glass and left her table to take a smoke break. But in the hallway, she saw something in the corner of her eye that caught her attention. Upon closer inspection, it was a photo of her and the founding members in front of the large double doors to the headquarters taken before her membership to the Justice Society of America was made official by Starman. She still remembered that day in full detail, from the tour to the moments before that photo was taken. It was one of the pleasanter memories from that period of her life.
"Diana." a familiar voice called out her name in distaste.
"It's been a while." Diana turned to greet Joan Dale, the successor to the mantle of Miss America after Madeline Joyce retired a few years ago.
Joan nodded. "Indeed. The last time we saw each other was in Vietnam, where you were preventing American troops from neutralizing Viet Cong combatants."
"Funny how the very same troops were going to burn the entire village down and slaughter innocents because they were assumed to be hiding them." Diana responded with a hint of hostility in her voice towards the American troops and, to a certain extent, Joan. But realizing that it wasn't the right place and time to argue, she sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose in annoyance. "Look, can we not fight during the party? It's the only time of the year that we can be together without having to worry about the world. And in all honestly, I'd rather just forget about Vietnam for one night."
Joan looked away for a moment and then gave her the answer with some attitude. "Fine. I'm going to see if Terry is still around. See you around, Diana."
"You too, Joan." Diana bid farewell to her and felt relieved that the argument was stopped before it got out of control. She finally made it to the backyard, where a few of her colleagues were talking while smoking. It was more peaceful out here than inside. She sat down on the brick planter and took a cigarette out of the package, but realized she forgot to take the lighter with her. Diana dreaded the idea of going back inside just to get it. However, her friend approached her with two glasses of wine and placed one down next to Diana. Elizabeth Lawrence, or known as Liberty Belle, was one of her friends still around from the Second World War.
Whenever the American press wasn't following her around, Elizabeth spent time with Diana and talked about their future after the war. Jay Garrick, the Flash, was a lovely person based on the brief interactions they had with each other--whether in combat or hanging out with Elizabeth. Diana was saddened that both of them chose to remain in the military. But, she felt good knowing that her friend wasn't alone. The both of them didn't see each other until Elizabeth retired from the military and joined the Justice Society of America in 1956. When she was asked about her absence, Elizabeth only revealed that she was on an assignment with Jay before his sudden disappearance. That's all she talked about regarding her service.
Elizabeth sat down beside Diana, with the other glass on hand, and greeted her friend with a one-sided hug. "Nice to see you, Diana."
"You too, Elizabeth." Diana hugged back and then looked at her glass. "How did you know to bring me a drink?"
"I heard Joan complaining about you to Terry inside. So, I'd assume you two got into another heated exchange and got you a glass to calm down." Elizabeth answered with a grin on her face.
Diana placed her glass down and then pulled her long black curly hair back in frustration. "Even after a decade of being falsely labeled, some of the members still treat me like a foreign enemy--especially the newcomers. I still have to deal with the FBI stalking me whenever I travel to the states. Not to mention the number of people that still think I am a communist sympathizer..."
"Hey, you did everything possible to make people trust you. It isn't your fault that some people are stubborn as a mule." Elizabeth placed a hand on her friend's shoulder to show support. "But let's not spend all night talking politics. I want to know more about you buying... Thinyseria?"
"Themiscyra." Diana corrected her friend lightheartedly. "And what can I say? I have been interested in archaeology lately, and I want to learn more about my culture. So it's a win-win."
"Well, I hope you find what you're looking for." Elizabeth smiled at her friend and then realized it was her turn. "I suppose it's my turn to tell you about how this year treated me. Let's see... umm... I think that my story is getting nominated for a Pulitzer Prize."
"Congratulations! I knew that the story will eventually get you the much-needed recognition."
Elizabeth blushed at the compliment. "It isn't nothing special. Besides, I'm facing off against Ronnie Sarasky and her in-depth story of the anti-war march in Washington D.C. I would be surprised if I win against her..."
"Have fate."
"I will have to find it first." Elizabeth laughed before realizing that her friend wasn't laughing; instead, she was a little sad. After an awkward cough, she moved on to a different topic. "Then, there's my daughter who's doing well in school. I got her the thing that she has been bothering me about for weeks."
Diana looked down at her drink and then asked in a serious tone, "Does she have your powers yet?"
"No... not yet anyway." Elizabeth responded with a smile like she was grateful. "But Jesse is still growing up. According to the family doctor, he thinks the odds of developing powers are higher during puberty. So hopefully, once she grows up, her chances start to decline. And who knows, she might never get my powers in her lifetime..."
"And if she does?" Diana asked, but Elizabeth remained silent with a frown. "I see. If you ever need help with Jesse, contact me and I will be over to assist."
"Thank you, Diana." Elizabeth's smile returned after hearing that promise. Then, she reached over to her glass of wine and picked it up. "Now, let's toast... to better years."
Diana graabed her glass and lifted it up. "To better years."
Hexaflexagon
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1.01
January 1st 1968
M16 Safehouse, Norrland, Sweden
Janet van Dyne looked down at the corpse of Grigor Ivanovich Pchelintsov. An almost comical expression of surprise was frozen on the dead Ukrainian’s face, his slightly parted lips making a deflated O-shape. He was wearing a thick winter robe of traditional Norrland-make, the quilted fabric stained red with blood from where a bullet had entered underneath his chin. In his right hand, he still clutched the Tokarev semi-automatic pistol that Janet could only assume he used to commit the deed.
“Don’t recognize you,” a voice called out to Janet in a thick Geordie accent. “A new hire on the photography unit?”
Janet sighed and turned around.
The voice belonged to a stocky middle-aged man dressed in a heavy winter coat. The thick curls of his blonde beard caked with snow from the flurries that had started this morning. Janet had worked long enough to know when someone was analyzing her, and she could feel the man’s emotionless grey eyes take all of her in. His left hand was clenched around what Janet could reasonably guess was his service weapon, and those grey eyes were just waiting for her to give him an excuse to shoot. Slow and deliberate, Janet pulled her SHIELD credentials from her own jacket pocket and handed them over.
“SHIELD,” the man snorted. “I didn’t know they were hiring girlies with legs.”
“My people should have told you I was coming.” Janet replied curtly as she ignored the urge to kick her new conversation mate in the balls.
“Mike Selwyn, MI6 Station Chief. Apologies that we didn’t meet you with the red-carpet Princess, but as you can see, we have our hands full.” Selwyn explained dismissively gesturing to Pchelintsov’s corpse.
Janet had worked with men like Mike Selwyn her entire life. The hyper-masculine thunderer whose entire way of life was intimately threatened by women like Janet entering the workforce. The SHIELD training camp was full of them, but Janet was the one on special assignment and not toiling away at some no-name post somewhere. The secret Janet had found was to handle things like two bucks, you had to smash your antlers together as soon as possible.
“All I see Selwyn,” countered Janet making sure that every syllable dripped with venom. “Is that the asset I was supposed to interrogate is dead, and that you let it happen.”
Janet watched as the muscles in Selwyn’s face twitched behind his beard. The barb was cruel, Selwyn was undoubtedly already feeling the heat from his superiors over this fuckup. You let a recently flipped asset like Pchelintsov die, and sooner then you could blink there would already be a committee looking to get you demoted to bathroom attendant. Janet in turn could lean on that fear to remind Selwyn that he needed more friends than enemies right now.
“And what,” Selwyn asked as he straightened his posture and took on a much more professional tone. “Would you have me do to remedy this inconvenience.”
“Let me help you find out what happened to Pchelintsov.”
Selwyn looked between Pchelintsov’s body and Janet three times before nodding his head in agreement.
“How much do you know?” He asked.
“Only as much as your people have told us.”
Janet went on to explain how SHIELD had received notification from their MI6 contacts about a recently flipped Pchelintsov. The Ukrainian had been tucked away in a safehouse in Norrland awaiting debriefing and further transportation, and that due to prior services rendered that SHIELD, through Janet, would have the first pass at extraction of any information.
“You privileged to tell what you SHIELD folks wanted him for?” Selwyn asked as he slipped on a pair of gloves and crouched down next to the corpse.
“Agent went AWOL. He was our only lead,” replied Janet as she crouched down next to Selwyn.
She chose not to tell Selwyn that the Agent in question was Doctor Hank Pym, one of the world’s smartest men and her sometimes lover. SHIELD had managed to keep the fact that the “Ant-Man” was currently missing from almost everyone including most of their own organization. As the war pulled ahead in Vietnam, keeping morale up was the priority and vanishing superheroes did the opposite. It only took a few whispers in the wrong place for the rumor mill to start, and soon after something ridiculous like “Government superhero joins the Vietcong” would be on the front page of every tabloid in the West.
If Selwyn noticed Janet’s reservations, he did not comment on them. The MI6 agent gingerly took the dead Ukrainian’s head in his massive pawlike hands and tilted it forward so that he could get a better look at the entrance wound. He squinted down and gestured with a thumb towards a patch of pinkish skin near the wound.
“Burn marks,” Selwyn observed. “Either from the muzzle flash or from touching the barrel right after firing, either way that only happens with intimate contact.”
Janet nodded as she looked further down at Pchelintsov’s hands.
“No obvious bruising around the wrists either,” Janet added as she gestured with her head. “And no broken fingers. Nothing to suggest that somebody forced him to pull the trigger.”
“So,” Selwyn shook his head. “the perpetrator either shoved the barrel right up against his throat and fired, or the son of a bitch really did shoot himself.”
“You don’t think he could’ve done it?”
“I’ve seen Pchelinstov’s type. The Poor bastard made a lot of bad decisions in life. He did not just want out, but he wanted a way to redeem himself. Men like that do not just shoot themselves before they have a chance to repent.”
“Maybe he already did.”
“Not like we sent a priest his way. Besides, we sure as hell didn’t leave a Torkarev with him.”
Despite Selwyn’s confidence, Janet still was not sure she was not looking at a suicide. She took a breath and looked away from Pchelintsov’s body at the entirety of the crime scene.
The cabin looked like a mess: a wooden table flipped over, a toppled bookshelf with its various contents scattered across the place, the blankets had been ripped off Pchelintsov’s bed, and ashes from the central fireplace were scattered across the floor. The wooden wall directly behind Pchelintsov splintered, the final resting place of the killing bullet after it left the Ukrainian’s skull. The chaos around the cabin looked like a convincing simulacrum of a struggle. However, the lack of obvious non-fatal wounds on Pchelintsov made Janet doubt that any of it happened until after he died, but why would somebody want to make it look like they had killed a man? None of it made sense.
“Did you have eyes on the cabin? When it happened?” Janet asked Selwyn who was still looking over the body.
“Two officers in an overwatch position on the hill. They would have had eyes on all entrances and exits.”
“Would have?”
“They were unresponsive at the time,” Selwyn explained sighing. “Both were injected with a nerve agent. Non-lethal thankfully, but there still at the local hospital getting back their faculties.”
Non-lethal? That was another question to add to the growing list. If an enemy agent had eyes on potentially dangerous targets, why did they not just take them out instead of risking a non-lethal approach. Nerve agents were effective, but there was no guarantee that the person you just dosed was not going to get up earlier than expected.
“Care to show me the way up there?”
“Don’t want to spend more time in the snow than I need to… but sure.”
You picked a wrong place to be station chief then, Janet thought but did not say out loud. Since their initial truce Selwyn had been nothing but cooperative and she wanted to keep him that way. No need to potentially bruise any fragile egos.
Selwyn trudged out the backdoor of the cabin and into the January chill. The snowfall was getting thicker now, and Janet could not see much further than the wide frame of Selwyn’s back. The snow did a good job covering up any tracks that the intruder may have left, but Janet still wanted to look at the overwatch point.
Selwyn’s labored breathing was visible on the air and only grew with the hill’s incline. The fact that Selwyn could have been involved somehow had not escaped Janet’s mind. Anyone working out of MI6’s Sweden Station could be involved, and the Soviets were infamous for their usage of double and even triple agents. For all she knew, Selwyn could be leading her out into the woods to shoot her.
However, watching Selwyn pant his way up the hill, Janet was not particularly scared, Selwyn was a bureaucrat, a spy’s spy, not an assassin, and that much was obvious.
Eventually, Selwyn stopped at a large Norwegian spruce about halfway up the incline. Her eyes followed Selwyn’s hand his finger directing her gaze towards the edge of a platform expertly hidden amongst the branches.
“Branches probably can’t hold my weight,” Selwyn said grabbing at his generous midsection. “So, I’ll wait here at the bottom until you are done.”
“Just get ready to catch me if I fall...”
The only way up was the old fashion way, as there were no handholds or ropes that Janet could make out. It was slow going, the snow made getting any traction hard and the extra weight made the branches sag dangerously. After she finally managed to hoist herself up to the platform, she stayed on her knees, grateful for a surface that did not move beneath her.
“You okay up there?” Selwyn called up; his voice distant.
“Yeah!” Janet yelled back.
Still on all fours, Janet looked out on the forest below her. She could easily see why Selwyn’s people had chosen this vantage point. It provided a clear view of Pchelintsov’s cabin and the surrounding clearing, and therefore someone would have a hard time breaking the tree line without an observer spotting them. In turn, the surrounding forest made it highly unlikely that anyone could spot the platform except up close like she and Selwyn had.
This told Janet two things about their would-be intruder. The first was that they most likely came from behind the observers from up and over the hill. This either meant that they had guessed well or that they already knew where the platform was, and that made it more likely that Sweden Station had a mole, or at least someone with loose lips.
The second fact was the one that Janet found more personally interesting. She was in exceptionally good shape and even she found scaling the tree difficult. She figured that was by design, any person like her would be grunting their way up the climb and thus alert whomever was on duty that someone was trying to sneak up on them. The position of the platform and the tree cover also made it near impossible to get a clear shot that would be needed for a tranquilizer dart. Combine those factors together and that meant that their intruder had to have silently scaled the spruce to personally inject the MI6 agents. A feat which would have required elite level gymnastic ability.
Their intruder was not just some bumbling would-be hitman it seemed. At least the ascent was not for nothing.
“Alright I’m coming back down!”
Janet slowly rose to her feet, her right fist clenched with a pocket full of snow from fear of slipping. She needed to be able to feel her hands for the ascent down, so she shook the powder free from her gloved hand. As the snow fell away something caught her eye, and she froze. A wisp of a thing wrapped and flattened around her index finger: a strand of red hair that bled through the monochrome black and whites of the Swedish winter.
“Selwyn,” Janet called down trying to contain her excitement. “Do any of your people have red-hair?”
“No!” Selwyn called back clearly noticing the change in her voice.
“Then I might have just found something.”
M16 Safehouse, Norrland, Sweden
Janet van Dyne looked down at the corpse of Grigor Ivanovich Pchelintsov. An almost comical expression of surprise was frozen on the dead Ukrainian’s face, his slightly parted lips making a deflated O-shape. He was wearing a thick winter robe of traditional Norrland-make, the quilted fabric stained red with blood from where a bullet had entered underneath his chin. In his right hand, he still clutched the Tokarev semi-automatic pistol that Janet could only assume he used to commit the deed.
“Don’t recognize you,” a voice called out to Janet in a thick Geordie accent. “A new hire on the photography unit?”
Janet sighed and turned around.
The voice belonged to a stocky middle-aged man dressed in a heavy winter coat. The thick curls of his blonde beard caked with snow from the flurries that had started this morning. Janet had worked long enough to know when someone was analyzing her, and she could feel the man’s emotionless grey eyes take all of her in. His left hand was clenched around what Janet could reasonably guess was his service weapon, and those grey eyes were just waiting for her to give him an excuse to shoot. Slow and deliberate, Janet pulled her SHIELD credentials from her own jacket pocket and handed them over.
“SHIELD,” the man snorted. “I didn’t know they were hiring girlies with legs.”
“My people should have told you I was coming.” Janet replied curtly as she ignored the urge to kick her new conversation mate in the balls.
“Mike Selwyn, MI6 Station Chief. Apologies that we didn’t meet you with the red-carpet Princess, but as you can see, we have our hands full.” Selwyn explained dismissively gesturing to Pchelintsov’s corpse.
Janet had worked with men like Mike Selwyn her entire life. The hyper-masculine thunderer whose entire way of life was intimately threatened by women like Janet entering the workforce. The SHIELD training camp was full of them, but Janet was the one on special assignment and not toiling away at some no-name post somewhere. The secret Janet had found was to handle things like two bucks, you had to smash your antlers together as soon as possible.
“All I see Selwyn,” countered Janet making sure that every syllable dripped with venom. “Is that the asset I was supposed to interrogate is dead, and that you let it happen.”
Janet watched as the muscles in Selwyn’s face twitched behind his beard. The barb was cruel, Selwyn was undoubtedly already feeling the heat from his superiors over this fuckup. You let a recently flipped asset like Pchelintsov die, and sooner then you could blink there would already be a committee looking to get you demoted to bathroom attendant. Janet in turn could lean on that fear to remind Selwyn that he needed more friends than enemies right now.
“And what,” Selwyn asked as he straightened his posture and took on a much more professional tone. “Would you have me do to remedy this inconvenience.”
“Let me help you find out what happened to Pchelintsov.”
Selwyn looked between Pchelintsov’s body and Janet three times before nodding his head in agreement.
“How much do you know?” He asked.
“Only as much as your people have told us.”
Janet went on to explain how SHIELD had received notification from their MI6 contacts about a recently flipped Pchelintsov. The Ukrainian had been tucked away in a safehouse in Norrland awaiting debriefing and further transportation, and that due to prior services rendered that SHIELD, through Janet, would have the first pass at extraction of any information.
“You privileged to tell what you SHIELD folks wanted him for?” Selwyn asked as he slipped on a pair of gloves and crouched down next to the corpse.
“Agent went AWOL. He was our only lead,” replied Janet as she crouched down next to Selwyn.
She chose not to tell Selwyn that the Agent in question was Doctor Hank Pym, one of the world’s smartest men and her sometimes lover. SHIELD had managed to keep the fact that the “Ant-Man” was currently missing from almost everyone including most of their own organization. As the war pulled ahead in Vietnam, keeping morale up was the priority and vanishing superheroes did the opposite. It only took a few whispers in the wrong place for the rumor mill to start, and soon after something ridiculous like “Government superhero joins the Vietcong” would be on the front page of every tabloid in the West.
If Selwyn noticed Janet’s reservations, he did not comment on them. The MI6 agent gingerly took the dead Ukrainian’s head in his massive pawlike hands and tilted it forward so that he could get a better look at the entrance wound. He squinted down and gestured with a thumb towards a patch of pinkish skin near the wound.
“Burn marks,” Selwyn observed. “Either from the muzzle flash or from touching the barrel right after firing, either way that only happens with intimate contact.”
Janet nodded as she looked further down at Pchelintsov’s hands.
“No obvious bruising around the wrists either,” Janet added as she gestured with her head. “And no broken fingers. Nothing to suggest that somebody forced him to pull the trigger.”
“So,” Selwyn shook his head. “the perpetrator either shoved the barrel right up against his throat and fired, or the son of a bitch really did shoot himself.”
“You don’t think he could’ve done it?”
“I’ve seen Pchelinstov’s type. The Poor bastard made a lot of bad decisions in life. He did not just want out, but he wanted a way to redeem himself. Men like that do not just shoot themselves before they have a chance to repent.”
“Maybe he already did.”
“Not like we sent a priest his way. Besides, we sure as hell didn’t leave a Torkarev with him.”
Despite Selwyn’s confidence, Janet still was not sure she was not looking at a suicide. She took a breath and looked away from Pchelintsov’s body at the entirety of the crime scene.
The cabin looked like a mess: a wooden table flipped over, a toppled bookshelf with its various contents scattered across the place, the blankets had been ripped off Pchelintsov’s bed, and ashes from the central fireplace were scattered across the floor. The wooden wall directly behind Pchelintsov splintered, the final resting place of the killing bullet after it left the Ukrainian’s skull. The chaos around the cabin looked like a convincing simulacrum of a struggle. However, the lack of obvious non-fatal wounds on Pchelintsov made Janet doubt that any of it happened until after he died, but why would somebody want to make it look like they had killed a man? None of it made sense.
“Did you have eyes on the cabin? When it happened?” Janet asked Selwyn who was still looking over the body.
“Two officers in an overwatch position on the hill. They would have had eyes on all entrances and exits.”
“Would have?”
“They were unresponsive at the time,” Selwyn explained sighing. “Both were injected with a nerve agent. Non-lethal thankfully, but there still at the local hospital getting back their faculties.”
Non-lethal? That was another question to add to the growing list. If an enemy agent had eyes on potentially dangerous targets, why did they not just take them out instead of risking a non-lethal approach. Nerve agents were effective, but there was no guarantee that the person you just dosed was not going to get up earlier than expected.
“Care to show me the way up there?”
“Don’t want to spend more time in the snow than I need to… but sure.”
You picked a wrong place to be station chief then, Janet thought but did not say out loud. Since their initial truce Selwyn had been nothing but cooperative and she wanted to keep him that way. No need to potentially bruise any fragile egos.
Selwyn trudged out the backdoor of the cabin and into the January chill. The snowfall was getting thicker now, and Janet could not see much further than the wide frame of Selwyn’s back. The snow did a good job covering up any tracks that the intruder may have left, but Janet still wanted to look at the overwatch point.
Selwyn’s labored breathing was visible on the air and only grew with the hill’s incline. The fact that Selwyn could have been involved somehow had not escaped Janet’s mind. Anyone working out of MI6’s Sweden Station could be involved, and the Soviets were infamous for their usage of double and even triple agents. For all she knew, Selwyn could be leading her out into the woods to shoot her.
However, watching Selwyn pant his way up the hill, Janet was not particularly scared, Selwyn was a bureaucrat, a spy’s spy, not an assassin, and that much was obvious.
Eventually, Selwyn stopped at a large Norwegian spruce about halfway up the incline. Her eyes followed Selwyn’s hand his finger directing her gaze towards the edge of a platform expertly hidden amongst the branches.
“Branches probably can’t hold my weight,” Selwyn said grabbing at his generous midsection. “So, I’ll wait here at the bottom until you are done.”
“Just get ready to catch me if I fall...”
The only way up was the old fashion way, as there were no handholds or ropes that Janet could make out. It was slow going, the snow made getting any traction hard and the extra weight made the branches sag dangerously. After she finally managed to hoist herself up to the platform, she stayed on her knees, grateful for a surface that did not move beneath her.
“You okay up there?” Selwyn called up; his voice distant.
“Yeah!” Janet yelled back.
Still on all fours, Janet looked out on the forest below her. She could easily see why Selwyn’s people had chosen this vantage point. It provided a clear view of Pchelintsov’s cabin and the surrounding clearing, and therefore someone would have a hard time breaking the tree line without an observer spotting them. In turn, the surrounding forest made it highly unlikely that anyone could spot the platform except up close like she and Selwyn had.
This told Janet two things about their would-be intruder. The first was that they most likely came from behind the observers from up and over the hill. This either meant that they had guessed well or that they already knew where the platform was, and that made it more likely that Sweden Station had a mole, or at least someone with loose lips.
The second fact was the one that Janet found more personally interesting. She was in exceptionally good shape and even she found scaling the tree difficult. She figured that was by design, any person like her would be grunting their way up the climb and thus alert whomever was on duty that someone was trying to sneak up on them. The position of the platform and the tree cover also made it near impossible to get a clear shot that would be needed for a tranquilizer dart. Combine those factors together and that meant that their intruder had to have silently scaled the spruce to personally inject the MI6 agents. A feat which would have required elite level gymnastic ability.
Their intruder was not just some bumbling would-be hitman it seemed. At least the ascent was not for nothing.
“Alright I’m coming back down!”
Janet slowly rose to her feet, her right fist clenched with a pocket full of snow from fear of slipping. She needed to be able to feel her hands for the ascent down, so she shook the powder free from her gloved hand. As the snow fell away something caught her eye, and she froze. A wisp of a thing wrapped and flattened around her index finger: a strand of red hair that bled through the monochrome black and whites of the Swedish winter.
“Selwyn,” Janet called down trying to contain her excitement. “Do any of your people have red-hair?”
“No!” Selwyn called back clearly noticing the change in her voice.
“Then I might have just found something.”
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AndyC Guardian of the Universe
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THE FOLLOWING PROGRAM IS BROUGHT TO YOU IN LIVING COLOR, ON NBC.
"This is Laurence Spivak, inviting you to Meet the Press. My fellow panelists this evening are the esteemed anchor from WGBS, Mr. G. Gordon Godfrey...."
"Good evening, Laurence, and good evening, America."
"....and Pulitzer Prize winning reporter for the Daily Planet, Lois Lane-Kent."
"A pleasure, Laurence."
"Our guest this evening is one of the most controversial figures in American history. A former criminal and self-avowed "super-villain," and an outspoken critic of both Superman in particular and the growing superhuman community at large, best-selling author and Chief Executive Officer of LexCo Industries, Mr. Lex Luthor."
"Thank you, it's good to see you again, Laurence, Gordon. And it's always a pleasure to see you, Miss Lane."
"Missus. Lane. Kent."
"If you insist."
"Now now, I know you two have some personal history, but let's maintain some decorum."
"Indeed. Now, Mister Luthor, you've written several books that have been the cause of a great deal of controversy over the years. Fire to the People, The World in a Bottle, and Truth to Power have all been met with both praise and scorn. Some would call your works powerful condemnations of the status quo--"
"And some would call them the narcissistic sermonizing of a bloodthirsty megalomaniac."
"Missus Kent, please--"
"Oh, it's quite all right, Laurence. Miss Lane and I have gone back and forth plenty of times, and--"
"I told you, it's--"
"annnnd I've learned to take her jabs and snipes as all part of due course. Frankly, if she wasn't insulting me, I'd have to wonder what was wrong. Now then, Mr. Godfrey, I believe you had a question?"
"Indeed I do. In your latest book, The Problem of Evil, you point out several 'inspirational figures,' which include Atilla the Hun, Genghis Khan, Francisco Pizarro, even Adolf Hitler and Josef Stalin. How can you justify telling the average American that these people are who they should emulate?"
"Well, Gordon, you have to understand that the very nature of these men is what set them apart from the average John and Mary Q. Public. Most would consider their deeds....disasteful, to say the least--"
"Hmph. Only Lex Luthor could describe mass-murdering butchers as 'distasteful.'"
"Missus Kent, please--"
"Actually, Miss Lane's reaction is precisely what I mean. The average person responds to the actions of conquerors and dictators with revulsion and outrage. Because what they do is 'evil,' according to the tenets of modern society. We are told from birth that there is a certain way we must behave, in order to function as part of the world in which we live. We cannot indulge in certain vices, we cannot strive for our heart's desires, we must not say what we truly feel. After all, what the neighbors think?"
"And you admire conquerors and dictators for disregarding moral standards?"
"Not exactly. If I were to look up to those who simply followed whatever whim or urge tugged at them, then my greatest hero would be a drunk lying in a gutter, or the long-haired degenerates along the West Coast. No, it is not merely a matter of not caring what the neighbors think. It is about having a vision, and having the power and more importantly, the will to make that vision reality. These conquerors, these dictators, these 'monsters,' turned the world upside-down, because they believed whole-heartedly that they could do it, and then they made it happen. Honestly, can you think of a better role model for your own life?"
"One certainly comes to mind...."
The Circum-Pacific Belt, better known as the "Ring of Fire," is a path along the Pacific Ocean containing most of the world's active volcanoes. Plate tectonics create an unusually high concentration of earthquakes and volcanic activity in this area, jeopardizing millions of lives in coastal cities and island nations. Naturally, I spend a lot of time here.
This one is a fairly powerful eruption, on one of the smaller islands that make up Indonesia. Only a few thousand people live here, in a small fishing village by the looks of it, but it doesn't matter if it's a small village or a big city-- lives are in danger, which means I'm on the job.
It looks like there are already rescue boats not too far from the shore, and most of the villagers are crowded onto the beach, waiting to be ferried to safety. Still, not everyone is so lucky.
"<Mama! Papa!>"
"<Someone help us!>"
I focus my vision close in to the island, and see two kids, stranded on the roof of a burning house. Lava is already flowing down the dirt road in front of them, swallowing up the buildings around them. I don't see anyone else in the surrounding area-- either their parents ran to the beach without them, or they didn't make it.
There's a crunch, the sound of splintering wood as the house begins to collapse.
The roof caves in.
Embers fly, and the flames roar.
The house is swallowed by the torrent of molten rock....
....and I deliver the kids safely on the beach.
"<...th--thank you,>" one of them stammers.
"<Not a problem,>" I say with a reassuring smile.
"<Our M-mama.....our Papa....>"
"<....I'm sorry....>" is all I can say.
Twenty years ago-- hell, even ten years ago-- I would have been able to cross the distance between Metropolis and Indonesia before you could blink, and still have enough left in me to tidy everything up before anyone even realized I was there. Now, though, I'm struggling. It took me almost ten minutes, and I had to catch my breath before I could start working.
There's another rumble from the volcano, and people begin to scream.
No time to feel sorry for myself. There's still a job to do.
"Obviously, he means well, or at the very least he's convinced himself that he does. But he's spent thirty years putting out fires, pulling cats out of trees--"
"--stopping world-threatening disasters, saving millions of lives--"
"--and what has it gotten him? Is he any better off than he was in '38? Everyone likes to believe that Superman lives in some grand castle, some mythical fortress when he's not punching out robots or bench-pressing skyscrapers, but for all we know, he could live alone in some flea-bitten apartment in Suicide Slum. He hasn't earned a penny for years of impossibly hard work, and everyone considers him a 'hero' for it. But the novelty has worn off, hasn't it? His influence, his social profile, hasn't grown in years. If anything, it's on a downward trend. He'll spend the rest of his life spinning his proverbial wheels, chasing one emergency after another, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders--sometimes literally-- and at the end of it all he'll have nothing to show for it."
"Everyone stay back!" I shout to the crowd of panicked islanders as I plunge the enormous boulder into the channel of molten lava. "I'm going to dig a channel, see if I can redirect the lava flow into the ocean! Get to the--"
KA-BOOOOOOMMM!!!!!!
The volcano's top blows again, spewing up gouts of molten rock, raining fiery debris down across the island, and belching toxic smoke into the air. If I don't do something quick, the whole island and everyone on it will go up in flames.
"Okay," I say to myself as I grit my teeth. "Playing defense isn't working here. Let's try going on the offensive."
I speed towards the volcano with my fists clenched hard, and spear into the hard rock.
Drill holes through the crust and into the main shaft, that's the plan. Create vents for the gas and magma to seep out, prevent more pressure from building up.
As solid rock shatters and gives way for me, I feel something else beyond the stone scraping against my skin. A thin film of moisture, beading up across my forehead and stinging my eyes. Sweat. I'm actually sweating.
I've handled volcanoes before. And hurricanes, and earthquakes, tornadoes, plane crashes, runaway trains, nuclear meltdowns, you name it. And it's always just been a matter of course, all in a day's work. The only time I've found myself sweating or struggling for breath is either when I've been poisoned by Kryptonite, or when I'm being pushed to my very limits.
But there isn't a hint of that awful green rock anywhere around. And General Zod, Bizarro, Brainiac, those are the threats that push my to my limits. Not something as routine as a volcano, right?
Focus, Clark, these people need your help. You've still got it in you. All you have to do is--
I strike a pocket of magma, and a wave of liquid-hot earth washes over me.
Some people think Kryptonite is the only thing that can hurt me. That's not entirely true-- Kryptonite may be the only thing that can kill me. But there are plenty of things that hurt. And being submerged in two-thousand-degree heat hurts an awful lot.
I tumble head-over-heels inside the inferno.
I can't tell which way is up.
I can't breathe.
I can't see anything but burning orange light.
Come on, Clark. You've still got this.
You've still got this.
You've still--
"I'm not saying he's foolish for doing what he does. I'm saying he can do anything he wishes, have anything he desires, and yet he doesn't. Because he isn't honest with himself about what he wants. Men like Khan, like Alexander and Atilla, like Hitler and Stalin and Mao, they are honest about what they want. And so am I."
"And what, exactly, is it that you want?"
"The same thing everyone wants, if we're all being truthful. I want to rule the world."
"Hah! Good luck with that, Lex. Nobody's going to fall for someone as transparently evil as you."
"Oh? Let me ask you, Miss Lane--"
"For the last time, it's Missus--"
"Yes, yes, so you keep claiming. But let me ask you: do you think the Nazis put some sort of magic spell over the German people? They knew Hitler and his ilk would start a war that would kill countless people, and they welcomed them into power with open arms. The communists in Russia, China, Korea, and all over the world rule over their people with iron fists, their primary levers of state power are the gulag and the firing squad, and yet there are people in the so-called 'Free World' who want that very same system implemented here. Even now, we uphold a status quo that victimizes whole swaths of people based on their skin color or their sex, and we celebrate sending thousands of young men overseas to slaughter a weaker nation that poses no threat to our global hegemony, because we benefit from it. My own company makes millions, not just from lucrative military contracts, but from home appliances and electronics that you can buy at your corner store, and the general public knows that I'm, as your caped old-flame has so eloquently put it, a 'diseased maniac.' I think you'll find that the average person has far more of a stomach for evil than you would care to admit."
"And this is why you think people will allow you to 'rule the world,' as you say? Because you think people will benefit from it?"
"To be frank, whether people allow me to rule them isn't really a factor. And I make no claim that anyone but myself will benefit. And that's the point, the true problem of evil in the world. It isn't honest with itself. The Nazis, the Marxists, the Klan, the flag-waving imperialists, all hold onto the illusion that their evil deeds are for the greater good. I hold no such illusions anymore. I don't claim I want to rule the world because you'll be better with me in charge. I want to rule the world because I want to rule the world. Simple as that. I have a goal, and I have the will to make it happen."
"You just effectively declared you intend to overthrow the United States government, on live television. What's to stop them from putting you behind bars right now?"
"While I'm sure the image of me rotting away in a prison cell brings you no end of joy, I've never said I would overthrow anything. There are plenty of ways to rule the world without ousting anyone from their positions of imagined power. Politics are only one route among many to achieve power, you see. And the more people realize that, the more they can benefit from it. With enough ambition and enough willpower, anyone can rule the world."
"And what makes you think anyone will buy into this gospel of egotism you've concocted? You might dismiss what Superman stands for, but he's not the only one out there fighting the good fight."
"Oh, I don't dismiss Superman, even if I oppose him. But just look into the halls of power-- the Capitol, the Kremlin, Downing Street, Wall Street, Beijing, anywhere you like. How many Boy Scouts and selfless do-gooders do you see there? After three decades of 'fighting the good fight,' as you say, it seems to me that when it comes to making an actual difference in the world, there are still far more people like me than there are people like him."
I tumble endlessly through fire and pain.
There's no surface to push off of, no ceiling to break through.
Even with my eyes closed, I can see searing orange light.
How long has it been? A few seconds? Minutes? Hours? I can't tell. It feels like it just happened, but at the same time feels like I've been in this pit forever.
All those people. They were counting on me. They're burning now. Because I failed them.
Because I couldn't--
Suddenly, I feel something grab me by the scruff of my neck and pull me hard.
A second later, a rush of cool night air-- well, 'cool' by comparison-- washes over me.
I fall to my knees, and I begin coughing up the liquid agony that had filled my lungs.
"BLEEEEAAAAAAGGGHHHH!" I retch, emptying first my lungs, then my stomach, spewing hot lava onto the sands of the beach. "....oh God....."
I take a few moments to catch my breath. I don't dare open my eyes-- I don't want to see what the volcano has done to the poor villagers.
"Oh God," I say again between ragged gasps. "All those people. I tried.....I tried to save them.....they're--"
"They're fine, Kal."
At hearing a familiar voice, I open my eyes.
"I was able to get them all onto the rescue boats. They're safe now."
"...Kara?" I say as I struggle to my feet, and rub bits of cooling gravel out of my eyes. "And the volcano, did you--"
"I dug trenches around the village to save what was left of it," she says confidently. "And I drilled some vents into the mountain itself. Or rather, I picked up where you left off on doing those-- I don't know if I would have thought of that myself."
My cousin Kara's been on the job for three years now, and while she's done some exemplary work as 'Supergirl,' she's still learning. I have to admit, though, she's got spirit, and potential. I couldn't do half of what she can do when I was her age.
"Good.....good work," I manage, before falling back onto my backside. Kara sits down beside me, and her smile softens.
"Rough day?"
".....you could say that," I say with a weak chuckle.
"Well, I'm glad I was able to follow your lead," she says with a pat on the shoulder. "I know Lois's interview with Luthor is almost over, so I'll bet she's had a rough time too. I can handle the clean-up from here if you want to take the rest of the night off."
I sit up, a bit of indignation on my face.
"Superman doesn't take nights off," I tell her, trying to straighten up as best as I can.
"Call it a training exercise, then," she says, "I haven't had a chance to patrol solo yet; let me take care of things for a while so you and Lois can unwind. And if things get hairy, you can always show up and bail me out."
I mull it over for a moment. I can't let people down, sit around while lives are in danger. It's not what Ma and Pa would have wanted. It's not what Jor-El would have wanted. And it's not what I want.
Then I feel my muscles aching, my back and neck going stiff, and my skin still smarting from exposure to the lava.
".....a training exercise," I say with a sigh. "Sure. Let's....let's see how you handle things. You know where the key to the Fortress is. If you need anything, I'll....I'll be there."
She smiles, and with that, we both take to the skies and go our separate ways. Kara starts flying west towards Japan and Eastern Asia. I start heading East, back towards the States, towards Metropolis and home.
It's been a rough day. And I hate to say it, but I've been having these rough days more often.
Maybe a night off is just what I need.
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S T A R F I R E
RED ALERT! RED ALERT! RED ALERT!
Waking up with a start, Koriand'r let out a groan as her senses slowly came back to her. The last hit had slammed her right into the nearest wall and knocked her out for a minute, but it looked like she was still alive. The same couldn't be said for the ship, however; a multitude of alerts and fatal warnings had covered the screen in front of her. It was quite the situation, but she wasn't about to panic just yet. Of course, that thought came shortly before something exploded. Pulling herself up on shaky legs, she quickly realized the entire ship was falling. That's right, she had been shot down, that last hit must have been the final hit. Behind the numerous warnings were flashes of lights amid a dark sky, though a second look let her know that she was quickly approaching what looked like a black landmass.
There was no stopping the imminent landing at this point, and instead she sat down in the nearest seat, clumsily strapping herself in with bound hands. To her surprise, the crash wasn't nearly as harsh as it should have been--the initial collide from ship to land was felt, but it had almost felt slowed down somehow. The best comparison she could make was the quicksands of a desert, and with that in mind, she hastily unbuckled herself. The very last thing she wanted was to drown just when she was at the cusp of freedom. Once she was free to fly, she went straight for the port hatch, stopping as she watched the door crack. Was something trying to get in? A denizen of the planet? Deciding she would get the first hit, she brought up the energy in her fists, shooting a green bolt of energy at the door.
In hindsight, it was not one of Koriand'r's brightest ideas, as the door shattered on impact and a gush of liquid entered the ship. She let out a shriek as she was knocked back down, pushed around for a little until she got her bearings and hovered above the slowly rising--was that water?! Well, she didn't want to drown to sand, and drowning to water wasn't anymore appealing. Taking in a deep breath, she went through the hole in the ship with some resistance, managing to cling to the edge of the hatch and pulling herself up with some difficulty. The water was chill to the touch, shocking her as she swam to the top.
Breaking the surface of the water, Koriand'r took in a deep breath as she looked around. The flashing lights startled her, soaring up above and resulting in loud bangs. Was this planet under attack as well? If so, she was certain the Psions wouldn't be far behind. Fortunately actual land was just a swim away, though she could do without her handcuffs weighing her down. Getting rid of them was definitely her first priority. As she climbed out of the water, she looked around and noticed the odd structures of stone around her. Yes, one of them should do nicely.
Shaking off some of her wet hair, Koriand'r approached the closest structure, summoning her strength as she gave the cuffs a good whack. Surprisingly, they didn't break--they were sturdier than she thought. She continued to wail on them, putting more force into her swings.
Waking up with a start, Koriand'r let out a groan as her senses slowly came back to her. The last hit had slammed her right into the nearest wall and knocked her out for a minute, but it looked like she was still alive. The same couldn't be said for the ship, however; a multitude of alerts and fatal warnings had covered the screen in front of her. It was quite the situation, but she wasn't about to panic just yet. Of course, that thought came shortly before something exploded. Pulling herself up on shaky legs, she quickly realized the entire ship was falling. That's right, she had been shot down, that last hit must have been the final hit. Behind the numerous warnings were flashes of lights amid a dark sky, though a second look let her know that she was quickly approaching what looked like a black landmass.
There was no stopping the imminent landing at this point, and instead she sat down in the nearest seat, clumsily strapping herself in with bound hands. To her surprise, the crash wasn't nearly as harsh as it should have been--the initial collide from ship to land was felt, but it had almost felt slowed down somehow. The best comparison she could make was the quicksands of a desert, and with that in mind, she hastily unbuckled herself. The very last thing she wanted was to drown just when she was at the cusp of freedom. Once she was free to fly, she went straight for the port hatch, stopping as she watched the door crack. Was something trying to get in? A denizen of the planet? Deciding she would get the first hit, she brought up the energy in her fists, shooting a green bolt of energy at the door.
In hindsight, it was not one of Koriand'r's brightest ideas, as the door shattered on impact and a gush of liquid entered the ship. She let out a shriek as she was knocked back down, pushed around for a little until she got her bearings and hovered above the slowly rising--was that water?! Well, she didn't want to drown to sand, and drowning to water wasn't anymore appealing. Taking in a deep breath, she went through the hole in the ship with some resistance, managing to cling to the edge of the hatch and pulling herself up with some difficulty. The water was chill to the touch, shocking her as she swam to the top.
Breaking the surface of the water, Koriand'r took in a deep breath as she looked around. The flashing lights startled her, soaring up above and resulting in loud bangs. Was this planet under attack as well? If so, she was certain the Psions wouldn't be far behind. Fortunately actual land was just a swim away, though she could do without her handcuffs weighing her down. Getting rid of them was definitely her first priority. As she climbed out of the water, she looked around and noticed the odd structures of stone around her. Yes, one of them should do nicely.
Shaking off some of her wet hair, Koriand'r approached the closest structure, summoning her strength as she gave the cuffs a good whack. Surprisingly, they didn't break--they were sturdier than she thought. She continued to wail on them, putting more force into her swings.
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The Blue Beetle
 xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I S S U E #1: First Contact L O C A T I O N Lower Manhattan, New York City. 12:14 AM T A G S @Hero | Having some kind of murderous, robot bug fused with your body came with a lot of downsides. It was always scanning the people around you, always looking for a reason to bring out the big guns, always whispering in the back of your head about the many creative ways it could neutralize potential threats—whether that was a shady looking guy on the curb or Mrs. Martínez' mean ass Rottweiler down the block. It was like having Jiminy Cricket welded to your spine, with none of the conscience and all of the bad attitude the world could muster. But, it also had its upsides. Like being able to fly you all the way downtown in the middle of the night, so you could settle in the skyline and watch New York bring in the New Year with a bang. It had taken a little finessing, a little white lie about heading to bed early to keep the folks from catching on, but it was worth it. Up here, there were no threats to neutralize and nothing to worry about. It was pretty relaxing, all things considered—a welcome change from the discomfort that usually accompanied being encased in... whatever it was that made up the armor. All Jaime Reyes had to do was kick back, watch the fire works, and try not to let any particularly daring gusts of wind knock him off his perch. <<Unknown object entering atmosphere.>>And ignore the buzzing in the back of his head. <<Atmospheric reentry speed maintained; uncontrolled descent detected.>>It was probably just the fireworks setting off its sensors. <<Estimated point of impact: Newark Bay, 40.677320174169694, -74.12057787059817. Time until impact: 24.2 seconds.>>That sounded specific. That sounded worryingly specific. Deciding to humor the machine inhabiting his body, Jaime pivoted on the ledge of the building he had made his home for the night. Under ordinary circumstances, he doubted he'd be able to make out something that far away. But with the suit enhancing his vision, he could just barely see it—a tiny, blazing dot shooting across the sky. "That... Okay, that's not good. You're sure it's not a meteor or something?" <<Negative. Energy signatures in line with technology beyond Earth capabilities; probability of extraterrestrial origin 98.2%. 10.4 seconds.>>"So... Aliens. An alien is about to crash land on Earth. In Newark of all places?" <<Affirmative. 2.6 seconds.>>If the ship hit hard enough to cause a splash, Jaime didn't see it through the urban sprawl of Manhattan. Maybe he wasn't supposed to see anything to begin with. A month ago, the idea of aliens arriving on Earth would have been something he relegated to passing fantasies and old, cheesy sci-fi flicks. But a month ago, he didn't have a suit of magical battle armor like the stuff out of old, cheesy sci-fi flicks either. It was hard to pass off the impossible when you were the impossible. Plus, aliens were friggin' cool! How could he pass up being the first to meet a Martian? He sure as heck wasn't going to let the poor bastards make first contact with New Jersey; they'd never want to come back if that's what they thought all of Earth was like. "Can you get us to where it landed? I wanna, uh... Investigate the intruder. From afar." <<Organic Host: Disingenuous. Advise against approaching object; capabilities unknown, risk to host unaccounted. Prioritize the mission.>> Always with the mission. As if Jaime had any idea what that meant. Heck, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant, with how the little thing suggested overcoming potential obstacles. "We'll never know its capabilities unless we go looking. C'mon, we're headed out." Getting the bug to do what he wanted when it disagreed with their course of action—which it did often—was usually like pulling teeth. Trying to practice flying around the neighborhood at night took more than a few failed nights to achieve before it acquiesced and did what he wanted. That struggle must have come in handy now, because all it took was a little bit of focus before the back portion of the carapace opened with a click, and four translucent wings manifested along thin, metallic ribs. A little hop later and Jaime was sailing through the skies above Manhattan, and across the bay towards Newark, the faintest trail of exhaust behind him as the scarab propelled him through the air. For all its backtalk, Jaime couldn't doubt his involuntary partner's competence. It had only taken a minute or two to jet his way across the city towards the landing site, weaving here and there to avoid the occasional overachieving bottle rocket as he crossed the more populated portions. He did not, however, get to see an alien spaceship for all his trouble; no sooner than he zoomed his way towards the shore facing the bay did the scarab suddenly buzz to life again. <<Non-standard lifeform detected, coordinates 40.67226910969731, -74.12317516952908. Preliminary scans confirm extraterrestrial origin. Subject: Tamaranean. Inhabitant of Sector 2828, Vega System. Combat potential: far beyond humankind. Approach with caution.>>It was hard not to notice them. Even from far above, the scarab had locked in on the lone soul as it made its way towards a nearby building and started... wailing on it?! "Why in the world is it trying to box with a building? We need to get down there and stop it before it catches the wrong kind of attention." <<Affirmative. Tamaranean physiology resistant to specific wavelengths of electromagnetic radiation. Suggested course of action: Judicious application of thermal energy.>>"We are not setting it on fire!" With some effort and just a mite bit of fledgling skill, Jaime circled his way back around and began to descend towards the ground below. He hadn't quite mastered landings yet, and he certainly didn't know how to hover, but at least he had gotten down the 'don't puke in the bug suit' part. That would've made the upcoming introduction much more awkward than it already would be. A stumbled landing a little ways down the block later, and the youth was just a short jog away from the alien and its incessant thumping. Of course, a bird's eye thermal view and far too many hours watching William Shatner wail on men in rubber suits didn't quite prepare him for what he saw when he rounded the corner to confront this alien threat. "Visitor to Earth, I request you... Cease... Your... Actions?," he blinked, half in confusion and half to ensure the scarab wasn't playing some kind of trick on him. "Is this the alien? Why is it a girl?" <<Tamaraneans exhibit similar sexual dimorphism to humanity. Subject appears to be a juvenile. Confirmation: It is a girl.>>"Yeah, I noticed!" Remembering he was, in fact, not alone with the scarab and therefore looked just a tad crazy yelling into the blank void beside him, the armor-clad teen composed himself and focused on the task at hand; welcoming this being to Earth. Or, at least, getting her to stop assaulting the side of a warehouse. "G-Greetings." Nailed it. |
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S T A R F I R E
Koriand'r's frustration was slowly building as the stone continued to crack, and yet the cuffs remained in pristine condition. Either the stone on this planet was more fragile than she expected or the cuffs were sturdier than most. It must be the latter, if she could have broken out of them before while imprisoned then she certainly would have by now, even without the numerous shocks and experiments she had experienced on a daily basis. Of course, that meant she was at a standstill. If physical force wouldn't remove them, what would?
Letting out a huff of annoyance, she readied one last thwack before hearing a voice in a language she didn't understand. The alien nearly jumped in place as she noticed the strange blue creature, its patterns unfamiliar to her. For one, those patterns usually belonged to creatures six or seven times its size, and this one wasn't even taller than she was. For another, they didn't normally speak. At least, she was certain it was trying to speak to her, even if she didn't understand what it was trying to say. If it was a denizen of this planet then she supposed it could be asking what she was doing.
Unwilling to look weak despite her predicament, Koriand'r's eyes glowed green, the tail end of her hair sparking up as she hovered in the air. "Kortraf glorven kienta...Asul Culacao," Koriand'r spoke slowly, raising an eyebrow. Was it a Culacao? She actually had no idea if she was being honest. And it didn't matter, the less attention she got, the better. "Kentaf korneg sufra."
Letting out a huff of annoyance, she readied one last thwack before hearing a voice in a language she didn't understand. The alien nearly jumped in place as she noticed the strange blue creature, its patterns unfamiliar to her. For one, those patterns usually belonged to creatures six or seven times its size, and this one wasn't even taller than she was. For another, they didn't normally speak. At least, she was certain it was trying to speak to her, even if she didn't understand what it was trying to say. If it was a denizen of this planet then she supposed it could be asking what she was doing.
Unwilling to look weak despite her predicament, Koriand'r's eyes glowed green, the tail end of her hair sparking up as she hovered in the air. "Kortraf glorven kienta...Asul Culacao," Koriand'r spoke slowly, raising an eyebrow. Was it a Culacao? She actually had no idea if she was being honest. And it didn't matter, the less attention she got, the better. "Kentaf korneg sufra."
The Blue Beetle
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I S S U E #1: First Contact II L O C A T I O N Bayonne, New Jersey. 12:17 AM T A G S @Hero | Jaime was at least a little bit startled when the alien turned to address him—she did decide to start glowing and floating after spitting out that string of gibberish... Which, in hindsight, was probably a pretty offensive thing to call it. He made a mental note not to call her language gibberish during negotiations. Regardless of whatever he called it, it didn't change that fact he couldn't make out a single word she had said to him. At the very least he had spared the poor building any more trauma. "I come in peace. I just wanted to check on what was happening; my suit here says you had an, uhm, uncontrolled descent." Jaime said, holding his hands up in the universal signal of 'don't shoot'. At least, he assumed it was a universal signal. In hindsight, probably not a strong bet. "You said you know what her species is, can you translate her language for me? She does not look pleased to see me." He hurriedly whispered in the meanwhile. <<Subject exhibits signs of aggression. Speech patterns indicate displeasure in host's appearance. Confirmation: She is not pleased to see you. Suggested course of action: Judicious application->>"No fire!" <<Affirmative. Calculating alternative neutralization protocols.>>Jaime groaned to himself. Seeing as though the scarab didn't want to be especially useful in diplomatic matters, the teen decided to take things into his own hands. "Look, miss, there's no need to get angry, okay? I just want you to stop hitting the building before someone else in blue—who acts a lot less nice than me—comes by looking for you." He pantomimed her thwacking of the building with one of his hands, then shook his head 'no' several times. Body language. The ultimate form of expression. Yeah, this would work. |
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It continued to speak to her, making a few gestures. Or at least, that was her assumption. For all intents and purposes it could have been complete nonsense, but it seemed to move with some sort of purpose. Koriand'r supposed that it was at least trying to communicate with her, indicating that it meant well. It mimicked her previous movement followed by shaking his head, and it then clicked: it was trying to get her to stop smashing against the stone. She didn't know why, of course, but she was pretty sure that's what he was referring to.
Despite the glow in her eyes fading, she remained airborne for a moment, deciding to inspect the Culacao (she honestly was doubting it was one, but she didn't know what else to call it). Putting herself inches away from it, she narrowed her eyes as she looked it over. The patterns were made with purpose and didn't seem natural, but its skin was strange. As she circled around it, she touched its shoulder lightly. It was metallic, but this certainly wasn't any metal she had ever seen before--or at least it seemed more inorganic. Puzzled, she touched both black and blue parts, bewildered as she tried to make sense of what she was looking at.
"Kroloten niteh?" She asked him, hands raised as she poked his chin.
Despite the glow in her eyes fading, she remained airborne for a moment, deciding to inspect the Culacao (she honestly was doubting it was one, but she didn't know what else to call it). Putting herself inches away from it, she narrowed her eyes as she looked it over. The patterns were made with purpose and didn't seem natural, but its skin was strange. As she circled around it, she touched its shoulder lightly. It was metallic, but this certainly wasn't any metal she had ever seen before--or at least it seemed more inorganic. Puzzled, she touched both black and blue parts, bewildered as she tried to make sense of what she was looking at.
"Kroloten niteh?" She asked him, hands raised as she poked his chin.
The Blue Beetle
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I S S U E #1: First Contact III L O C A T I O N Bayonne, New Jersey. 12:18 AM T A G S @Hero | Success! It wasn't often being the good at charades came in handy—frankly, this was the only time it had come in handy—but when it paid off, it paid off! There was still a level of tension in the air as the alien floated her way towards him, but she had stopped glowing, at least! That had to be good news. Glowing almost always meant lasers, and Jaime wasn't sure how laser-proof Mr. Kord's beetle robot was. <<Lifeform distance: close. Potential threat to host: unacceptable. Preparing to neutralize.>>Of course, Jaime was also not so sure how laser-proof this alien girl was. He might not have been entirely sure of what the scarab was capable of dishing out, but he knew one thing for sure—it wasn't lying. "We aren't neutralizing her. Maybe she's just... curious." He muttered through gritted teeth as the orange-skinned visitor seemed to circle around him. <<External investigation: equally unacceptable. Information exchange jeopardizes mission. Neutralization protocols required.>>"I said we—you are not hurting her. This is my body. You're just the tag along." He could feel the scarab tugging at his body from within; like it wanted him to move against his will, to do something bad. But it couldn't quite force it. It couldn't take control. <<Host: Unacceptably belligerent. Lifeform has made contact. Action required. Deploying neural shredder.>>"You're not deploying anything! I will put you away-" It was in that hurried whisper that Jaime realized something. He could put the scarab away. Then he wouldn't have to worry about it hurting anyone! Sure, it would leave him vulnerable, but a good Captain took risks! By the time the scarab had so much as caused a crackle to flicker between its mandibles, Jaime had locked it in a battle of wills. Go back in, go back in, go back in, go back in, go back INNAAAHH. He had forgotten, in that moment, how much it hurt to have the creepy crawling burrow its way back into his spine—he had thrown up the first couple of times. But he couldn't do that now, had to represent Earth. Had to bear it. As the metallic plating miraculous began to miniaturize and collapse inwards on itself, Jaime Reyes gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes, feeling the armor shrinking down until it all be disappeared between his shoulder blades with a sickening pop, the scarab going with it. The chill of wintry air that replaced the comfort of his armor shook him from the white hot pain, and he peeled his eyes open to peer at the alien without the benefit of a lens. The flying, glowy alien who had been pulverizing brick just a few minutes ago, and had apparently been poking at his chin while he muttered to himself like a crazy man. "I... Uh... Penny for your thoughts?" Maybe this was a bad idea. |
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It continued to speak, but at this point Koriand'r wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to say. If it was even talking to her--it wasn't like he was making eye contact, so she had no real way of knowing. If she was able to get in contact with what was under its shell, she was certain she could learn its language, but there didn't seem to be any openings. His entire body seemed to have been made of that strange metal--if it even was metal, it could be some sort of material natural to this habitat. Or this was its skin and was simply how beings of this planet were?
As it closed its eyes and looked like it was struggling, she let out a gasp as it...shed its skin? Is that what was happening? She could only assume so, and it did it rather quickly! Her jaw dropped as she circled him once more. It was like he was a completely different being! How very strange! Perhaps it was akin to a defensive armor that appeared for threats? The Glorgnots of her planet had been the same, though they were much squishier under their shells. He must have deduced that she was not a threat and chose to shed the metallic skin. Fascinating, she had no idea there were creatures like this in the galaxy.
In a way, they looked more alike now, albeit his eyes were much different than hers. Her fingertips brushed up against his forehead, and she couldn't help but note how soft it was compared to before. It--He, he looked much more like the males of her planet--shivered, adding credence to her theory. Looking him up and down, Koriand'r hovered in front of his face, getting much closer than before. She had to admit she liked this form much better than the other one. In all her staring, she realized that his skin was organic! This was exactly what she needed!
Koriand'r's eyes lit up at the realization, letting out a small squee of delight. Landing on the ground, she took a hold of his shirt, pulling him towards her as she kissed him. To her surprise, it took a little longer than expected to assimilate the language. When she finally parted, it took her a moment to realize what had happened.
"Espera...¿dos idiomas?" Koriander spoke slowly as the realization dawned on her. "What a talented tongue to have more than one language. No me esperaba esto, pero...thank you, Blue One." She paused as she realized she was mixing the two up. Interesting, she wondered what sort of planet had two languages. Maybe there were different tribes?
Remembering her manners, Starfire put on a smile. "Forgive the damage to your home, you see, I was trying to get out of these," She lifted her hands, dropping them shortly after. "If there is something sturdier that I may have better luck destroying them on, do tell. I am eager for complete freedom."
As it closed its eyes and looked like it was struggling, she let out a gasp as it...shed its skin? Is that what was happening? She could only assume so, and it did it rather quickly! Her jaw dropped as she circled him once more. It was like he was a completely different being! How very strange! Perhaps it was akin to a defensive armor that appeared for threats? The Glorgnots of her planet had been the same, though they were much squishier under their shells. He must have deduced that she was not a threat and chose to shed the metallic skin. Fascinating, she had no idea there were creatures like this in the galaxy.
In a way, they looked more alike now, albeit his eyes were much different than hers. Her fingertips brushed up against his forehead, and she couldn't help but note how soft it was compared to before. It--He, he looked much more like the males of her planet--shivered, adding credence to her theory. Looking him up and down, Koriand'r hovered in front of his face, getting much closer than before. She had to admit she liked this form much better than the other one. In all her staring, she realized that his skin was organic! This was exactly what she needed!
Koriand'r's eyes lit up at the realization, letting out a small squee of delight. Landing on the ground, she took a hold of his shirt, pulling him towards her as she kissed him. To her surprise, it took a little longer than expected to assimilate the language. When she finally parted, it took her a moment to realize what had happened.
"Espera...¿dos idiomas?" Koriander spoke slowly as the realization dawned on her. "What a talented tongue to have more than one language. No me esperaba esto, pero...thank you, Blue One." She paused as she realized she was mixing the two up. Interesting, she wondered what sort of planet had two languages. Maybe there were different tribes?
Remembering her manners, Starfire put on a smile. "Forgive the damage to your home, you see, I was trying to get out of these," She lifted her hands, dropping them shortly after. "If there is something sturdier that I may have better luck destroying them on, do tell. I am eager for complete freedom."
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