"I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones." - Albert Einstein
"The supervillain known as Creon was killed this New Year's Eve during an attempt to initiate a mass human sacrifice of revelers in Downtown Gotham. Creon had used his sorcery to erect a barrier that cut off a large section of Gotham from the outside world, including members of our own reporter team. However the local JLU response team managed to bypass the barrier and went on to rescue the trapped Gothamites with minimal collateral damage. Creon was killed by the sharpshooter Deadeye when he took several innocents hostage in exchange for his escape. The only official word from the JLU was Superman himself delivering his condolences to the families of those who perished during Creon's attack. Experts believe Deadeye will be fully vindicated by the formal GCPD inquiry. Experts also observe that Deadeye AKA Zoe Lawton, heir to the Lawton fortune, is part of a growing number of Leaguers who are forgoing both secret identities and the so called 'no-kill rule' of the superhero community." - Summer Gleeson, Gotham Insider, WGBS
Wesley Dodds, the man once called Sandman, was alone.
It was an unusual state of things for the former superhero, who had fought besides the likes of Dinah Drake and Ted Grant when he was a young man. Out of the oppressive, paranoia-laced era of the Cold War and the cynicism and apathy of the early 21st century, Wesley had found friends. Family.
But now as the Second Cold War raged in the shadows and the threat of mutually assured destruction once again loomed over all, Wesley was alone. Wes, an old man now, was normally always either in the company of his adopted son Sandy and his family or that of his former teammates, especially so on days such as this. Despite the ongoing hostilities between the Justice League and Legion of Doom, there was always an unstated truce around this time of year. The Legionnaires had their own families and very few villains ran amok as Christmas passed and the world prepared to welcome the New Year. Even now, the majority of the Justice League would be gathered in Astrapolis, the city in the sky with the Watchtower at its core. Leaguers on duty would be congregating at their local Halls of Justice.
They'd all be gathering on their balconies or around the screens, ready to start counting down and cry out in one jubilant voice. They'd laugh, they'd smile, they'd hold each other and kiss. In minutes, magnificent displays of magic and technology would light the night and unite humanity in one bright, shining moment. Wes wished he could have seen it one last time.
Because he was going to die.
Ever since he was a young man, Wes' dreams were different than others. They came true. The message was usually obscured by bizarre images and surreal sounds, closer to nightmares than true dreams. But as he grew older, Wes came to realize they were portents of things to come, of the possibilities that fate laid before him. And the more clear one vision was, the more certain.
The night after Christmas Day, Wes had seen it clearly. He would not long outlive the old year. Wes had long become accustomed to the idea of death. He was over 80 years old, and though his metagene made him biologically closer to 50, he had no illusions about immortality. As Sandman he had brushed alongside Death too many times to count. And ever since Dian had died, despite the joy he took in his grandchildren and the young heroes-to-be he helped teach, life had lost its luster. In some ways, Death was just as old a friend as Jay or Alan or Dinah had ever been. He wasn't afraid of it.
It wasn't his own mortality that caused him to wake with a cold sweat the morning after Christmas Day. It wasn't the prospect of reuniting with comrades long gone or his beloved that sapped the smile from his face. It wasn't his imminent entrance into the Heaven he wholeheartedly believed in that drained his vitality, making him look like the weary old man he was. He wasn't unwilling to show his face to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren because he knew he was going to die.
Instead it was because of the other visions he saw. The nightmares that had robbed him of sleep and driven him into desperation until here he was in this moment, resigned to his fate.
He didn't know when death would come, only that it would come soon. He had done all he could, the rest was up to the others. All he had to do was wait.
He didn't have to wait long.
Wesley Dodds was sitting in his favorite armchair in the dark clad in his leather coat, pants, and boots when death came for him.
One moment there was nobody else there, one moment later, a figure seemed to manifest itself from the shadows, their features still obscured in the dark.
Wes stared defiantly at his killer before he said, "If you're gonna do it. Do it like a man. Face to face."
The figure paused before coming into the light, their face bare for Wes to see, "I suppose it's only fair. And there is little use in hiding from a dead man."
Wes snorted, "Of all the enemies I've made, the people who'd want me dead, you're the one who comes calling. Well, you're forgetting one thing."
"I'm not dead yet."
Sandman pressed a hidden button beneath his hand and yellow gas sprung from hidden nozzles to begin filling the loft. He dove off of the chair, slipping on his gas mask and drawing his gun.
He rolled into a crouch, ready to empty the clip of caseless high-explosive incendiary armor-piercing rounds into the target's chest. The whole motion had taken less than two seconds. But the assailant had disappeared in the haze of gas. Sandman scanned the room, his breathing calm and his heartbeat steady as he put his back to the wall and began steadily advancing to the door. He knew that the silent alarms would be cut. A jammer would scramble any attempts to call the outside world. But if he could reach the door...
Something stirred in his peripheral vision and Sandman wheeled around, gun at the ready. A strong hand shoved the gun barrel away, wrestling with Sandman for control of the weapon as a heavy kick shot out at his knee. Sandman rebounded the strike off of his thigh and lashed out with his own punch to the assailant's midsection. He may have been old, but Sandman had trained at melee combat ever since he was a teen all the way to now. He could pack one hell of a punch. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain and Sandman used the momentary leverage to wrest the gun from his opponent's grip. But not before the assassin managed to release the pistol's magazine in the scuffle and dodged to the side.
The old hero tracked the target and fired off a shot as the assassin tried to seek cover behind a wall. The shot struck the side of the target's helmet with a spark but the figure kept going. A graze. But enough to pierce the armor and expose the bastard to the gas. Sandman was empty and he swiftly turned to run once more for the door.
As he ran, the hair stood up on the back of his neck and he instinctively rolled to the side. The assassin had leaped through the air at his back and come up into a crouch into a fighting stance. Sandman knew they must have been holding their breath or else patched up the helmet quickly, it was hard to tell in the shadows. He was backed into a corner, facing either success or death. That was fine by him. That was way a hero fought. He came at his opponent a kick towards his neck. The assassin fluidly blocked Sandman's foot and Sandman twisted, kicking up at their head. The assassin dodged under the foot and caught Sandman's other kick aimed toward their chest, was driven back a few inches by the kick. The assassin was fast, Sandman would give them that. And strong.
Sandman pushed off of the assassin's chest with his foot and came back up into a boxing stance, the assassin already advancing with their own fists raised. Sandman dodged the first punch, barely, and struck out with his own fist. The attacker blocked and they traded blows and strikes for what could have been an eternity but was really only a few intense seconds. The assassin was quicker than him, stronger. And Wes was getting old. He took hits to the shoulder, the side, the thigh, always managing to deflect a hit aimed at a more critical area. But it was taking his toll on him and Sandman knew he was out of his league.
But that didn't mean he was going to give up. Instead of dodging or blocking the next punch, Sandman took it right in the stomach. He had been expecting it, had steeled himself. But it still drove the wind out of him. And yet in that moment he was able to clock the would-be killer right in the armored face. There was a crack of a visor and Sandman smiled beneath his gas mask even as his own hand throbbed in pain. He felt like a young man again even as he doubled over. Then the assassin came back and drove their elbow into his back. Sandman was driven to the floor, a boot pressing on him even as he twisted his head back.
The assassin covered the crack in their visor with one gloved hand. There was a spark and the helmet was made whole once more.
"You don't deserve to die like this. But at least you won't see what comes next."
They reached down and tore the gas mask from Wesley's head. He didn't bother to hold his breath. This gas, his last batch, was his most deadly. It was designed to let someone drift off into a deep sleep that they would never wake from. It was better than the alternatives.
As the blackness started to take him Wesley saw the most beautiful visions he had ever witnessed. Wonderful sights that he couldn't have even imagined. Visions of paradise. Peace and tranquility. He saw his wife, framed by bright lights and panoramas of color.
And so Wesley Dodds died with a smile on his face.
The city was on fire.
As far as the eye could see Bangkok burned. The pauper's shacks, the salaryman's arcology apartments, and the aristocrat's penthouses were all alight. The air was heavy with the scent of gunpowder, blood, urine, feces, and burning flesh. The screams and shrieks of civilians were drowned out by the sound of heavy artillery and the occasional thunder of an explosion. Tanks rumbled down the street, mobs of rioters overturned police cars and dragged screaming fat cats from their homes.
Though it was night-time Argonaut had no trouble seeing the hundreds, thousands of bodies in the streets, many of them being gnawed on by dogs or pecked at by carrion birds, as he flew overhead. A VTOL spotted him and wheeled towards him to intercept but was quickly taken out by a rocket somewhere down in the city below. Argonaut didn't even watch as the aircraft crashed into a hospital, blowing everything and everyone in the immediate vicinity apart.
It had taken nearly the whole day, but Bangkok had almost fallen. It was the work of years of subtle manipulation, though only several months on Argonaut's own part. Flooding the Thai black market with cheap weapons. Sowing the seeds of discontent in the military junta and rebellion in the common populace against their King and the aristocracy. The armistice prevented any nation of the Shiruta Pact from making an aggressive attack on another signatory of the agreement. But technically the Thai people were ripping their own country apart in the bloodiest civil war in their history. Argonaut had simply helped give them the means and motivation and on paper, the Shiruta Pact had nothing to do with the actions the rogue Legion of Doom.
They had attacked in the morning, as the city luxuriated in the afterglow of the New Year's festivities. They had softened them up first with bombings in the coast guard barracks, the police stations, city hall. Then they attacked with the rebel and mercenary army, aircraft quickly streaming into the city as ground forces surrounded Bangkok and systematically moved in. More troops spilled out of cargo ships in the harbor, smuggled in with their weapons. The Legionary strike team had attacked from above, villains either flying in or dropping from a cargo flyer, some of them without parachutes. They had wreaked bloody havoc upon the military police, sowing chaos, confusion, and carnage wherever they went. The Junta hadn't stood a chance. Neither did many of the civilians that were caught in between.
Argonaut watched as the mercenary army Sin Tzu had helped train overpowered the Junta forces, unused as they were to real resistance. He chuckled as the Legionaries, a force of metahumans and maniacs, ripped their way through the city. They had been told to leave the civilians be, but they weren't always the best at listening. Argonaut saw one pryokinetic summon a firestorm in a crowded plaza, burning several tanks and countless soldiers to a crisp while also setting all the shops alight. That wasn't much Argonaut's concern. Their job was to conquer the nation. What came afterward was of little importance to him. That was Sin Tzu's problem.
Argonaut keyed the radio, about to speak, until the Junta-controlled aircraft carrier in the bay was hit by a massive tidal wave, an immense wall of water that overturned the warship and sent it crashing into the harbor. The flash flood drowned hundreds immediately, overrunning much of the harbor district as the city proper still burned. The destroyed carrier and its escort flotilla destroyed even more, until finally the wave receded. The Junta had called in the battle group for reinforcements but it seemed as if the Legion's rebel Atlantean friends had seen to that. Argonaut waited for the titanic spectacle and ungodly clamor to die down before finally keying the radio again. He wondered if this was what E-Day had been like.
"All points this is Argonaut. Sin Tzu's army is taking care of the regulars. The city is ours. All that's left is to get rid of the General. Dead or alive, I don't care, once he's taken care of the rest of them will surrender easily."
The airspace around the parliamentary building was swarming with VTOLs and jets strafing each other with missiles and machine guns, rebels versus the junta. A cordon of tanks and APCs, machine gun nests everywhere, was trading fire with a battalion of rebels. Parliament swarmed with guards, setting up with sniper positions and rocket launchers to fight for every inch of ground. The briefing had called for a coordinated assault but they didn't yet have a firm target and Argonaut had his doubts that the team would stick to a tactical plan if he made one. They were having too much fun.
"Eliminate all threats with extreme prejudice. First one to breach that underground safe room gets a bonus. I'll have a location for you all in a minute."
Argonaut dove and started blasting the armored column with his solar projectors, burning through the metal armor of a tank and cooking the soldiers within inside of a few moments. He moved on, his shoulder ejecting a barrage of guided mini-missiles, strong and smart enough to pierce armor and kill the drivers or disable the weapon weapons. Ten seconds after he arrived, a quarter of the column was gone. Argonaut dove down, crumpling the barrel of a tank gun in his armored hands and ripping off the main turret after a few seconds, throwing it to crash into a nearby APC. He kept shooting, using the superior mobility of his boosters and the element of shock to its full advantage.
One of their half-trained metahuman soldiers tried to shoot a lightning bolt at him but Argonaut dodged before the meta could let loose. The meta's chest was lanced through by a concentrated energy beam, leaving his chest cavity a smoking crater. Argonaut took cover behind a downed tank and ripped through its chassis, the lone survivor inside wildly shot at him. Anything that actually connected was shrugged off by the armor plating. Argonaut casually stepped inside the tank and drove his fist through the man's head. He reached a hand out to the tank's control panel and after a few seconds, Argonaut had broken through the encryption.
The Junta's local comms were now open to him and he began scanning the signals, looking for the target. After several moments of analyzing radio chatter, as the rebels continued to fight the armored column around him, Argonaut found the location. The safe room was hidden deep underground the Parliament building, accessible only by an elevator in the heart of the complex, past all the guard teams inside a building that was sure to be filled with more guards as well as auto-turrets and other defenses. Easy.
"Marking the location of the safe house. Uploading blueprints of the building including defense emplacements to all your HUDs. Get me that General. Argonaut out."
Argonaut stepped out of the tank and dove back into the violence, killing as casually as if he were mowing the lawn. He wondered when the Council would give him a challenge.
Vigilante walked down the yellow center line of Main Street, gloved hands brushing against the grips of his revolvers. "Bloodsport!" he yelled to the man standing in the street ahead of him. "I done told you you had 24 hours to leave town. That was 24 hours and 30 minutes ago. Your options are to turn around and walk away or fill your hand. I don't much care which."
He looked up, reassured himself that his Rough Bunch was on the case. Normally Cinnamon and Nighthawk would be invisible once they had assumed their positions, but years of working with them had trained him on what to look for. Vig nodded, knowing they had their Winchesters trained on Bloodsport in case he screwed this up. Somewhere behind him was Madame .44, somewhere behind Bloodsport was the Whip. Bloodsport was corralled, now all that was left to do was finish him.
Bloodsport merely laughed at the ultimatum. Standing in the middle of the road himself, he met Vigilante's stare dead on. "I told you, wannabe, I ain't going nowhere. Warpath is mine. You get out of the way, the Legion might just let you and your rodeo clowns live." The hot noon sun beat down on the two of them, sending rivers of sweat pouring from Bloodsport's bare arms. Vigilante, used to the desert heat, hardly seemed to notice.
"I don't want to kill you and you don't want to be dead," Vigilante yelled back to Bloodsport. He saw where this was going, planted his boots on the softening asphalt. "But this town ain't big enough for the two of us, and it sure as hell ain't big enough for the drugs you're bringing across the border." Vig's fingers twitched, hovering inches above his twin revolvers.
Bloodsport saw the movement and laughed. "What are you packing, cowboy? A couple of .45s? You know what I got here?" The Legionnaire patted the futuristic device strapped to his leg- Vig could faintly make out a soft humming coming from it. "An AmerTek Toastmaster BG-88. Directed plasma pulse with a fusion energy core. A single shot from one of these babies could knock Superman off his feet. What do you think it's going to do to you?" Bloodsport wiped sweat off his chin. "They're going to have to scrape you off this street with a spatula. You want to be fried, scrambled, or sunny-side up?"
Vigilante shrugged. "Well, then, that doesn't sound so good for me. Guess I ought to stand down, right?"
Bloodsport nodded. "Now you're talking sense."
Vigilante made a show of pondering the suggestion. He noted that Bloodsport's mask was beginning to become damp with sweat. The noon heat was getting to the other man, he was blinking more to keep it out of his eyes. Now was the time.
Vigilante shrugged, then said one word.
"Draw."
Bloodsport, sweat dripping from his lashes, reached for the Toastmaster strapped to his leg, but then cringed as it was torn away from its leg holster and sent clattering down the blacktop, just as the roar of Vigilante's revolver reached his ear. He hadn't even seen Vigilante's hand move- he had drawn in the space of one of his involuntary blinks. Gasping, he turned and reached for the Toastmaster where it had landed, tantalizingly close, but gunshots rang out from nearby rooftops- Cinnamon and Nighthawk were doing their jobs well. Asphalt went flying, between Bloodsport's outstretched fingers and the gun on the pavement. He spun to see Vigilante unhurriedly advancing on him, pistol twirling jauntily on his fingers.
Bloodsport drew the 12-inch Bowie knife he kept on his other hip, a masterpiece of metallurgy, a steel blade sharpened to an edge that could cut paper. "You come a step closer and I'll cut out your heart!" he yelled to Vigilante.
Another blurred motion of Vig's hand, another gunshot, a jerk at his wrist. Bloodsport gaped at the broken knife in his hand, then dropped the useless handle. He turned, ready to run, but suddenly felt a tough hemp rope around him, securely pinning his arms to his torso. Bloodsport knew it was hopeless and sagged to the ground in defeat, as much as he could against the taut rope. He knew snipers were trained on him and Vigilante was approaching.
"Mighty hot day," Vigilante said conversationally. "Keeps up like this you could fry up an egg on the sidewalk. Just like you were talking about doing to me." He yanked on his lariat, sending Bloodsport tumbling to the ground. "Now, I might be an egg, but someone's gotta be the meat in this here dish, right?" He looked over Bloodsport's muscular frame. "Well, you're a pretty meaty guy, guess that's you. Now, I'm a generous fellow, so I'll let you choose what kind of meat you want to be, Bloodsport." Vig leaned down close, right into the Legionnaire's face. "You want to be a steak or a pork chop, Bloodsport? It's up to you."
"What?" Bloodsport gasped in confusion.
"Well, I got some questions for you, partner. Like namely the source of all them drugs you've been running up from south of the border. Like a good cut of meat, you would say I'm grilling you. And well, once you're done grilling a steak it 's bleeding pretty good. But if you do a pork chop right there's no blood at all. So what's it gonna be, Bloodsport? You want to be a steak or a pork chop?" He cocked his pistol, twirled it slowly.
Bloodsport shook his head. "I want to be a pork chop."
"Wise man. Start talking."
They waited for nightfall to cloak the desert. They hadn't had as much time to plan as Perseus would have liked, but they had to act on Vigilante's intel as quickly as possible. If Bloodsport had been telling the truth during his interrogation, and there was little doubt he was thanks to the Martian Manhunter, then they were on the verge of busting one of the biggest illegal Miralco labs in North America. The drug was made illegal after both Rex Tyler, the creator and original Hourman, and his son and successor Rick had grown addicted to the drug. Indeed it was the current Hourman, the metahuman grandson of Rex Tyler, who had advocated for Miralco Prohibition. Unfortunately, the formula had leaked long ago and in recent years chemically-enhanced mercenaries and criminals had been using the drug for their own purposes.
If Bloodsport was to be believed, the lab was even experimenting on civilians to alter and improve the original formula. The lab had only been in operation for little over half a year, but already hundreds of innocent people had been killed or maimed because of the Legion's experiments. Waiting longer to prepare a more in-depth strategy would have left more people to the mercy of the Legion, and that was simply unacceptable. They had taken the time necessary to inform the Mexican government of the mission and seek permission for it, outfit a strike team, and transport the selected Leaguers from the Watchtower to the Albuquerque Hall of Justice before proceeding to the mission site by Javelin. Vigilante, who provided the intelligence, met them in Albuquerque before joining the team. Most of the Leaguers had been unavailable due to holiday leave or prior assignments, so the team slated to seize the Miralco lab consisted of a very disparate group of heroes from several different regional operational areas.
Five minutes out the Justice Leaguers had disembarked from the Javelin and moved in to approach on foot, using the terrain and the quick descent of darkness to cover their advance. The lab appeared to be nothing more than a farmer's shack in the middle of the desert, but it commanded the approach on all sides from its position atop a steep hill. A quick scan of the area had revealed that the laboratory complex extended far beneath the lab into the hill and the underground, though shielding prevented the scanners from providing any more detail on the interior of the lab. For all they knew, the Legion could have had a whole company of heavily-armed enforcers in the bowels within. Even Bloodsport didn't know everything there was to know about the lab, only having visited on occasion. He acknowledged that there could be hidden defenses he knew nothing about. But the League couldn't afford the luxury of back-up from the Federal Police or the military. That would have cost too much time and alerted the Legion to their approach besides.
The only support the JLU team would have was a squad of Albuquerque Hall Peacekeepers. The Peacekeepers were clad in desert-pattern camo armor plate with similarly marked weapons. Perseus didn't often use Peacekeepers in missions, but with the lack of intelligence to the enemy's capabilities, their firepower might come in handy. Even if it rankled the more restrained sensibilities of other Leaguers. Perseus finished scanning the shack with his visor. There was a small fire-team of guards, three men and one woman dressed in civilian clothes with automatic weapons. He picked up several sensors and cameras, as well as signatures that could indicate security mechs waiting to be activated in case of a breach. The sensor picked up what might have been mines as well. If they weren't careful the mission could turn into a loud brawl, and their job would only get harder.
Perseus crawled back to where the rest of the team was, hidden from view of the house behind a nearby low-lying hill among a clump of large stones and scrubby trees. Bloodsport himself was placed in handcuffs with a Peacekeeper keeping watch over him. Perseus talked in a low whisper, "Two foot mobiles on patrol, two more on overwatch. The approach is mined and several mechs are inactive, waiting for an alarm. I detect several sensors and cameras. If we get bogged down in a stand-up fight, we might lose the intel in that lab and the villains might be able to escape. We need to infiltrate the lab quickly, but quietly."
Perseus turned to Toxin, the mutant, "Toxin, I need you to move in. I'll mark the locations of the mines on your HUD as well as the tangos. You need to get in close and implant the security scrambler to one of the devices on the security network." Perseus handed the thumb-drive sized device to his teammate, "It'll put the security footage on a loop and disable the sensors. Then our marksmen can take out the guards and we can move in. We'll take the elevator down to the lab and sweep the facility. Bloodsport will give us directions. Check your fire for civilians and noncombatants and preserve the scene as much as possible. Capture the local Legionaries if possible. Understood?"
Perseus looked each of his teammates in the eye, confirming they were all on the same page before nodding, "Let's get to work."
"The supervillain known as Creon was killed this New Year's Eve during an attempt to initiate a mass human sacrifice of revelers in Downtown Gotham. Creon had used his sorcery to erect a barrier that cut off a large section of Gotham from the outside world, including members of our own reporter team. However the local JLU response team managed to bypass the barrier and went on to rescue the trapped Gothamites with minimal collateral damage. Creon was killed by the sharpshooter Deadeye when he took several innocents hostage in exchange for his escape. The only official word from the JLU was Superman himself delivering his condolences to the families of those who perished during Creon's attack. Experts believe Deadeye will be fully vindicated by the formal GCPD inquiry. Experts also observe that Deadeye AKA Zoe Lawton, heir to the Lawton fortune, is part of a growing number of Leaguers who are forgoing both secret identities and the so called 'no-kill rule' of the superhero community." - Summer Gleeson, Gotham Insider, WGBS
THE PROPHET
Manhattan, New York City
December 31st, 2051 | 11:57pm | Manhattan
Wesley Dodds, the man once called Sandman, was alone.
It was an unusual state of things for the former superhero, who had fought besides the likes of Dinah Drake and Ted Grant when he was a young man. Out of the oppressive, paranoia-laced era of the Cold War and the cynicism and apathy of the early 21st century, Wesley had found friends. Family.
But now as the Second Cold War raged in the shadows and the threat of mutually assured destruction once again loomed over all, Wesley was alone. Wes, an old man now, was normally always either in the company of his adopted son Sandy and his family or that of his former teammates, especially so on days such as this. Despite the ongoing hostilities between the Justice League and Legion of Doom, there was always an unstated truce around this time of year. The Legionnaires had their own families and very few villains ran amok as Christmas passed and the world prepared to welcome the New Year. Even now, the majority of the Justice League would be gathered in Astrapolis, the city in the sky with the Watchtower at its core. Leaguers on duty would be congregating at their local Halls of Justice.
They'd all be gathering on their balconies or around the screens, ready to start counting down and cry out in one jubilant voice. They'd laugh, they'd smile, they'd hold each other and kiss. In minutes, magnificent displays of magic and technology would light the night and unite humanity in one bright, shining moment. Wes wished he could have seen it one last time.
Because he was going to die.
Ever since he was a young man, Wes' dreams were different than others. They came true. The message was usually obscured by bizarre images and surreal sounds, closer to nightmares than true dreams. But as he grew older, Wes came to realize they were portents of things to come, of the possibilities that fate laid before him. And the more clear one vision was, the more certain.
The night after Christmas Day, Wes had seen it clearly. He would not long outlive the old year. Wes had long become accustomed to the idea of death. He was over 80 years old, and though his metagene made him biologically closer to 50, he had no illusions about immortality. As Sandman he had brushed alongside Death too many times to count. And ever since Dian had died, despite the joy he took in his grandchildren and the young heroes-to-be he helped teach, life had lost its luster. In some ways, Death was just as old a friend as Jay or Alan or Dinah had ever been. He wasn't afraid of it.
It wasn't his own mortality that caused him to wake with a cold sweat the morning after Christmas Day. It wasn't the prospect of reuniting with comrades long gone or his beloved that sapped the smile from his face. It wasn't his imminent entrance into the Heaven he wholeheartedly believed in that drained his vitality, making him look like the weary old man he was. He wasn't unwilling to show his face to his grandchildren and great-grandchildren because he knew he was going to die.
Instead it was because of the other visions he saw. The nightmares that had robbed him of sleep and driven him into desperation until here he was in this moment, resigned to his fate.
He didn't know when death would come, only that it would come soon. He had done all he could, the rest was up to the others. All he had to do was wait.
He didn't have to wait long.
Wesley Dodds was sitting in his favorite armchair in the dark clad in his leather coat, pants, and boots when death came for him.
One moment there was nobody else there, one moment later, a figure seemed to manifest itself from the shadows, their features still obscured in the dark.
Wes stared defiantly at his killer before he said, "If you're gonna do it. Do it like a man. Face to face."
The figure paused before coming into the light, their face bare for Wes to see, "I suppose it's only fair. And there is little use in hiding from a dead man."
Wes snorted, "Of all the enemies I've made, the people who'd want me dead, you're the one who comes calling. Well, you're forgetting one thing."
"I'm not dead yet."
Sandman pressed a hidden button beneath his hand and yellow gas sprung from hidden nozzles to begin filling the loft. He dove off of the chair, slipping on his gas mask and drawing his gun.
He rolled into a crouch, ready to empty the clip of caseless high-explosive incendiary armor-piercing rounds into the target's chest. The whole motion had taken less than two seconds. But the assailant had disappeared in the haze of gas. Sandman scanned the room, his breathing calm and his heartbeat steady as he put his back to the wall and began steadily advancing to the door. He knew that the silent alarms would be cut. A jammer would scramble any attempts to call the outside world. But if he could reach the door...
Something stirred in his peripheral vision and Sandman wheeled around, gun at the ready. A strong hand shoved the gun barrel away, wrestling with Sandman for control of the weapon as a heavy kick shot out at his knee. Sandman rebounded the strike off of his thigh and lashed out with his own punch to the assailant's midsection. He may have been old, but Sandman had trained at melee combat ever since he was a teen all the way to now. He could pack one hell of a punch. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain and Sandman used the momentary leverage to wrest the gun from his opponent's grip. But not before the assassin managed to release the pistol's magazine in the scuffle and dodged to the side.
The old hero tracked the target and fired off a shot as the assassin tried to seek cover behind a wall. The shot struck the side of the target's helmet with a spark but the figure kept going. A graze. But enough to pierce the armor and expose the bastard to the gas. Sandman was empty and he swiftly turned to run once more for the door.
As he ran, the hair stood up on the back of his neck and he instinctively rolled to the side. The assassin had leaped through the air at his back and come up into a crouch into a fighting stance. Sandman knew they must have been holding their breath or else patched up the helmet quickly, it was hard to tell in the shadows. He was backed into a corner, facing either success or death. That was fine by him. That was way a hero fought. He came at his opponent a kick towards his neck. The assassin fluidly blocked Sandman's foot and Sandman twisted, kicking up at their head. The assassin dodged under the foot and caught Sandman's other kick aimed toward their chest, was driven back a few inches by the kick. The assassin was fast, Sandman would give them that. And strong.
Sandman pushed off of the assassin's chest with his foot and came back up into a boxing stance, the assassin already advancing with their own fists raised. Sandman dodged the first punch, barely, and struck out with his own fist. The attacker blocked and they traded blows and strikes for what could have been an eternity but was really only a few intense seconds. The assassin was quicker than him, stronger. And Wes was getting old. He took hits to the shoulder, the side, the thigh, always managing to deflect a hit aimed at a more critical area. But it was taking his toll on him and Sandman knew he was out of his league.
But that didn't mean he was going to give up. Instead of dodging or blocking the next punch, Sandman took it right in the stomach. He had been expecting it, had steeled himself. But it still drove the wind out of him. And yet in that moment he was able to clock the would-be killer right in the armored face. There was a crack of a visor and Sandman smiled beneath his gas mask even as his own hand throbbed in pain. He felt like a young man again even as he doubled over. Then the assassin came back and drove their elbow into his back. Sandman was driven to the floor, a boot pressing on him even as he twisted his head back.
The assassin covered the crack in their visor with one gloved hand. There was a spark and the helmet was made whole once more.
"You don't deserve to die like this. But at least you won't see what comes next."
They reached down and tore the gas mask from Wesley's head. He didn't bother to hold his breath. This gas, his last batch, was his most deadly. It was designed to let someone drift off into a deep sleep that they would never wake from. It was better than the alternatives.
As the blackness started to take him Wesley saw the most beautiful visions he had ever witnessed. Wonderful sights that he couldn't have even imagined. Visions of paradise. Peace and tranquility. He saw his wife, framed by bright lights and panoramas of color.
And so Wesley Dodds died with a smile on his face.
ARGONAUT
Bangkok, Thailand
January 1st, 2052 | 11:57 pm | Government House of Thailand
The city was on fire.
As far as the eye could see Bangkok burned. The pauper's shacks, the salaryman's arcology apartments, and the aristocrat's penthouses were all alight. The air was heavy with the scent of gunpowder, blood, urine, feces, and burning flesh. The screams and shrieks of civilians were drowned out by the sound of heavy artillery and the occasional thunder of an explosion. Tanks rumbled down the street, mobs of rioters overturned police cars and dragged screaming fat cats from their homes.
Though it was night-time Argonaut had no trouble seeing the hundreds, thousands of bodies in the streets, many of them being gnawed on by dogs or pecked at by carrion birds, as he flew overhead. A VTOL spotted him and wheeled towards him to intercept but was quickly taken out by a rocket somewhere down in the city below. Argonaut didn't even watch as the aircraft crashed into a hospital, blowing everything and everyone in the immediate vicinity apart.
It had taken nearly the whole day, but Bangkok had almost fallen. It was the work of years of subtle manipulation, though only several months on Argonaut's own part. Flooding the Thai black market with cheap weapons. Sowing the seeds of discontent in the military junta and rebellion in the common populace against their King and the aristocracy. The armistice prevented any nation of the Shiruta Pact from making an aggressive attack on another signatory of the agreement. But technically the Thai people were ripping their own country apart in the bloodiest civil war in their history. Argonaut had simply helped give them the means and motivation and on paper, the Shiruta Pact had nothing to do with the actions the rogue Legion of Doom.
They had attacked in the morning, as the city luxuriated in the afterglow of the New Year's festivities. They had softened them up first with bombings in the coast guard barracks, the police stations, city hall. Then they attacked with the rebel and mercenary army, aircraft quickly streaming into the city as ground forces surrounded Bangkok and systematically moved in. More troops spilled out of cargo ships in the harbor, smuggled in with their weapons. The Legionary strike team had attacked from above, villains either flying in or dropping from a cargo flyer, some of them without parachutes. They had wreaked bloody havoc upon the military police, sowing chaos, confusion, and carnage wherever they went. The Junta hadn't stood a chance. Neither did many of the civilians that were caught in between.
Argonaut watched as the mercenary army Sin Tzu had helped train overpowered the Junta forces, unused as they were to real resistance. He chuckled as the Legionaries, a force of metahumans and maniacs, ripped their way through the city. They had been told to leave the civilians be, but they weren't always the best at listening. Argonaut saw one pryokinetic summon a firestorm in a crowded plaza, burning several tanks and countless soldiers to a crisp while also setting all the shops alight. That wasn't much Argonaut's concern. Their job was to conquer the nation. What came afterward was of little importance to him. That was Sin Tzu's problem.
Argonaut keyed the radio, about to speak, until the Junta-controlled aircraft carrier in the bay was hit by a massive tidal wave, an immense wall of water that overturned the warship and sent it crashing into the harbor. The flash flood drowned hundreds immediately, overrunning much of the harbor district as the city proper still burned. The destroyed carrier and its escort flotilla destroyed even more, until finally the wave receded. The Junta had called in the battle group for reinforcements but it seemed as if the Legion's rebel Atlantean friends had seen to that. Argonaut waited for the titanic spectacle and ungodly clamor to die down before finally keying the radio again. He wondered if this was what E-Day had been like.
"All points this is Argonaut. Sin Tzu's army is taking care of the regulars. The city is ours. All that's left is to get rid of the General. Dead or alive, I don't care, once he's taken care of the rest of them will surrender easily."
The airspace around the parliamentary building was swarming with VTOLs and jets strafing each other with missiles and machine guns, rebels versus the junta. A cordon of tanks and APCs, machine gun nests everywhere, was trading fire with a battalion of rebels. Parliament swarmed with guards, setting up with sniper positions and rocket launchers to fight for every inch of ground. The briefing had called for a coordinated assault but they didn't yet have a firm target and Argonaut had his doubts that the team would stick to a tactical plan if he made one. They were having too much fun.
"Eliminate all threats with extreme prejudice. First one to breach that underground safe room gets a bonus. I'll have a location for you all in a minute."
Argonaut dove and started blasting the armored column with his solar projectors, burning through the metal armor of a tank and cooking the soldiers within inside of a few moments. He moved on, his shoulder ejecting a barrage of guided mini-missiles, strong and smart enough to pierce armor and kill the drivers or disable the weapon weapons. Ten seconds after he arrived, a quarter of the column was gone. Argonaut dove down, crumpling the barrel of a tank gun in his armored hands and ripping off the main turret after a few seconds, throwing it to crash into a nearby APC. He kept shooting, using the superior mobility of his boosters and the element of shock to its full advantage.
One of their half-trained metahuman soldiers tried to shoot a lightning bolt at him but Argonaut dodged before the meta could let loose. The meta's chest was lanced through by a concentrated energy beam, leaving his chest cavity a smoking crater. Argonaut took cover behind a downed tank and ripped through its chassis, the lone survivor inside wildly shot at him. Anything that actually connected was shrugged off by the armor plating. Argonaut casually stepped inside the tank and drove his fist through the man's head. He reached a hand out to the tank's control panel and after a few seconds, Argonaut had broken through the encryption.
The Junta's local comms were now open to him and he began scanning the signals, looking for the target. After several moments of analyzing radio chatter, as the rebels continued to fight the armored column around him, Argonaut found the location. The safe room was hidden deep underground the Parliament building, accessible only by an elevator in the heart of the complex, past all the guard teams inside a building that was sure to be filled with more guards as well as auto-turrets and other defenses. Easy.
"Marking the location of the safe house. Uploading blueprints of the building including defense emplacements to all your HUDs. Get me that General. Argonaut out."
Argonaut stepped out of the tank and dove back into the violence, killing as casually as if he were mowing the lawn. He wondered when the Council would give him a challenge.
VIGILANTE
Warpath, New Mexico
January 1st, 2052 | 12:00pm | Main Street | collab with @Polyphemus
Vigilante walked down the yellow center line of Main Street, gloved hands brushing against the grips of his revolvers. "Bloodsport!" he yelled to the man standing in the street ahead of him. "I done told you you had 24 hours to leave town. That was 24 hours and 30 minutes ago. Your options are to turn around and walk away or fill your hand. I don't much care which."
He looked up, reassured himself that his Rough Bunch was on the case. Normally Cinnamon and Nighthawk would be invisible once they had assumed their positions, but years of working with them had trained him on what to look for. Vig nodded, knowing they had their Winchesters trained on Bloodsport in case he screwed this up. Somewhere behind him was Madame .44, somewhere behind Bloodsport was the Whip. Bloodsport was corralled, now all that was left to do was finish him.
Bloodsport merely laughed at the ultimatum. Standing in the middle of the road himself, he met Vigilante's stare dead on. "I told you, wannabe, I ain't going nowhere. Warpath is mine. You get out of the way, the Legion might just let you and your rodeo clowns live." The hot noon sun beat down on the two of them, sending rivers of sweat pouring from Bloodsport's bare arms. Vigilante, used to the desert heat, hardly seemed to notice.
"I don't want to kill you and you don't want to be dead," Vigilante yelled back to Bloodsport. He saw where this was going, planted his boots on the softening asphalt. "But this town ain't big enough for the two of us, and it sure as hell ain't big enough for the drugs you're bringing across the border." Vig's fingers twitched, hovering inches above his twin revolvers.
Bloodsport saw the movement and laughed. "What are you packing, cowboy? A couple of .45s? You know what I got here?" The Legionnaire patted the futuristic device strapped to his leg- Vig could faintly make out a soft humming coming from it. "An AmerTek Toastmaster BG-88. Directed plasma pulse with a fusion energy core. A single shot from one of these babies could knock Superman off his feet. What do you think it's going to do to you?" Bloodsport wiped sweat off his chin. "They're going to have to scrape you off this street with a spatula. You want to be fried, scrambled, or sunny-side up?"
Vigilante shrugged. "Well, then, that doesn't sound so good for me. Guess I ought to stand down, right?"
Bloodsport nodded. "Now you're talking sense."
Vigilante made a show of pondering the suggestion. He noted that Bloodsport's mask was beginning to become damp with sweat. The noon heat was getting to the other man, he was blinking more to keep it out of his eyes. Now was the time.
Vigilante shrugged, then said one word.
"Draw."
Bloodsport, sweat dripping from his lashes, reached for the Toastmaster strapped to his leg, but then cringed as it was torn away from its leg holster and sent clattering down the blacktop, just as the roar of Vigilante's revolver reached his ear. He hadn't even seen Vigilante's hand move- he had drawn in the space of one of his involuntary blinks. Gasping, he turned and reached for the Toastmaster where it had landed, tantalizingly close, but gunshots rang out from nearby rooftops- Cinnamon and Nighthawk were doing their jobs well. Asphalt went flying, between Bloodsport's outstretched fingers and the gun on the pavement. He spun to see Vigilante unhurriedly advancing on him, pistol twirling jauntily on his fingers.
Bloodsport drew the 12-inch Bowie knife he kept on his other hip, a masterpiece of metallurgy, a steel blade sharpened to an edge that could cut paper. "You come a step closer and I'll cut out your heart!" he yelled to Vigilante.
Another blurred motion of Vig's hand, another gunshot, a jerk at his wrist. Bloodsport gaped at the broken knife in his hand, then dropped the useless handle. He turned, ready to run, but suddenly felt a tough hemp rope around him, securely pinning his arms to his torso. Bloodsport knew it was hopeless and sagged to the ground in defeat, as much as he could against the taut rope. He knew snipers were trained on him and Vigilante was approaching.
"Mighty hot day," Vigilante said conversationally. "Keeps up like this you could fry up an egg on the sidewalk. Just like you were talking about doing to me." He yanked on his lariat, sending Bloodsport tumbling to the ground. "Now, I might be an egg, but someone's gotta be the meat in this here dish, right?" He looked over Bloodsport's muscular frame. "Well, you're a pretty meaty guy, guess that's you. Now, I'm a generous fellow, so I'll let you choose what kind of meat you want to be, Bloodsport." Vig leaned down close, right into the Legionnaire's face. "You want to be a steak or a pork chop, Bloodsport? It's up to you."
"What?" Bloodsport gasped in confusion.
"Well, I got some questions for you, partner. Like namely the source of all them drugs you've been running up from south of the border. Like a good cut of meat, you would say I'm grilling you. And well, once you're done grilling a steak it 's bleeding pretty good. But if you do a pork chop right there's no blood at all. So what's it gonna be, Bloodsport? You want to be a steak or a pork chop?" He cocked his pistol, twirled it slowly.
Bloodsport shook his head. "I want to be a pork chop."
"Wise man. Start talking."
PERSEUS
Chihuahuan Desert, Mexico
January 1st, 2052 | 5:30pm | Miralco Lab
They waited for nightfall to cloak the desert. They hadn't had as much time to plan as Perseus would have liked, but they had to act on Vigilante's intel as quickly as possible. If Bloodsport had been telling the truth during his interrogation, and there was little doubt he was thanks to the Martian Manhunter, then they were on the verge of busting one of the biggest illegal Miralco labs in North America. The drug was made illegal after both Rex Tyler, the creator and original Hourman, and his son and successor Rick had grown addicted to the drug. Indeed it was the current Hourman, the metahuman grandson of Rex Tyler, who had advocated for Miralco Prohibition. Unfortunately, the formula had leaked long ago and in recent years chemically-enhanced mercenaries and criminals had been using the drug for their own purposes.
If Bloodsport was to be believed, the lab was even experimenting on civilians to alter and improve the original formula. The lab had only been in operation for little over half a year, but already hundreds of innocent people had been killed or maimed because of the Legion's experiments. Waiting longer to prepare a more in-depth strategy would have left more people to the mercy of the Legion, and that was simply unacceptable. They had taken the time necessary to inform the Mexican government of the mission and seek permission for it, outfit a strike team, and transport the selected Leaguers from the Watchtower to the Albuquerque Hall of Justice before proceeding to the mission site by Javelin. Vigilante, who provided the intelligence, met them in Albuquerque before joining the team. Most of the Leaguers had been unavailable due to holiday leave or prior assignments, so the team slated to seize the Miralco lab consisted of a very disparate group of heroes from several different regional operational areas.
Five minutes out the Justice Leaguers had disembarked from the Javelin and moved in to approach on foot, using the terrain and the quick descent of darkness to cover their advance. The lab appeared to be nothing more than a farmer's shack in the middle of the desert, but it commanded the approach on all sides from its position atop a steep hill. A quick scan of the area had revealed that the laboratory complex extended far beneath the lab into the hill and the underground, though shielding prevented the scanners from providing any more detail on the interior of the lab. For all they knew, the Legion could have had a whole company of heavily-armed enforcers in the bowels within. Even Bloodsport didn't know everything there was to know about the lab, only having visited on occasion. He acknowledged that there could be hidden defenses he knew nothing about. But the League couldn't afford the luxury of back-up from the Federal Police or the military. That would have cost too much time and alerted the Legion to their approach besides.
The only support the JLU team would have was a squad of Albuquerque Hall Peacekeepers. The Peacekeepers were clad in desert-pattern camo armor plate with similarly marked weapons. Perseus didn't often use Peacekeepers in missions, but with the lack of intelligence to the enemy's capabilities, their firepower might come in handy. Even if it rankled the more restrained sensibilities of other Leaguers. Perseus finished scanning the shack with his visor. There was a small fire-team of guards, three men and one woman dressed in civilian clothes with automatic weapons. He picked up several sensors and cameras, as well as signatures that could indicate security mechs waiting to be activated in case of a breach. The sensor picked up what might have been mines as well. If they weren't careful the mission could turn into a loud brawl, and their job would only get harder.
Perseus crawled back to where the rest of the team was, hidden from view of the house behind a nearby low-lying hill among a clump of large stones and scrubby trees. Bloodsport himself was placed in handcuffs with a Peacekeeper keeping watch over him. Perseus talked in a low whisper, "Two foot mobiles on patrol, two more on overwatch. The approach is mined and several mechs are inactive, waiting for an alarm. I detect several sensors and cameras. If we get bogged down in a stand-up fight, we might lose the intel in that lab and the villains might be able to escape. We need to infiltrate the lab quickly, but quietly."
Perseus turned to Toxin, the mutant, "Toxin, I need you to move in. I'll mark the locations of the mines on your HUD as well as the tangos. You need to get in close and implant the security scrambler to one of the devices on the security network." Perseus handed the thumb-drive sized device to his teammate, "It'll put the security footage on a loop and disable the sensors. Then our marksmen can take out the guards and we can move in. We'll take the elevator down to the lab and sweep the facility. Bloodsport will give us directions. Check your fire for civilians and noncombatants and preserve the scene as much as possible. Capture the local Legionaries if possible. Understood?"
Perseus looked each of his teammates in the eye, confirming they were all on the same page before nodding, "Let's get to work."
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