"The Old Guard"
Written by Mike Exner III
“I know this look,” a whispery voice said from a corner of Eric Williams’ office. He jumped, and the shimmering outline of a man appeared. It crossed the room towards him, and stopped in front of his desk. “You plan to clip this arrogant angel’s wings, no?”
“That’s the second time today someone has invaded my office,” Eric spat. “I don’t have much patience for it.”
“You also do not seem able to do much to prevent it, Williams, and I am not much in the habit of making appointments.”
“Well then,” Eric said, motioning behind the faded image of the man, “please, have a seat.” Williams reached under his desk and pulled a briefcase into view. He laid it flat on the desk, and unfastened the clasps. “Here is your payment, in cash, as you desired. You did an excellent job in New York.”
“For the amount you were paying, it was a great pleasure,” the man said. The shimmering image intensified, and Eric Williams was blinded for a moment. When he opened his eyes, the man was completely visible. He was balding, with thin white hair spilling over his ears. He wore a thick white beard and heavy sideburns, and they contrasted strangely with the brilliant red jumpsuit surrounding his powerfully built frame.
“It was hardly the challenge you made it out to be,” Ivan Kragoff, the man known as the Red Ghost said in his thick accent.
Eric Williams smiled. “And no one witnessed your liberation of the Griffin?”
“There were no witnesses,” the Red Ghost replied curtly, reaching for the money.
Eric snapped the briefcase shut. “A moment, Ivan. Before I allow you to leave with the money, I have one last task for you.”
“I do not perform tasks unless I am well compensated for them, Williams. I agreed to perform this unpleasant chore because my research requires an inordinate amount of currency, but I do not relish servitude.”
Eric smiled again, but there was no humor in it. “Ivan, I think you’ll find that this task is it’s own reward.”
“Thy intentions bewilder me, Dane Whitman,” Hercules said as the two heroes made their way through a dense copse of trees. The Champscraft stood on her landing gear, gleaming in the sun behind them. She’d be surrounded by onlookers soon enough, but the ship was locked up tight. “What purpose is served by journeying to New York’s Central Park?”
Dane looked back over his shoulder. “I know it sounds kind of funny, Herc, but this is the closest entry point I know of for accessing the… I guess you could call them the gates of Avalon.”
“’Tis most confounding,” Hercules muttered. “The isle of Great Britain seems a more reasonable entrance.”
“Yeah, well, there are places all over the world that act as gateways to Avalon, Herc,” Dane said as he dipped his head underneath a low branch. “There are a number of them in England, but I just don’t have the time to fly all that way. Despite my feelings toward Eric Williams, the guy was half-right, I feel a little guilty about leaving the team in the lurch like this. I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible, and this is the lone point of entry I’m aware of in America. I’ve used it a few times in the past.”
“’Twould seem to be nothing more than a path through the wood,” Hercules grumbled, batting gruffly at a branch clinging to his tunic. “A narrow path.”
“Oh, yeah? Well feast your eyes on that, Mr. Personable.” Dane pointed at the ground, and Hercules followed the gesture with his eyes. A thick mist had begun to form, slipping over the shoes of the two heroes as they plodded through the underbrush.
“We’re getting close,” Dane said. “I think these are the mists of the lake.”
“’Tis a bit wintry ‘pon my toes,” Hercules groused.
Dane laughed. “Shouldn’t a demigod be used to cold, misty weather? You live on a mountain most of the time, don’t ya? Besides, I warned you those sandals of yours weren’t exactly right for the climate.”
“Aye,” Hercules muttered, looking at the ground. Dane’s brow furrowed.
“Something wrong, big fella?”
“No, Dane Whitman,” Hercules intoned. “My mind doth wander habitually to my homeland. ‘Twas a time when I was nothing more than a pup, and the frigid snows surrounding her ancient gates chilled my very heart. I stood before her spires in wonder and awe…”
Hercules trailed off, his eyes boring holes into the ground at his feet. Dane shuffled his own feet, waiting for his friend to continue. Only hours ago Hercules had stood as Dane poured his own heart out over his inadequacies. He’d never expected Hercules to do the same. Hercules talked of Olympus often enough, but usually with boisterous verve, and more often than not only after you’d gotten a half-dozen beers into him. Dane had never known Hercules to mince words, and when the man had something to say, he just came right out and said it. But something was bothering the demigod, and it seemed to be something he was hesitant to speak about. Almost as if he were incapable of voicing it, as strange as that sounded.
Hercules took in a long breath, and when he lifted his chin Dane was sure he’d speak, reveal everything that was bothering him, but Hercules’ eyes widened, and Dane registered all at once the distinct sound of water lapping upon wooden planks. They’d arrived at Avalon.
“Zeus’ beard,” Hercules whispered. And Dane turned around.
The path had cleared, and before them was an embankment of the greenest grass either of them had ever seen. It shone bright and wet even through the mist that completely enveloped it. Beyond the emerald plain, a body of water stretched off into the distance, the water breaking gently on the grassy bank. A lone wooden barge sat idle in the chopping waters, and it knocked along the shore with the swell of the tide. The swirling ivory mist thickened the further out they peered, but there was still visible the towering, shaded outline of an island rising amidst the waters of the lake. A shrill beep sounded behind the two men, and they turned.
“Whitman, is thishhhhkkk… I think it is?” the voice of Eric Williams blared from the Eye in the Sky. “I’m only gettishhhkkk… muddled picture. Can you get any closeshhhkkk…”
Dane grinned. “You won’t be able to come any closer than that unfortunately, Williams. Avalon has a bit of an attitude when it comes to technology.”
“Whitman, you bastarshhhkkk…!” the camera wailed from the speakers jutting from the swell of its underside. The camera attempted to press forward, to pierce the veil of magic separating the shores of Avalon from the rest of the natural world. The camera shuddered, electricity sparking from its seams. The audio receptors burped, the Eye in the Sky sputtered, fell to the ground, and grew silent, completely inactive.
“Didst thou know that would occur?” Hercules said, eyeing Dane Whitman carefully.
Dane shrugged. “I suspected as much. The last time I visited Avalon, I had the misfortune of bringing my cell-phone along. Once I got back to the ‘real world’, the phone was fried. I had a hell of a time explaining it to my service provider.”
Dane and Hercules approached the shore. The Black Knight dropped to a knee and ran his hand over the prow of the smallish boat. “This vessel shouldn’t be abandoned. There should always be a boatman here to carry passengers to the other side.
“How any soul could hope to cross amidst such a haze is a wonder of itself,” Hercules said.
“Well,” Dane said, reaching down into the water. He straightened, a rope soaked through with water clutched in his hand. “The men who ferry visitors across have been doing it for years, so I’m sure they could do it with their eyes closed in a pinch, but most of the time they attach ropes like these,” Dane held the rope out to Hercules, and he took it, “to a docking point on the island.”
Hercules tugged faintly at the rope. “So we have to but merely pull ‘pon the rope, and cross at our leisure.”
“Exactly,” Dane said, clambering into the boat, and steadying it with his hands so Hercules could step in. He paddled at the water, and the boat turned slowly until the stem of the tiny vessel was pointed towards the hulking mass of the island.
“And now, my good man,” Dane said with a smile. “Mush.”
“Damn!” Eric Williams swore, pounding his fist against the blackened monitor before him. “We’ve completely lost the feed.”
“So that was the land of Avalon,” the Red Ghost said. “I have often thought on the matter of whether or not such a place truly exists. Magic is a hindrance to science, and yet--”
“Spare me your flights of the imagination, Kragoff,” Williams muttered. “Those cameras cost me millions. And I don’t even have any worthwhile footage to show for it. Whitman and that backwards excuse for a strongman had better collect the Eye on their way back or there’ll be hell to--”
“As pleasant as this conversation has become, Mr. Williams,” Ivan interrupted, “I must ask that we conclude our business now.”
Eric sighed. “Very well. I have one more request of you, Kragoff. I need a show. I need ratings. Whitman has stolen that from me, but in a pinch, I can’t think of a better draw than a good ol’ fashioned rumble between the old Champions and their newest incarnation.”
“And how on Earth do you hope to accomplish such a ridiculous spectacle?”
“Your monkeys. Did you bring them with you?”
Ivan Kragoff’s eyes narrowed. “They are not monkeys, Mr. Williams. They are apes. Super-apes.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Eric replied, his eyes rolling as he turned away. “Can your… ‘super-apes’ get to the Citadel before Worthington and his ridiculous band?”
“I am certain that they could.”
“Excellent,” Eric said, and turned back to the Red Ghost. “Then have them do it, Ivan.”
“What is your plan for when they arrive?”
“All in good time, Ivan,” Eric said as he crossed around his desk to stand in front of the large Russian. “But first… have you ever seen an American film called ‘Fight Club’?”
“I have not. Why is it that you ask?”
“Because, Ivan. I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”
“I can’t believe you dunked me,” Dane muttered sourly as he shook the remaining droplets from his fingers. Hercules was pulling them along the lake at a reasonably quick pace, the light wind created by their passing slipping over Dane’s features and chilling him to the bone. “As if the mist isn’t getting us wet enough already, now my clothes are saturated too.”
“The Prince of Power dost not mush, Dane Whitman,” Hercules said with a somber face. “Thou art fortunate I allowed thee to surface.”
Dane barked out a laugh, and shook his head. “It was just a little joke, Herc.”
Hercules stopped tugging at the rope and turned to face his friend. “Then mayhap thou wilt consider thy ‘dunking’ a joke as well.”
Hercules turned back to his task and gave the rope a strong pull. The boat lurched forward and Dane was thrown backward into the stern. He brought his hands back, folded them behind his head, and sighed. “Well, fine then. Be that way.”
“I shalt,” Hercules replied stubbornly. Dane smiled and stretched his hands over his head, allowing his fingers to drag through the water slipping past. The mists of the lake flooded the sky, turning the darkening blue sky a mottled gray. Dane closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to the first time he’d been ushered to Avalon by the Lady of the Lake.* He’d only just returned to Earth after having accompanied Sersi on a journey to another world, and they’d been separated on the return trip home. He’d embarked on that journey to help save Sersi’s sanity, and they’d grown close during their time together, but there hadn’t been a lot of contact in the time since. Dane had joined the defunct Heroes for Hire group, fought with Quicksilver over his lingering feelings for Crystal and was spurned by her, and then partook of brief stints with the Defenders and Avengers. And now he was a Champion, and only now was he struggling to make sense of everything that had happened to him.
[* It happened in Marvel’s Heroes For Hire Vol. 2, #1 – Mike]
“Dane Whitman…” Hercules said, and his voice sounded very small, not the booming tone of a demigod at all.
“Yeah, Herc?” Dane said, his fingers still etching paths through the water. The boat bumped something, but continued forward. That same something brushed along Dane’s hand. It felt a bit like a spongy rock covered with stringy seaweed.
The boat stopped moving. Hercules’ voice was as thin as air passing through reeds. “I prithee of thee, Dane Whitman. Cast open thy eyes.”
Dane did. And when he leaned up, his mouth fell open, he exhaled, all the wind knocked from him in a rush, and a strangled cry echoed out over the water. It took Dane a few moments to realize that the wail he heard had passed from his own lips.
Avalon was in ruin. Her towering spires were cracked and crumbling as they stretched up the hilly mountainside. Blood stained the ground, the water; fires blazed in isolated areas along the shoreline and through the forest, kept mildly in check by the stifling moisture in the air.
And there were corpses everywhere. The warriors of Avalon, the only men permitted on the island other than Merlin and those invited expressly by the Lady herself were scattered about the beach, torn asunder, their faces twisted in agony along with their bodies. But they were not the only ones forced to endure the barbaric attack. Dane’s eyes fell upon the priestesses that lay immobile beside the soldiers, their garments ripped, hair torn, bare hands and feet bloodied from their desperate struggles. And without desiring it, Dane felt his eyes drawn upon the legs of a select few of the priestesses, pried open, blood streaked down the insides of their thighs, violated; and then up to their throats, slashed to reveal wide, gaping wounds, and dried, dark, caked blood. Used and then cast aside, butchered like cattle.
And then Dane Whitman turned around, and looked down to where his fingers had been only instants before. And what he feared he would see was what he did see, for submerged in the crimson-tinged water of the lake was the body of one of the priestesses of Avalon. Dane’s fingers had drawn their way across her cold, lifeless face, and his fingertips had toyed with her hair. Not a rock, and not seaweed at all. The woman drifted aimlessly with the current of the lake, and thumped against the boards of the wooden craft.
Dane Whitman clamped his eyes shut, his face distorted by rage. He clutched the rim of the boat and hefted his body over the side. His legs plunged into the icy water, but the cold was washed away by the fierce heat of his anger. Dane Whitman strode for the shoreline.
He dimly registered the splash of sound behind him as Hercules continued to pull the boat towards land. Dane’s footfalls plunged into the moist sand of the beach, and with every step, an outline of pinkish scarlet water burst up from around his boot and then seeped back into the ground. Dane paused beside one of the warriors long enough to pluck a sword from the dead man’s hand, and then he continued on.
He sensed Hercules behind him, but he did not pause to confirm or refute what his instinct told him. The sword was a comfortable weight in his hand, but he longed to swing it, to use it upon any cowardly adversaries lying in wait. He would make them pay, he would make them all pay for what they had done. They would pay in blood.
Almost before he realized it, Dane Whitman had traversed the path that scaled the hillside holding the chambers of the high priestess of the lake. The high priestess was the human host for the Lady of the Lake herself. Dane felt a sick panic clutch his heart as he approached the grove where her throne was placed. Dane wasn’t sure what would happen if the host was slain. Would the Lady die as well? Would she live on until she could find a suitable replacement? Were there any left?
Dane crossed under the archway leading into the grove. He bowed his head out of respect instinctively, and then cursed himself silently, raising his sword slightly in a defensive position. If there had been an ambush, he would have surely been killed. But there was no one in the grove that Whitman could see. Deep shadows and a thick mist that stretched all the way to the top of the mountain from the lake below distorted his view of the throne.
But then the shadows shifted, and Dane could see that there <i>was</i> someone sitting upon the throne. For a brief moment, Dane let his breath escape his lungs in relief, but then his eyes adjusted further to the gloom, and he noted with a deepening sorrow that the figure sitting upon the throne was not the high priestess.
“Who are you?” Dane said, and his voice was shaken with grief and anger. He hefted his sword. “Show yourself!”
“They’re all dead, sir knight,” the figure said in a cracked, sandpapery voice. But despite the pain behind it, the ugliness that pervaded it, Dane recognized it immediately. The figure stood, orange-red locks falling over his eyes. He twisted his wrist, and the broadsword held in his hand gleamed in the dim light.
Dane Whitman felt his stomach flip, his memory assaulted. “Sean…?”
And then the figure howled in bloodthirst, and charged.
The three super-apes received the orders from Master as one. The super-apes had already been stationed at the human-place called the Citadel before Master ordered them to go there, but they knew that the human Master was helping did not know that, so they were not confused by the orders piped into their heads now. The super-apes had been told to remain at the Citadel in order to gather any information about the humans Master called the Champions that they could, but now Master had a new mission for them, a mission that promised much more entertainment.
The super-gorilla grunted at the super-orangutan and the super-baboon. They slinked along the wall of the room they’d followed the humans into when the humans descended from the sky in their human-ship. The super-apes did not understand the concept of a ship, but knew they had traveled in one with Master before. They had watched as the humans climbed out and greeted another human. The super-baboon had reached into its pack and withdrawn a digital camera. The super-apes had been documenting the human-ship and the human-place when the new orders came. As one, the super-apes turned invisible – a gift granted by Master – and began to move toward the stairs leading to the roof. A new group of humans was coming now. And the super-apes had to ensure these new arrivals fought with the humans from before.
The super-apes filed into the stairwell and moved swiftly to the roof. They piled out of the doorway and immediately spotted the humans flying through the air towards the roof they had settled on. The super-orangutan grunted, and then hopped on top of the concrete structure housing the stairs. The other super-apes followed. And then they waited.
“C’mon, kid. You can do better than that,” Sam Wilson chided as he dipped through the air. He arced off to the left, just before the space he’d occupied moments before was filled with the fuming face of Firebird.
“Madre de Dios!” Firebird hissed, as she struggled to match the trajectory of her teammate. They had been performing these flight drills for the better part of an hour now, and her frustration had reached the boiling point as Sam continually avoided her with his superior aerial skills.
“Kraw! Kraaaaaw!” Redwing cawed from his perch near the door, as if placing an exclamation point on Sam’s words.
Firebird narrowed her eyes. “Callate, pájaro.”
“Hey, don’t get mad at the bird,” Sam said as he dove for the floor. Firebird darted down herself, increasing her speed exponentially. Her angle was timed perfectly, and she slipped directly behind Falcon, her hair whipping behind her in a swirling mass of black. She stretched out her fingers, and Sam, perhaps noting the increase in heat on his backside turned his head to look back at her. There was panic etched on his face.
Firebird grinned wickedly. “I have you now, Sam!”
“Firebird, pull up!” Sam shouted. “You’re moving too fast!”
Firebird scoffed. There was no way she was going to tricked by the wily veteran again. There had been far too many near misses for her to stop now. She wrapped her hand around his ankle, and at that moment Sam began to pull up. Firebird tried to match his upsweep, but the velocity at which she was traveling ripped Sam’s foot from her grasp as she continued to plummet.
“Firebird!” Sam yelled, as Bonita continued to descend. She rolled her shoulder at impact, the way she’d been taught early on in her superheroic career by Captain America. He had shown her the technique after a particularly rough landing had fractured one of her feet – and nearly her skull – during one of their missions. Bonita rolled, and then skidded along the training-room floor. Her teeth rattled from the bone jarring impact, but finally Bonita came to a sliding stop on her back. Falcon landed lightly beside her and immediately hunched at her side.
“Jesus, Bonita! Are you all right? Is anything broken?”
Bonita closed her eyes. “Only my pride, Sam.”
“Thank goodness,” Sam breathed. “I thought you were a goner. Who taught you how to roll like that?”
“Who else?” Bonita said as she lifted her body to a sitting position.
Sam smiled. “Yeah, I should know better. I think Cap trained just about everybody in one technique or another over the years. But what you did was still dangerous, kid. <i>You</i> should know better too. We’re in here to improve your flight techniques, not get you killed.”
“Don’t change the subject, Sam. I tagged you fair and square.”
Sam chuckled softly. “Yeah, yeah.”
“But you are right. I doubt that move would have done me any good in a combat situation. I suppose I have got a lot to learaigh!” Bonita said with a grimace, and clapped a hand to her left shoulder.
“Ah, crap,” Sam said. “I was afraid something like that might happen. We better get you to the medical bay as quick as we--”
Breeeet! Breeeet! Breeeet!
“What the hell?” Sam muttered, looking toward the blaring speaker in the far corner of the gym.
“Intruder alert. Perimeter breach on hangar deck. All available personnel report to hangar deck,” the speaker resounded through the complex.
“Of course,” Sam mumbled. “Now I remember why I quit the Avengers. There’s never a dull moment in this business.”
Sam turned back to Firebird. “Stay here, Bonita. I’ll send Horace down to--”
“Don’t bother, Sam,” Bonita replied. She was standing now, her injured arm held gingerly at her side. “I heal rather quickly.”
Sam frowned. “You’re a big girl, Bonita, and I ain’t your daddy. But I’m a little worried about this reckless, cavalier attitude you have. I don’t recall it ever being a problem for you before. Is there--”
The alarm sounded again, cutting Sam off in mid-sentence. He shot the speaker system an ugly look, but when he turned back to Bonita, hoping to continue their conversation, he noticed the girl was already flying for the door. Sam shook his head, and then he followed.
Simon Williams hopped out of his bed. He’d been trying to catch a quick nap – making polite conversation with Sundragon was almost as exhausting as fighting the Hulk, and when the woman went into deep meditation, she meant deep meditation – when the alert sounded, and now he was scrambling to get dressed. The monitor on his desk blinked to life, and Eric was there. Simon did a double take.
“Eric? What the hell happened to you?” Simon said, as he struggled to fit his foot through his pant-leg. Eric Williams was a mess. His facial features were swollen, and the beginnings of dark bruises were forming all around his eyes and forehead. His nose was a bloody mess, and a trickle of it drained down his face as he spoke, droplets clinging to his lips.
“Simon!” Eric gasped. “I was… was attacked by Warren Worthington!”
“The Angel?” Simon said, his brow creasing in confusion. “Why would--?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Eric yelled. “He and some of the other former Champions raided my office. They were like mad dogs. I tried to fend them off, but… look at this place!”
Eric gestured behind him, and Simon looked. The entire office was a shambles. The desk was dashed to pieces, the other furnishings scattered about; the art that had been hanging on the wall was now on the ground.
“Whoa,” Simon said. “We’re getting an intruder alert, Eric. Do you think--?”
“It has to be them! Get up there, Simon. Stop them from doing anymore damage, I… Simon… what are you doing?” Eric spat. Simon had finished putting on his pants over his boxer shorts and was reaching for his shoes. “You don’t need your clothes! You’re surrounded by an ionic aura of energy wherever you go. Just go!”
“Don’t worry, bro. I’ll take care of it,” Simon said, allowing the energy to bubble up into his stomach. It spilled outward, filling his lungs, his veins, the pores of his skin. Wonder Man clenched his fists, and by the time they had unclenched, he was gone, only a trail of ionic energy left in his wake. On the screen, Eric Williams smiled. It looked like it hurt.
“I know you will, brother. I know you will.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Sean,” Dane said as he parried another strike cast forth from his former squire, “but I will.”
Sean Dolan did not reply, save for the blade he swung toward the Black Knight’s feet. Dane effortlessly lowered his own sword, the steel connecting shrilly in the dead air, then hefted their weight and pushed all at once. Sean was forced back a step.
“You’re sick, Sean. You need help,” Dane said, but he could tell his onetime friend wasn’t listening. There had been a time when Sean Dolan and Dane Whitman had been close, with Sean taking his rightful place at Dane’s side as his squire and eventual successor to the mantle of the Black Knight. But all that had changed on the day a mob of super-powered enforcers had assaulted Avengers Mansion and the castle of Dane Whitman, in search of the ebony blade.* Dane’s fiancé Victoria had been wounded that day before Sean’s very eyes, her garments torn in much the same way as the priestesses of Avalon. The ebony blade had called to him, and Sean had taken hold of it, drawn it from the strange meteorite in which it was embedded, and became the Blood Wraith, a creature consumed with bloodlust. Victoria had been killed not long afterward by the Blood Wraith, as he engaged in combat with Dane and the mercenary known as Deadpool. But that had been a terrible accident. Had Sean regressed so much that he was capable of this sort of bloodshed without the ebony blade to fuel him? Was it even possible?
[* That charming tale took place in Marvel’s Avengers Vol. 1, Annual #22 – Mike]
No, Dane decided. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even very likely Sean had done any of it. His clothes, barely more than rags, were filthy, but there was no sign of blood on them. His skin was pale, his body gaunt and malnourished. Dane knew the toll the ebony blade was capable of taking upon its hosts, especially the ones with a weaker strength of will than others, but there was something more, something Dane couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost as if Sean were being controlled in some way. And if the one doing the controlling was the one behind this massacre, then Dane had to defeat Sean. Not only for the sake of the people murdered today, but for the boy’s as well.
Sean thrust his sword at Dane’s midsection, and Dane was barely able to deflect the blow to his right. The blade of the sword passed along his body armor, glancing his arm. Dane spun away, a thin line of heat rising from his bicep. Sean remained hot on his heels, and Dane used the younger fighter’s momentum against him, stooping to a crouch and catching Sean in the stomach with his shoulder. Dane heaved, throwing Sean into the air. The boy, to his credit, rolled expertly as he struck the ground, and was on his feet in an instant. But Dane had schooled Sean Dolan in the art of swordplay, and the fight was over. Sean whirled around, but was unable to bring his sword to bear before Dane struck him along the jaw with the flat of his blade. Sean’s head rocked back violently, spittle flying from his mouth as he grunted in pain, his sword falling from his grasp. The boy fell on his back, and Dane pressed the point of his sword to his squire’s throat.
“The fight is over, Sean,” Dane said, his voice nothing more than a guttural growl. “Now you’re going to tell me who did this, and you’re going to tell me right now.”
Sean stared back at the Black Knight, purest loathing in his eyes, his deathly pale face creased with hatred. He opened his mouth, and for a moment his jaw worked spasmodically, as if the boy were trying to find words long forgotten, but then a blackish ooze ringed his lips, and formed a perfect bubble of ebon. It popped, flecks of darkness scattering in all directions that dispersed on the open air like strands of smoke. Sean laughed.
Dane grimaced. “Don’t.” He brought his sword down imperceptibly, drawing a thin streak of blood from Sean’s freshly pierced neck. The boy stopped laughing, but a sickening grin split his face. Dane heard the heavy tread of Hercules, and glanced up as the demigod entered the grove, his attention wavering for but an instant.
“The dark lord sends his regards, Whitman,” Sean said in the voice so unlike his own, and yet unmistakably still his, and then lifted his body onto his elbows. Dane felt the tension in his sword hand even before he looked down to see Sean Dolan skewer his throat on the blade of the Black Knight.
“It’s quiet,” Bobby Drake said as he and the others stood on the roof of the Citadel. He looked at the others somberly. “Too quiet.”
“Did we really have to bring along the child?” Natasha asked Warren. She made a mock action to shoot Bobby with her widow’s bite, and Iceman pulled Darkstar into the path of the shot.
“Unhand me, Bobby,” Lania Petrovna said with a laugh as she squirmed out from Bobby’s grip. “Natasha, shoot him quickly and be done with it.”
“Children, please,” Warren said, his words coming out in an exhalation of impatience. “Can we at least make the attempt to feign a little professionalism?”
“Why don’t you start,” a new voice said, startling the others, “by letting us know what you’re doing on our roof.”
The four heroes looked up. Standing in front of the emergency exit was a man with a red bird perched on his shoulder, and a young girl with a blazing aura of flame licking at the sky. The Black Widow stepped forward.
“Falcon, Firebird, we’re here to speak with you and the other… Champions. Warren and I, all of us, really, have some concerns stemming from the recent decision of Eric Williams to ‘hire’ you for his television program.”
“A phone call would have been fine, Natasha,” Falcon said, his eyes narrowing. “I hardly think it was necessary for you to come out in full force for a talk. And we do have a front door.”
“Yeah, well ‘Wings’ here can’t get through doors too easily these days,” Iceman said, poking a thumb at Warren, “if he folds them for too long, they start to chafe, and he develops this ugly rash that--”
“Bobby, let’s not go there, all right?” Warren snapped. “This is a pointless exchange. I’m here to speak with your leader. Where’s the Black Knight?”
“Out,” Falcon said. “And I don’t much like your tone there, Wings.”
“Hey, only I get to call him Wings, Redbird,” Bobby said. “So chill out.”
Darkstar placed a hand on Bobby’s chest. “Must we continue this? Perhaps if we simply--”
“No, you’re right,” Falcon said. “I don’t much like it that you’re here, but it’s not my call on whether you come inside or not. Just give me a second. Wonder Man’s the acting leader, so we’ll see what he has to say.”
Warren nodded. “Fine.”
Sam moved to the control panel set into the wall next to the door Firebird and he had stepped out of. He was more than a little perturbed by the fact that Simon wasn’t already out here, but it wasn’t as though the four characters sharing the roof with them were an immediate threat. He didn’t know most of them, but Natasha was good people, so it wasn’t like--
“Hey!” Sam cried, whipping his fingers away from the intercom installed into the control panel. A coating of ice had formed over it, and the intensity of the cold radiating from the panel sent a shiver through Sam’s spine. He spun around. “What the hell are you doing, Frosty?”
Everyone was looking at Iceman now, and he shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “It wasn’t me.”
“Bobby…” Natasha said, shaking her head. She stepped forward, hands out. “Falcon, I’m sure Iceman didn’t mean--”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Bobby exclaimed. “It really wasn’t me!”
“Just stand down, kid,” Falcon said. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
“Whatever, pops,” Iceman said with a laugh. “What are you going to do? Peck me to death?”
“Why you arrogant--” Sam started, but then his feet darted out from under him. He fell roughly on his backside, and even before he saw it, he felt the slick chill of the ice patch underneath him.
“Robert!” Darkstar said. “How could you?”
“I… I really didn’t do it, Lani. I don’t--” Bobby said, but was cut short as a ring of flame surrounded him.
“Joke or no,” Firebird stated. “I will not let you do that again.”
Natasha put up her hands. “Firebird, stop. Let’s not make things any worse than they already--”
Natasha fell silent, her features slackened, her shoulders slumped, as did those of the three others near her. Firebird let the flames dissipate around Iceman, and stared, dumbfounded.
“What’s happening to them?” Sam said. He had finally managed to get back on his feet.
“I did,” a voice said from behind them. Sundragon was there, hovering in the air. “I thought a more peaceful resolution might be required.”
Sam nodded. “Right on, kid. You did good.”
“No,” Sundragon replied, and Sam and Bonita looked at her. “Something… something is very wrong. I… I cannot…”
A mass of black surrounded Sundragon and yanked her past the faces of Falcon and Firebird. They whirled around, followed the black sphere catapulting their teammate away with their eyes, and immediately noted the source of the disturbance.
“I do not like to be controlled, woman,” Darkstar said, her darkforce bubble splitting into bands that surrounded Sundragon at her shoulders, midsection, knees and ankles. She was held completely inert.
“Let her go! You people started this!” Sam roared. He took wing, planning to intercept Darkstar before she could do anymore damage, but a blur shot in front of him, and stopping at a hover – wings beating powerfully at the air – was Archangel.
“Stop right there,” Warren said, holding up a hand. “Or I won’t hesitate to remind you who the better aerialist is here.”
Sam hesitated. He knew he was no match for Warren Worthington the third when it came to flying. He could swoop circles around Bonita, but this was a completely different ballgame.
“Just stand down, Falcon,” Warren pleaded. “We don’t want th--”
Sundragon screamed. Warren looked around, his face stamped with concern, but by the time he looked back, Sam was rocketing forward, and his fist connected smartly with Archangel’s jaw as he zipped by.
“Pamela!” Sam yelled, but before he could close the gap between himself and the two powerful females struggling in the open air, a wall of ice sprouted from the roof like a beanstalk.
Sam put his forearms up to shield himself, but he collided with the wall headfirst and plummeted to the ground. Iceman rounded the construct, blowing on his fingers.
“Now I did do that one,” Bobby said. He was scared. The screams coming from the weird chick with the painted face were freaking him out, but he really doubted a pissed off reject from a Flash Gordon movie running into them in midair would help much.
He’d just cool everybody down, be the voice of reason for once. Yeah, that’d work. He had a new trick or two. All he had to do was put the big chill on everybody until they slowed down enough to pass out. And then he could…
“Hot foot! Hot foot!” Bobby wailed, a burst of flame melting his miniature wall of ice and driving him back as it spiraled around in his direction. Firebird drifted down to stand in front of Iceman, blocking his path to Falcon, who was slowly rising to his feet.
“I’m going to Pam,” Sam said. Firebird nodded, her eyes never leaving Iceman.
“So, uh, I guess it would be silly of me at this point to hope you picked ‘Firebird’ as a codename because you like the car, yeah?” Iceman said, and then had to put up an ice-shield as the air around him was consumed by flame.
“It’sgoneit’sbeentakenfrommeIcan’tfeelitanymoreaaaiiigh!” Sundragon screeched at the top of her lungs, bucking wildly against the ebon bonds surrounding her.
“Darkstar, what are you doing to her?” Natasha Romanova said. Her face was a mask of fear and distress, and it was mirrored perfectly by Lania Petrovna’s.
“I am doing nothing, Natasha. Simply holding the girl. Something must be assaulting her from within, but I cannot discern what it is. I fear releasing her. She may do harm to herself or--”
“Take your hands off of her!” Sam Wilson bellowed, and he rocketed into Darkstar, slamming the breath out of the heroine in a rush.
“Falcon! Stop this now! I don’t want to have to shoot you,” Natasha said as she reached for the gun in the shoulder holster she wore.
It wasn’t there.
“Looking for something?” a voice said from behind her. Natasha turned around, just in time to see Wonder Man open his fist, and the remnants of her 9mm Beretta rain onto the roof.
The super-apes were in heaven. It took a supreme effort to keep them from grunting and hooting in glee. The super-baboon shifted the hand of his body into the corresponding weapon Master desired, as the strange nature of his body allowed, and then the super-orangutan and super-gorilla took turns firing it at the heroes Master specified.
The first weapon they’d used had been a gun that shot a concentrated beam of frozen water particles. It had been a riot watching the dark bird-human fall all over himself as the super-apes continued to fire the weapon at his fingers and under his feet.
The current weapon of choice was a device used to stifle the motor functions of the brain that Master had identified controlled something called telepathy, and another weapon with the capability of inspiring fear in anyone they pointed it at. Both weapons were currently trained on the human-female with the painted face. The super-apes had no idea what telepathy was, and they didn’t care. The human-female was visibly upset about what they were doing, and her cries sounded a lot like an orangutan female’s mating call, so they continued, Master urging them along all the while.
Sundragon continued to scream as she plummeted toward the ground, the darkforce bands dissipating in the wind. A horrible panic clutched at her mind, and she couldn’t understand the fear she felt gnawing at her brain, nor could she distinguish where it came from. She had been distressed by her inability to access her telepathy when it was shut off from her mind, and had naturally attempted to place telekinetic bonds around the trespassers to compensate for its absence, but then the fear had risen in her, just as the darkness of that witch-woman enveloped her.
And now she was falling to her death while her teammates struggled for their lives above. And there was nothing she could do about it, because whenever she thought about using her telekinetic powers to halt herself, she was gripped with a terrible fear that they wouldn’t work either.
“Need a lift?” a voice said from beside her, and Sundragon looked over to see Falcon matching her descent. He took hold of her, and for a moment his hands were mangled, clutching claws that threatened to tear her apart; and she wanted to flee, to fling her body from those terrible talons and fall – even death would be a better fate than surrendering herself to those murderous hands – but then it was the comforting arms of Falcon that surrounded her again, and she fell into them, and let Sam carry her up, up, and away from her dread.
“Are you okay, Sundragon?” Sam said, and Pamela Douglas nodded.
“I am fine, Sam. I thank you. There was something inside of me that rebelled terribly when my telepathy failed. But I am in control now.”
Sam blinked. “Your telepathy is gone? That’s going to make things a little more difficult. I was hoping you might be able to put Natasha and the others to sleep like you did before.”
“Indeed,” Sundragon said. “But there was an advantageous side-effect to the removal of my telepathy. I have just now noticed it.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“It appears,” Sundragon said, and suddenly Sam wasn’t flying by his own power anymore. Brilliant golden energy clutched him, and his speed increased tenfold. “That my telekinesis has intensified to compensate in a remarkable way.”
“Whoooooaaaaa!” Sam yelled, as his eyelids peeled back and his cheeks flattened. They blasted past Redwing, and the two heroes crested the rooftop. Sundragon released Falcon, and then, spotting her target, sent a barricade of golden telekinetic force hurtling towards Darkstar.
“Glumph!” Wonder Man said, as he gasped around the darkforce energy doing its best to suffocate him.
“Simon, call off your dogs!” Natasha said. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Mrglph!” Simon said in reply, and then the darkforce energy holding onto him fell away as Darkstar was grasped by golden bonds of energy and torn away.
“You! You are the one who crippled me,” Sundragon said, and the telekinetic force surrounding her shimmered like a miniature sun.
“Time out, time out!” Bobby said as he formed another icy construct that Firebird melted into rivers of steam. He’d been forced into a standstill by the young woman, neither one willing to give up any ground, and both with an extraordinary amount of power at their disposal. Iceman thought he might be able to take the girl down if he went all out, but, well, she was actually pretty hot – no pun intended – and he wasn’t too big on hitting girls anyway.
“Look, aaah!” Bobby said as a jet of flame crossed uncomfortably close. “This has gotten too ridiculous even for my tastes, okay? Your friend up there looks like she’s about to kill my friend. Do you want that?”
Firebird stopped attacking, but kept her aura at its utmost degree of intensity, wary of a trick. Iceman made no move to attack, so she looked up, and then she cried out.
Sundragon was there, and so was Darkstar, the latter surrounded with a swirling vortex of golden force. Darkstar had put up a shield of dark energy to protect herself, but it was crumbling, collapsing more and more every second. Simon was up there as well, struggling to pierce the telekinetic orb surrounding Sundragon and pleading with her to stop. Even Falcon and Archangel, who only moments ago had been clutching each other by the throat and trading blows in the sky, had halted their own brawl to stare.
“Kraw!” Redwing stated from his perch near the stairs, and Firebird glanced in his direction. The bird was stubbornly pecking at some invisible thing in the air, the only one unaware of what was happening.
The super-apes were annoyed. The dark bird-human’s bird had settled near them and was pecking at their feet. They had strict orders from Master not to be discovered, and if they hurt the bird-human’s bird, they most assuredly would be. The super-gorilla grunted as the bird plunged its beak into one of its hairy toes. None of the humans took note of his pained grumbling, but the super-gorilla knew that if the bird continued to peck at its foot, they soon would.
Master filled their heads with new instructions, and the super-apes breathed a sigh of mutual relief. The super-baboon reformed the new weapon he had been training on the paleface-human woman – Master called it a hatemonger ray – into his own, more familiar, digits, and the super-apes clambered down from their perch, and then began the long and difficult process of descending the Citadel. Their job was done.
Firebird took to the sky, and for the first time noted the camera hovering in the air overhead, no doubt filming each aspect, every action-packed angle of the battle between the heroes scattered about on the roof of the Citadel. It was time to end this fight, before they provided more foolish video footage for the American public to chew on.
Firebird could see that Sundragon was lost in her own little world of rage and confusion. Darkstar had hurt her in some way, and now all Sundragon could see was the vengeance she wished to deal out. The world surrounding Sundragon was a blur, inconsequential. The woman had lost her way.
Firebird concentrated. There was no way she could pierce the barrier of telekinetic energy Sundragon had surrounded herself with, but if she could increase the heat <i>inside</i> that bubble, maybe she could snap Pamela out of it. But Bonita didn’t want to roast Sundragon alive, and she wasn’t sure if she could focus her power well enough to accomplish the one while sparing her teammate the other.
Bonita looked down, and noticed Iceman staring up at the drama being played out above. His words came back to her in a rush.
Hot foot! Hot foot!
Bonita smiled, then she lifted her eyes, and focused the entirety of her will on Sundragon’s right foot. Her shoulder was killing her, but she forced herself to ignore the pain, and a glowing ball of heat formed underneath Sundragon. Firebird clenched her fist sharply, and the ball ignited fiercely. Sundragon cried out as it licked at her toes, and the telekinetic barrier fell away. The unhampered darkforce energy expelled in all directions, and Sundragon fell to the ground, exhausted and unconscious, and Wonder Man caught her in his arms.
“It was a mistake coming here, Simon,” Warren said as he shook Wonder Man’s hand. “I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
“It’s starting to become a part of the job,” Simon said as he watched Iceman and Darkstar fly off towards the airport and Worthington’s private jet. Black Widow was saying her goodbyes to Falcon. “It seems as though everyone is mistaking us for criminals lately.”
Well, I’m sorry agaiiiigh!” Archangel cried out as Simon squeezed his hand in a vice-like grip. Sam and Natasha didn’t turn around to look. “What… what are you doing, Williams?”
“You want my forgiveness?” Simon said with a snarl. “After what you did to my brother? I should break your hand.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking abouahhhh!” Angel said with a grimace as Simon squeezed again.
“Save it. I saw his face. I saw his office. I know you were responsible for it. And I’m telling you right now; if you ever lay hands to someone I care about again… I’ll make sure you lose those hands. Permanently.”
Simon let go of Archangel’s hand, and the man cradled it to his chest like a newborn. His face was a mix of pain and bewilderment, and he shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Simon, and that’s the truth. But I have a theory. Why don’t you try it on for size? Maybe your brother isn’t as reformed as you think he is. Maybe whatever you think I did to him he did to himself. And maybe you’d better watch your back from here on out.”
“Is that a threat?”
“The only threat I think you should be worried about is the snake coiled at your feet,” Warren said. “But if you ever feel like continuing this conversation. You know where to find me.”
Warren turned on his heel, and approached Natasha and Sam, they exchanged goodbyes, and then Archangel took to wing with Natasha clinging to his back. Sam crossed the distance between them, and Simon looked away.
Sam cleared his throat. “What was all that about?”
“Nothing,” Simon said, and kept his eyes on the sky. “Nothing at all.”
NEXT ISSUE: Captain Ultra and the Ultra Crew! …the Ultra Crew?
Champion Lovers
Another whopper of an issue, but no mail to grace the letters section this time around. I’m just not as popular as I used to be, I guess, but since I have a little space here, I think it might be a good idea to plug a few of the new series here at Marvel 2000.
Young, impressionable Adnan Khan has produced the first two issues of “The Chosen”, a title that shares space with Champions. The Chosen is an entertaining and mysterious tale starring an entertaining character with mysterious abilities. Makes sense, yeah? The abilities were apparently granted to him by a higher power. Could this guy be kin to Firebird? Read it and find out!
The Knights Branch (it’s no Heroes, but hey) has undergone a surge of new blood of late in the form of two brand new titles: Tomb of Dracula by Curt Fernlund, and Man-Thing by our estimable EiC Chris Munn. Tomb of Dracula is an excellently bizarre and visionary take on a character that’s scourged honest folk for generations. Man-Thing is the shambling, plant-encrusted lovable ol’ cuss we’ve all come to know and love over the years, and Chris writes him wonderfully. And even better, Foolkiller’s there too!
So go on and take a look at some of these other titles. And check out the new writers with their fresh takes on some of our old titles. Deja on Ghost Rider, Ingram on Excalibur, and Rasbury & Hernandez on Defenders. You won’t be sorry you did.
-Mike Exner III
03/10/2004
Written by Mike Exner III
“I know this look,” a whispery voice said from a corner of Eric Williams’ office. He jumped, and the shimmering outline of a man appeared. It crossed the room towards him, and stopped in front of his desk. “You plan to clip this arrogant angel’s wings, no?”
“That’s the second time today someone has invaded my office,” Eric spat. “I don’t have much patience for it.”
“You also do not seem able to do much to prevent it, Williams, and I am not much in the habit of making appointments.”
“Well then,” Eric said, motioning behind the faded image of the man, “please, have a seat.” Williams reached under his desk and pulled a briefcase into view. He laid it flat on the desk, and unfastened the clasps. “Here is your payment, in cash, as you desired. You did an excellent job in New York.”
“For the amount you were paying, it was a great pleasure,” the man said. The shimmering image intensified, and Eric Williams was blinded for a moment. When he opened his eyes, the man was completely visible. He was balding, with thin white hair spilling over his ears. He wore a thick white beard and heavy sideburns, and they contrasted strangely with the brilliant red jumpsuit surrounding his powerfully built frame.
“It was hardly the challenge you made it out to be,” Ivan Kragoff, the man known as the Red Ghost said in his thick accent.
Eric Williams smiled. “And no one witnessed your liberation of the Griffin?”
“There were no witnesses,” the Red Ghost replied curtly, reaching for the money.
Eric snapped the briefcase shut. “A moment, Ivan. Before I allow you to leave with the money, I have one last task for you.”
“I do not perform tasks unless I am well compensated for them, Williams. I agreed to perform this unpleasant chore because my research requires an inordinate amount of currency, but I do not relish servitude.”
Eric smiled again, but there was no humor in it. “Ivan, I think you’ll find that this task is it’s own reward.”
“Thy intentions bewilder me, Dane Whitman,” Hercules said as the two heroes made their way through a dense copse of trees. The Champscraft stood on her landing gear, gleaming in the sun behind them. She’d be surrounded by onlookers soon enough, but the ship was locked up tight. “What purpose is served by journeying to New York’s Central Park?”
Dane looked back over his shoulder. “I know it sounds kind of funny, Herc, but this is the closest entry point I know of for accessing the… I guess you could call them the gates of Avalon.”
“’Tis most confounding,” Hercules muttered. “The isle of Great Britain seems a more reasonable entrance.”
“Yeah, well, there are places all over the world that act as gateways to Avalon, Herc,” Dane said as he dipped his head underneath a low branch. “There are a number of them in England, but I just don’t have the time to fly all that way. Despite my feelings toward Eric Williams, the guy was half-right, I feel a little guilty about leaving the team in the lurch like this. I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible, and this is the lone point of entry I’m aware of in America. I’ve used it a few times in the past.”
“’Twould seem to be nothing more than a path through the wood,” Hercules grumbled, batting gruffly at a branch clinging to his tunic. “A narrow path.”
“Oh, yeah? Well feast your eyes on that, Mr. Personable.” Dane pointed at the ground, and Hercules followed the gesture with his eyes. A thick mist had begun to form, slipping over the shoes of the two heroes as they plodded through the underbrush.
“We’re getting close,” Dane said. “I think these are the mists of the lake.”
“’Tis a bit wintry ‘pon my toes,” Hercules groused.
Dane laughed. “Shouldn’t a demigod be used to cold, misty weather? You live on a mountain most of the time, don’t ya? Besides, I warned you those sandals of yours weren’t exactly right for the climate.”
“Aye,” Hercules muttered, looking at the ground. Dane’s brow furrowed.
“Something wrong, big fella?”
“No, Dane Whitman,” Hercules intoned. “My mind doth wander habitually to my homeland. ‘Twas a time when I was nothing more than a pup, and the frigid snows surrounding her ancient gates chilled my very heart. I stood before her spires in wonder and awe…”
Hercules trailed off, his eyes boring holes into the ground at his feet. Dane shuffled his own feet, waiting for his friend to continue. Only hours ago Hercules had stood as Dane poured his own heart out over his inadequacies. He’d never expected Hercules to do the same. Hercules talked of Olympus often enough, but usually with boisterous verve, and more often than not only after you’d gotten a half-dozen beers into him. Dane had never known Hercules to mince words, and when the man had something to say, he just came right out and said it. But something was bothering the demigod, and it seemed to be something he was hesitant to speak about. Almost as if he were incapable of voicing it, as strange as that sounded.
Hercules took in a long breath, and when he lifted his chin Dane was sure he’d speak, reveal everything that was bothering him, but Hercules’ eyes widened, and Dane registered all at once the distinct sound of water lapping upon wooden planks. They’d arrived at Avalon.
“Zeus’ beard,” Hercules whispered. And Dane turned around.
The path had cleared, and before them was an embankment of the greenest grass either of them had ever seen. It shone bright and wet even through the mist that completely enveloped it. Beyond the emerald plain, a body of water stretched off into the distance, the water breaking gently on the grassy bank. A lone wooden barge sat idle in the chopping waters, and it knocked along the shore with the swell of the tide. The swirling ivory mist thickened the further out they peered, but there was still visible the towering, shaded outline of an island rising amidst the waters of the lake. A shrill beep sounded behind the two men, and they turned.
“Whitman, is thishhhhkkk… I think it is?” the voice of Eric Williams blared from the Eye in the Sky. “I’m only gettishhhkkk… muddled picture. Can you get any closeshhhkkk…”
Dane grinned. “You won’t be able to come any closer than that unfortunately, Williams. Avalon has a bit of an attitude when it comes to technology.”
“Whitman, you bastarshhhkkk…!” the camera wailed from the speakers jutting from the swell of its underside. The camera attempted to press forward, to pierce the veil of magic separating the shores of Avalon from the rest of the natural world. The camera shuddered, electricity sparking from its seams. The audio receptors burped, the Eye in the Sky sputtered, fell to the ground, and grew silent, completely inactive.
“Didst thou know that would occur?” Hercules said, eyeing Dane Whitman carefully.
Dane shrugged. “I suspected as much. The last time I visited Avalon, I had the misfortune of bringing my cell-phone along. Once I got back to the ‘real world’, the phone was fried. I had a hell of a time explaining it to my service provider.”
Dane and Hercules approached the shore. The Black Knight dropped to a knee and ran his hand over the prow of the smallish boat. “This vessel shouldn’t be abandoned. There should always be a boatman here to carry passengers to the other side.
“How any soul could hope to cross amidst such a haze is a wonder of itself,” Hercules said.
“Well,” Dane said, reaching down into the water. He straightened, a rope soaked through with water clutched in his hand. “The men who ferry visitors across have been doing it for years, so I’m sure they could do it with their eyes closed in a pinch, but most of the time they attach ropes like these,” Dane held the rope out to Hercules, and he took it, “to a docking point on the island.”
Hercules tugged faintly at the rope. “So we have to but merely pull ‘pon the rope, and cross at our leisure.”
“Exactly,” Dane said, clambering into the boat, and steadying it with his hands so Hercules could step in. He paddled at the water, and the boat turned slowly until the stem of the tiny vessel was pointed towards the hulking mass of the island.
“And now, my good man,” Dane said with a smile. “Mush.”
“Damn!” Eric Williams swore, pounding his fist against the blackened monitor before him. “We’ve completely lost the feed.”
“So that was the land of Avalon,” the Red Ghost said. “I have often thought on the matter of whether or not such a place truly exists. Magic is a hindrance to science, and yet--”
“Spare me your flights of the imagination, Kragoff,” Williams muttered. “Those cameras cost me millions. And I don’t even have any worthwhile footage to show for it. Whitman and that backwards excuse for a strongman had better collect the Eye on their way back or there’ll be hell to--”
“As pleasant as this conversation has become, Mr. Williams,” Ivan interrupted, “I must ask that we conclude our business now.”
Eric sighed. “Very well. I have one more request of you, Kragoff. I need a show. I need ratings. Whitman has stolen that from me, but in a pinch, I can’t think of a better draw than a good ol’ fashioned rumble between the old Champions and their newest incarnation.”
“And how on Earth do you hope to accomplish such a ridiculous spectacle?”
“Your monkeys. Did you bring them with you?”
Ivan Kragoff’s eyes narrowed. “They are not monkeys, Mr. Williams. They are apes. Super-apes.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Eric replied, his eyes rolling as he turned away. “Can your… ‘super-apes’ get to the Citadel before Worthington and his ridiculous band?”
“I am certain that they could.”
“Excellent,” Eric said, and turned back to the Red Ghost. “Then have them do it, Ivan.”
“What is your plan for when they arrive?”
“All in good time, Ivan,” Eric said as he crossed around his desk to stand in front of the large Russian. “But first… have you ever seen an American film called ‘Fight Club’?”
“I have not. Why is it that you ask?”
“Because, Ivan. I want you to hit me as hard as you can.”
“I can’t believe you dunked me,” Dane muttered sourly as he shook the remaining droplets from his fingers. Hercules was pulling them along the lake at a reasonably quick pace, the light wind created by their passing slipping over Dane’s features and chilling him to the bone. “As if the mist isn’t getting us wet enough already, now my clothes are saturated too.”
“The Prince of Power dost not mush, Dane Whitman,” Hercules said with a somber face. “Thou art fortunate I allowed thee to surface.”
Dane barked out a laugh, and shook his head. “It was just a little joke, Herc.”
Hercules stopped tugging at the rope and turned to face his friend. “Then mayhap thou wilt consider thy ‘dunking’ a joke as well.”
Hercules turned back to his task and gave the rope a strong pull. The boat lurched forward and Dane was thrown backward into the stern. He brought his hands back, folded them behind his head, and sighed. “Well, fine then. Be that way.”
“I shalt,” Hercules replied stubbornly. Dane smiled and stretched his hands over his head, allowing his fingers to drag through the water slipping past. The mists of the lake flooded the sky, turning the darkening blue sky a mottled gray. Dane closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to the first time he’d been ushered to Avalon by the Lady of the Lake.* He’d only just returned to Earth after having accompanied Sersi on a journey to another world, and they’d been separated on the return trip home. He’d embarked on that journey to help save Sersi’s sanity, and they’d grown close during their time together, but there hadn’t been a lot of contact in the time since. Dane had joined the defunct Heroes for Hire group, fought with Quicksilver over his lingering feelings for Crystal and was spurned by her, and then partook of brief stints with the Defenders and Avengers. And now he was a Champion, and only now was he struggling to make sense of everything that had happened to him.
[* It happened in Marvel’s Heroes For Hire Vol. 2, #1 – Mike]
“Dane Whitman…” Hercules said, and his voice sounded very small, not the booming tone of a demigod at all.
“Yeah, Herc?” Dane said, his fingers still etching paths through the water. The boat bumped something, but continued forward. That same something brushed along Dane’s hand. It felt a bit like a spongy rock covered with stringy seaweed.
The boat stopped moving. Hercules’ voice was as thin as air passing through reeds. “I prithee of thee, Dane Whitman. Cast open thy eyes.”
Dane did. And when he leaned up, his mouth fell open, he exhaled, all the wind knocked from him in a rush, and a strangled cry echoed out over the water. It took Dane a few moments to realize that the wail he heard had passed from his own lips.
Avalon was in ruin. Her towering spires were cracked and crumbling as they stretched up the hilly mountainside. Blood stained the ground, the water; fires blazed in isolated areas along the shoreline and through the forest, kept mildly in check by the stifling moisture in the air.
And there were corpses everywhere. The warriors of Avalon, the only men permitted on the island other than Merlin and those invited expressly by the Lady herself were scattered about the beach, torn asunder, their faces twisted in agony along with their bodies. But they were not the only ones forced to endure the barbaric attack. Dane’s eyes fell upon the priestesses that lay immobile beside the soldiers, their garments ripped, hair torn, bare hands and feet bloodied from their desperate struggles. And without desiring it, Dane felt his eyes drawn upon the legs of a select few of the priestesses, pried open, blood streaked down the insides of their thighs, violated; and then up to their throats, slashed to reveal wide, gaping wounds, and dried, dark, caked blood. Used and then cast aside, butchered like cattle.
And then Dane Whitman turned around, and looked down to where his fingers had been only instants before. And what he feared he would see was what he did see, for submerged in the crimson-tinged water of the lake was the body of one of the priestesses of Avalon. Dane’s fingers had drawn their way across her cold, lifeless face, and his fingertips had toyed with her hair. Not a rock, and not seaweed at all. The woman drifted aimlessly with the current of the lake, and thumped against the boards of the wooden craft.
Dane Whitman clamped his eyes shut, his face distorted by rage. He clutched the rim of the boat and hefted his body over the side. His legs plunged into the icy water, but the cold was washed away by the fierce heat of his anger. Dane Whitman strode for the shoreline.
He dimly registered the splash of sound behind him as Hercules continued to pull the boat towards land. Dane’s footfalls plunged into the moist sand of the beach, and with every step, an outline of pinkish scarlet water burst up from around his boot and then seeped back into the ground. Dane paused beside one of the warriors long enough to pluck a sword from the dead man’s hand, and then he continued on.
He sensed Hercules behind him, but he did not pause to confirm or refute what his instinct told him. The sword was a comfortable weight in his hand, but he longed to swing it, to use it upon any cowardly adversaries lying in wait. He would make them pay, he would make them all pay for what they had done. They would pay in blood.
Almost before he realized it, Dane Whitman had traversed the path that scaled the hillside holding the chambers of the high priestess of the lake. The high priestess was the human host for the Lady of the Lake herself. Dane felt a sick panic clutch his heart as he approached the grove where her throne was placed. Dane wasn’t sure what would happen if the host was slain. Would the Lady die as well? Would she live on until she could find a suitable replacement? Were there any left?
Dane crossed under the archway leading into the grove. He bowed his head out of respect instinctively, and then cursed himself silently, raising his sword slightly in a defensive position. If there had been an ambush, he would have surely been killed. But there was no one in the grove that Whitman could see. Deep shadows and a thick mist that stretched all the way to the top of the mountain from the lake below distorted his view of the throne.
But then the shadows shifted, and Dane could see that there <i>was</i> someone sitting upon the throne. For a brief moment, Dane let his breath escape his lungs in relief, but then his eyes adjusted further to the gloom, and he noted with a deepening sorrow that the figure sitting upon the throne was not the high priestess.
“Who are you?” Dane said, and his voice was shaken with grief and anger. He hefted his sword. “Show yourself!”
“They’re all dead, sir knight,” the figure said in a cracked, sandpapery voice. But despite the pain behind it, the ugliness that pervaded it, Dane recognized it immediately. The figure stood, orange-red locks falling over his eyes. He twisted his wrist, and the broadsword held in his hand gleamed in the dim light.
Dane Whitman felt his stomach flip, his memory assaulted. “Sean…?”
And then the figure howled in bloodthirst, and charged.
The three super-apes received the orders from Master as one. The super-apes had already been stationed at the human-place called the Citadel before Master ordered them to go there, but they knew that the human Master was helping did not know that, so they were not confused by the orders piped into their heads now. The super-apes had been told to remain at the Citadel in order to gather any information about the humans Master called the Champions that they could, but now Master had a new mission for them, a mission that promised much more entertainment.
The super-gorilla grunted at the super-orangutan and the super-baboon. They slinked along the wall of the room they’d followed the humans into when the humans descended from the sky in their human-ship. The super-apes did not understand the concept of a ship, but knew they had traveled in one with Master before. They had watched as the humans climbed out and greeted another human. The super-baboon had reached into its pack and withdrawn a digital camera. The super-apes had been documenting the human-ship and the human-place when the new orders came. As one, the super-apes turned invisible – a gift granted by Master – and began to move toward the stairs leading to the roof. A new group of humans was coming now. And the super-apes had to ensure these new arrivals fought with the humans from before.
The super-apes filed into the stairwell and moved swiftly to the roof. They piled out of the doorway and immediately spotted the humans flying through the air towards the roof they had settled on. The super-orangutan grunted, and then hopped on top of the concrete structure housing the stairs. The other super-apes followed. And then they waited.
“C’mon, kid. You can do better than that,” Sam Wilson chided as he dipped through the air. He arced off to the left, just before the space he’d occupied moments before was filled with the fuming face of Firebird.
“Madre de Dios!” Firebird hissed, as she struggled to match the trajectory of her teammate. They had been performing these flight drills for the better part of an hour now, and her frustration had reached the boiling point as Sam continually avoided her with his superior aerial skills.
“Kraw! Kraaaaaw!” Redwing cawed from his perch near the door, as if placing an exclamation point on Sam’s words.
Firebird narrowed her eyes. “Callate, pájaro.”
“Hey, don’t get mad at the bird,” Sam said as he dove for the floor. Firebird darted down herself, increasing her speed exponentially. Her angle was timed perfectly, and she slipped directly behind Falcon, her hair whipping behind her in a swirling mass of black. She stretched out her fingers, and Sam, perhaps noting the increase in heat on his backside turned his head to look back at her. There was panic etched on his face.
Firebird grinned wickedly. “I have you now, Sam!”
“Firebird, pull up!” Sam shouted. “You’re moving too fast!”
Firebird scoffed. There was no way she was going to tricked by the wily veteran again. There had been far too many near misses for her to stop now. She wrapped her hand around his ankle, and at that moment Sam began to pull up. Firebird tried to match his upsweep, but the velocity at which she was traveling ripped Sam’s foot from her grasp as she continued to plummet.
“Firebird!” Sam yelled, as Bonita continued to descend. She rolled her shoulder at impact, the way she’d been taught early on in her superheroic career by Captain America. He had shown her the technique after a particularly rough landing had fractured one of her feet – and nearly her skull – during one of their missions. Bonita rolled, and then skidded along the training-room floor. Her teeth rattled from the bone jarring impact, but finally Bonita came to a sliding stop on her back. Falcon landed lightly beside her and immediately hunched at her side.
“Jesus, Bonita! Are you all right? Is anything broken?”
Bonita closed her eyes. “Only my pride, Sam.”
“Thank goodness,” Sam breathed. “I thought you were a goner. Who taught you how to roll like that?”
“Who else?” Bonita said as she lifted her body to a sitting position.
Sam smiled. “Yeah, I should know better. I think Cap trained just about everybody in one technique or another over the years. But what you did was still dangerous, kid. <i>You</i> should know better too. We’re in here to improve your flight techniques, not get you killed.”
“Don’t change the subject, Sam. I tagged you fair and square.”
Sam chuckled softly. “Yeah, yeah.”
“But you are right. I doubt that move would have done me any good in a combat situation. I suppose I have got a lot to learaigh!” Bonita said with a grimace, and clapped a hand to her left shoulder.
“Ah, crap,” Sam said. “I was afraid something like that might happen. We better get you to the medical bay as quick as we--”
Breeeet! Breeeet! Breeeet!
“What the hell?” Sam muttered, looking toward the blaring speaker in the far corner of the gym.
“Intruder alert. Perimeter breach on hangar deck. All available personnel report to hangar deck,” the speaker resounded through the complex.
“Of course,” Sam mumbled. “Now I remember why I quit the Avengers. There’s never a dull moment in this business.”
Sam turned back to Firebird. “Stay here, Bonita. I’ll send Horace down to--”
“Don’t bother, Sam,” Bonita replied. She was standing now, her injured arm held gingerly at her side. “I heal rather quickly.”
Sam frowned. “You’re a big girl, Bonita, and I ain’t your daddy. But I’m a little worried about this reckless, cavalier attitude you have. I don’t recall it ever being a problem for you before. Is there--”
The alarm sounded again, cutting Sam off in mid-sentence. He shot the speaker system an ugly look, but when he turned back to Bonita, hoping to continue their conversation, he noticed the girl was already flying for the door. Sam shook his head, and then he followed.
Simon Williams hopped out of his bed. He’d been trying to catch a quick nap – making polite conversation with Sundragon was almost as exhausting as fighting the Hulk, and when the woman went into deep meditation, she meant deep meditation – when the alert sounded, and now he was scrambling to get dressed. The monitor on his desk blinked to life, and Eric was there. Simon did a double take.
“Eric? What the hell happened to you?” Simon said, as he struggled to fit his foot through his pant-leg. Eric Williams was a mess. His facial features were swollen, and the beginnings of dark bruises were forming all around his eyes and forehead. His nose was a bloody mess, and a trickle of it drained down his face as he spoke, droplets clinging to his lips.
“Simon!” Eric gasped. “I was… was attacked by Warren Worthington!”
“The Angel?” Simon said, his brow creasing in confusion. “Why would--?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Eric yelled. “He and some of the other former Champions raided my office. They were like mad dogs. I tried to fend them off, but… look at this place!”
Eric gestured behind him, and Simon looked. The entire office was a shambles. The desk was dashed to pieces, the other furnishings scattered about; the art that had been hanging on the wall was now on the ground.
“Whoa,” Simon said. “We’re getting an intruder alert, Eric. Do you think--?”
“It has to be them! Get up there, Simon. Stop them from doing anymore damage, I… Simon… what are you doing?” Eric spat. Simon had finished putting on his pants over his boxer shorts and was reaching for his shoes. “You don’t need your clothes! You’re surrounded by an ionic aura of energy wherever you go. Just go!”
“Don’t worry, bro. I’ll take care of it,” Simon said, allowing the energy to bubble up into his stomach. It spilled outward, filling his lungs, his veins, the pores of his skin. Wonder Man clenched his fists, and by the time they had unclenched, he was gone, only a trail of ionic energy left in his wake. On the screen, Eric Williams smiled. It looked like it hurt.
“I know you will, brother. I know you will.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Sean,” Dane said as he parried another strike cast forth from his former squire, “but I will.”
Sean Dolan did not reply, save for the blade he swung toward the Black Knight’s feet. Dane effortlessly lowered his own sword, the steel connecting shrilly in the dead air, then hefted their weight and pushed all at once. Sean was forced back a step.
“You’re sick, Sean. You need help,” Dane said, but he could tell his onetime friend wasn’t listening. There had been a time when Sean Dolan and Dane Whitman had been close, with Sean taking his rightful place at Dane’s side as his squire and eventual successor to the mantle of the Black Knight. But all that had changed on the day a mob of super-powered enforcers had assaulted Avengers Mansion and the castle of Dane Whitman, in search of the ebony blade.* Dane’s fiancé Victoria had been wounded that day before Sean’s very eyes, her garments torn in much the same way as the priestesses of Avalon. The ebony blade had called to him, and Sean had taken hold of it, drawn it from the strange meteorite in which it was embedded, and became the Blood Wraith, a creature consumed with bloodlust. Victoria had been killed not long afterward by the Blood Wraith, as he engaged in combat with Dane and the mercenary known as Deadpool. But that had been a terrible accident. Had Sean regressed so much that he was capable of this sort of bloodshed without the ebony blade to fuel him? Was it even possible?
[* That charming tale took place in Marvel’s Avengers Vol. 1, Annual #22 – Mike]
No, Dane decided. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even very likely Sean had done any of it. His clothes, barely more than rags, were filthy, but there was no sign of blood on them. His skin was pale, his body gaunt and malnourished. Dane knew the toll the ebony blade was capable of taking upon its hosts, especially the ones with a weaker strength of will than others, but there was something more, something Dane couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost as if Sean were being controlled in some way. And if the one doing the controlling was the one behind this massacre, then Dane had to defeat Sean. Not only for the sake of the people murdered today, but for the boy’s as well.
Sean thrust his sword at Dane’s midsection, and Dane was barely able to deflect the blow to his right. The blade of the sword passed along his body armor, glancing his arm. Dane spun away, a thin line of heat rising from his bicep. Sean remained hot on his heels, and Dane used the younger fighter’s momentum against him, stooping to a crouch and catching Sean in the stomach with his shoulder. Dane heaved, throwing Sean into the air. The boy, to his credit, rolled expertly as he struck the ground, and was on his feet in an instant. But Dane had schooled Sean Dolan in the art of swordplay, and the fight was over. Sean whirled around, but was unable to bring his sword to bear before Dane struck him along the jaw with the flat of his blade. Sean’s head rocked back violently, spittle flying from his mouth as he grunted in pain, his sword falling from his grasp. The boy fell on his back, and Dane pressed the point of his sword to his squire’s throat.
“The fight is over, Sean,” Dane said, his voice nothing more than a guttural growl. “Now you’re going to tell me who did this, and you’re going to tell me right now.”
Sean stared back at the Black Knight, purest loathing in his eyes, his deathly pale face creased with hatred. He opened his mouth, and for a moment his jaw worked spasmodically, as if the boy were trying to find words long forgotten, but then a blackish ooze ringed his lips, and formed a perfect bubble of ebon. It popped, flecks of darkness scattering in all directions that dispersed on the open air like strands of smoke. Sean laughed.
Dane grimaced. “Don’t.” He brought his sword down imperceptibly, drawing a thin streak of blood from Sean’s freshly pierced neck. The boy stopped laughing, but a sickening grin split his face. Dane heard the heavy tread of Hercules, and glanced up as the demigod entered the grove, his attention wavering for but an instant.
“The dark lord sends his regards, Whitman,” Sean said in the voice so unlike his own, and yet unmistakably still his, and then lifted his body onto his elbows. Dane felt the tension in his sword hand even before he looked down to see Sean Dolan skewer his throat on the blade of the Black Knight.
“It’s quiet,” Bobby Drake said as he and the others stood on the roof of the Citadel. He looked at the others somberly. “Too quiet.”
“Did we really have to bring along the child?” Natasha asked Warren. She made a mock action to shoot Bobby with her widow’s bite, and Iceman pulled Darkstar into the path of the shot.
“Unhand me, Bobby,” Lania Petrovna said with a laugh as she squirmed out from Bobby’s grip. “Natasha, shoot him quickly and be done with it.”
“Children, please,” Warren said, his words coming out in an exhalation of impatience. “Can we at least make the attempt to feign a little professionalism?”
“Why don’t you start,” a new voice said, startling the others, “by letting us know what you’re doing on our roof.”
The four heroes looked up. Standing in front of the emergency exit was a man with a red bird perched on his shoulder, and a young girl with a blazing aura of flame licking at the sky. The Black Widow stepped forward.
“Falcon, Firebird, we’re here to speak with you and the other… Champions. Warren and I, all of us, really, have some concerns stemming from the recent decision of Eric Williams to ‘hire’ you for his television program.”
“A phone call would have been fine, Natasha,” Falcon said, his eyes narrowing. “I hardly think it was necessary for you to come out in full force for a talk. And we do have a front door.”
“Yeah, well ‘Wings’ here can’t get through doors too easily these days,” Iceman said, poking a thumb at Warren, “if he folds them for too long, they start to chafe, and he develops this ugly rash that--”
“Bobby, let’s not go there, all right?” Warren snapped. “This is a pointless exchange. I’m here to speak with your leader. Where’s the Black Knight?”
“Out,” Falcon said. “And I don’t much like your tone there, Wings.”
“Hey, only I get to call him Wings, Redbird,” Bobby said. “So chill out.”
Darkstar placed a hand on Bobby’s chest. “Must we continue this? Perhaps if we simply--”
“No, you’re right,” Falcon said. “I don’t much like it that you’re here, but it’s not my call on whether you come inside or not. Just give me a second. Wonder Man’s the acting leader, so we’ll see what he has to say.”
Warren nodded. “Fine.”
Sam moved to the control panel set into the wall next to the door Firebird and he had stepped out of. He was more than a little perturbed by the fact that Simon wasn’t already out here, but it wasn’t as though the four characters sharing the roof with them were an immediate threat. He didn’t know most of them, but Natasha was good people, so it wasn’t like--
“Hey!” Sam cried, whipping his fingers away from the intercom installed into the control panel. A coating of ice had formed over it, and the intensity of the cold radiating from the panel sent a shiver through Sam’s spine. He spun around. “What the hell are you doing, Frosty?”
Everyone was looking at Iceman now, and he shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “It wasn’t me.”
“Bobby…” Natasha said, shaking her head. She stepped forward, hands out. “Falcon, I’m sure Iceman didn’t mean--”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” Bobby exclaimed. “It really wasn’t me!”
“Just stand down, kid,” Falcon said. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”
“Whatever, pops,” Iceman said with a laugh. “What are you going to do? Peck me to death?”
“Why you arrogant--” Sam started, but then his feet darted out from under him. He fell roughly on his backside, and even before he saw it, he felt the slick chill of the ice patch underneath him.
“Robert!” Darkstar said. “How could you?”
“I… I really didn’t do it, Lani. I don’t--” Bobby said, but was cut short as a ring of flame surrounded him.
“Joke or no,” Firebird stated. “I will not let you do that again.”
Natasha put up her hands. “Firebird, stop. Let’s not make things any worse than they already--”
Natasha fell silent, her features slackened, her shoulders slumped, as did those of the three others near her. Firebird let the flames dissipate around Iceman, and stared, dumbfounded.
“What’s happening to them?” Sam said. He had finally managed to get back on his feet.
“I did,” a voice said from behind them. Sundragon was there, hovering in the air. “I thought a more peaceful resolution might be required.”
Sam nodded. “Right on, kid. You did good.”
“No,” Sundragon replied, and Sam and Bonita looked at her. “Something… something is very wrong. I… I cannot…”
A mass of black surrounded Sundragon and yanked her past the faces of Falcon and Firebird. They whirled around, followed the black sphere catapulting their teammate away with their eyes, and immediately noted the source of the disturbance.
“I do not like to be controlled, woman,” Darkstar said, her darkforce bubble splitting into bands that surrounded Sundragon at her shoulders, midsection, knees and ankles. She was held completely inert.
“Let her go! You people started this!” Sam roared. He took wing, planning to intercept Darkstar before she could do anymore damage, but a blur shot in front of him, and stopping at a hover – wings beating powerfully at the air – was Archangel.
“Stop right there,” Warren said, holding up a hand. “Or I won’t hesitate to remind you who the better aerialist is here.”
Sam hesitated. He knew he was no match for Warren Worthington the third when it came to flying. He could swoop circles around Bonita, but this was a completely different ballgame.
“Just stand down, Falcon,” Warren pleaded. “We don’t want th--”
Sundragon screamed. Warren looked around, his face stamped with concern, but by the time he looked back, Sam was rocketing forward, and his fist connected smartly with Archangel’s jaw as he zipped by.
“Pamela!” Sam yelled, but before he could close the gap between himself and the two powerful females struggling in the open air, a wall of ice sprouted from the roof like a beanstalk.
Sam put his forearms up to shield himself, but he collided with the wall headfirst and plummeted to the ground. Iceman rounded the construct, blowing on his fingers.
“Now I did do that one,” Bobby said. He was scared. The screams coming from the weird chick with the painted face were freaking him out, but he really doubted a pissed off reject from a Flash Gordon movie running into them in midair would help much.
He’d just cool everybody down, be the voice of reason for once. Yeah, that’d work. He had a new trick or two. All he had to do was put the big chill on everybody until they slowed down enough to pass out. And then he could…
“Hot foot! Hot foot!” Bobby wailed, a burst of flame melting his miniature wall of ice and driving him back as it spiraled around in his direction. Firebird drifted down to stand in front of Iceman, blocking his path to Falcon, who was slowly rising to his feet.
“I’m going to Pam,” Sam said. Firebird nodded, her eyes never leaving Iceman.
“So, uh, I guess it would be silly of me at this point to hope you picked ‘Firebird’ as a codename because you like the car, yeah?” Iceman said, and then had to put up an ice-shield as the air around him was consumed by flame.
“It’sgoneit’sbeentakenfrommeIcan’tfeelitanymoreaaaiiigh!” Sundragon screeched at the top of her lungs, bucking wildly against the ebon bonds surrounding her.
“Darkstar, what are you doing to her?” Natasha Romanova said. Her face was a mask of fear and distress, and it was mirrored perfectly by Lania Petrovna’s.
“I am doing nothing, Natasha. Simply holding the girl. Something must be assaulting her from within, but I cannot discern what it is. I fear releasing her. She may do harm to herself or--”
“Take your hands off of her!” Sam Wilson bellowed, and he rocketed into Darkstar, slamming the breath out of the heroine in a rush.
“Falcon! Stop this now! I don’t want to have to shoot you,” Natasha said as she reached for the gun in the shoulder holster she wore.
It wasn’t there.
“Looking for something?” a voice said from behind her. Natasha turned around, just in time to see Wonder Man open his fist, and the remnants of her 9mm Beretta rain onto the roof.
The super-apes were in heaven. It took a supreme effort to keep them from grunting and hooting in glee. The super-baboon shifted the hand of his body into the corresponding weapon Master desired, as the strange nature of his body allowed, and then the super-orangutan and super-gorilla took turns firing it at the heroes Master specified.
The first weapon they’d used had been a gun that shot a concentrated beam of frozen water particles. It had been a riot watching the dark bird-human fall all over himself as the super-apes continued to fire the weapon at his fingers and under his feet.
The current weapon of choice was a device used to stifle the motor functions of the brain that Master had identified controlled something called telepathy, and another weapon with the capability of inspiring fear in anyone they pointed it at. Both weapons were currently trained on the human-female with the painted face. The super-apes had no idea what telepathy was, and they didn’t care. The human-female was visibly upset about what they were doing, and her cries sounded a lot like an orangutan female’s mating call, so they continued, Master urging them along all the while.
Sundragon continued to scream as she plummeted toward the ground, the darkforce bands dissipating in the wind. A horrible panic clutched at her mind, and she couldn’t understand the fear she felt gnawing at her brain, nor could she distinguish where it came from. She had been distressed by her inability to access her telepathy when it was shut off from her mind, and had naturally attempted to place telekinetic bonds around the trespassers to compensate for its absence, but then the fear had risen in her, just as the darkness of that witch-woman enveloped her.
And now she was falling to her death while her teammates struggled for their lives above. And there was nothing she could do about it, because whenever she thought about using her telekinetic powers to halt herself, she was gripped with a terrible fear that they wouldn’t work either.
“Need a lift?” a voice said from beside her, and Sundragon looked over to see Falcon matching her descent. He took hold of her, and for a moment his hands were mangled, clutching claws that threatened to tear her apart; and she wanted to flee, to fling her body from those terrible talons and fall – even death would be a better fate than surrendering herself to those murderous hands – but then it was the comforting arms of Falcon that surrounded her again, and she fell into them, and let Sam carry her up, up, and away from her dread.
“Are you okay, Sundragon?” Sam said, and Pamela Douglas nodded.
“I am fine, Sam. I thank you. There was something inside of me that rebelled terribly when my telepathy failed. But I am in control now.”
Sam blinked. “Your telepathy is gone? That’s going to make things a little more difficult. I was hoping you might be able to put Natasha and the others to sleep like you did before.”
“Indeed,” Sundragon said. “But there was an advantageous side-effect to the removal of my telepathy. I have just now noticed it.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“It appears,” Sundragon said, and suddenly Sam wasn’t flying by his own power anymore. Brilliant golden energy clutched him, and his speed increased tenfold. “That my telekinesis has intensified to compensate in a remarkable way.”
“Whoooooaaaaa!” Sam yelled, as his eyelids peeled back and his cheeks flattened. They blasted past Redwing, and the two heroes crested the rooftop. Sundragon released Falcon, and then, spotting her target, sent a barricade of golden telekinetic force hurtling towards Darkstar.
“Glumph!” Wonder Man said, as he gasped around the darkforce energy doing its best to suffocate him.
“Simon, call off your dogs!” Natasha said. “This is getting us nowhere.”
“Mrglph!” Simon said in reply, and then the darkforce energy holding onto him fell away as Darkstar was grasped by golden bonds of energy and torn away.
“You! You are the one who crippled me,” Sundragon said, and the telekinetic force surrounding her shimmered like a miniature sun.
“Time out, time out!” Bobby said as he formed another icy construct that Firebird melted into rivers of steam. He’d been forced into a standstill by the young woman, neither one willing to give up any ground, and both with an extraordinary amount of power at their disposal. Iceman thought he might be able to take the girl down if he went all out, but, well, she was actually pretty hot – no pun intended – and he wasn’t too big on hitting girls anyway.
“Look, aaah!” Bobby said as a jet of flame crossed uncomfortably close. “This has gotten too ridiculous even for my tastes, okay? Your friend up there looks like she’s about to kill my friend. Do you want that?”
Firebird stopped attacking, but kept her aura at its utmost degree of intensity, wary of a trick. Iceman made no move to attack, so she looked up, and then she cried out.
Sundragon was there, and so was Darkstar, the latter surrounded with a swirling vortex of golden force. Darkstar had put up a shield of dark energy to protect herself, but it was crumbling, collapsing more and more every second. Simon was up there as well, struggling to pierce the telekinetic orb surrounding Sundragon and pleading with her to stop. Even Falcon and Archangel, who only moments ago had been clutching each other by the throat and trading blows in the sky, had halted their own brawl to stare.
“Kraw!” Redwing stated from his perch near the stairs, and Firebird glanced in his direction. The bird was stubbornly pecking at some invisible thing in the air, the only one unaware of what was happening.
The super-apes were annoyed. The dark bird-human’s bird had settled near them and was pecking at their feet. They had strict orders from Master not to be discovered, and if they hurt the bird-human’s bird, they most assuredly would be. The super-gorilla grunted as the bird plunged its beak into one of its hairy toes. None of the humans took note of his pained grumbling, but the super-gorilla knew that if the bird continued to peck at its foot, they soon would.
Master filled their heads with new instructions, and the super-apes breathed a sigh of mutual relief. The super-baboon reformed the new weapon he had been training on the paleface-human woman – Master called it a hatemonger ray – into his own, more familiar, digits, and the super-apes clambered down from their perch, and then began the long and difficult process of descending the Citadel. Their job was done.
Firebird took to the sky, and for the first time noted the camera hovering in the air overhead, no doubt filming each aspect, every action-packed angle of the battle between the heroes scattered about on the roof of the Citadel. It was time to end this fight, before they provided more foolish video footage for the American public to chew on.
Firebird could see that Sundragon was lost in her own little world of rage and confusion. Darkstar had hurt her in some way, and now all Sundragon could see was the vengeance she wished to deal out. The world surrounding Sundragon was a blur, inconsequential. The woman had lost her way.
Firebird concentrated. There was no way she could pierce the barrier of telekinetic energy Sundragon had surrounded herself with, but if she could increase the heat <i>inside</i> that bubble, maybe she could snap Pamela out of it. But Bonita didn’t want to roast Sundragon alive, and she wasn’t sure if she could focus her power well enough to accomplish the one while sparing her teammate the other.
Bonita looked down, and noticed Iceman staring up at the drama being played out above. His words came back to her in a rush.
Hot foot! Hot foot!
Bonita smiled, then she lifted her eyes, and focused the entirety of her will on Sundragon’s right foot. Her shoulder was killing her, but she forced herself to ignore the pain, and a glowing ball of heat formed underneath Sundragon. Firebird clenched her fist sharply, and the ball ignited fiercely. Sundragon cried out as it licked at her toes, and the telekinetic barrier fell away. The unhampered darkforce energy expelled in all directions, and Sundragon fell to the ground, exhausted and unconscious, and Wonder Man caught her in his arms.
“It was a mistake coming here, Simon,” Warren said as he shook Wonder Man’s hand. “I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
“It’s starting to become a part of the job,” Simon said as he watched Iceman and Darkstar fly off towards the airport and Worthington’s private jet. Black Widow was saying her goodbyes to Falcon. “It seems as though everyone is mistaking us for criminals lately.”
Well, I’m sorry agaiiiigh!” Archangel cried out as Simon squeezed his hand in a vice-like grip. Sam and Natasha didn’t turn around to look. “What… what are you doing, Williams?”
“You want my forgiveness?” Simon said with a snarl. “After what you did to my brother? I should break your hand.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking abouahhhh!” Angel said with a grimace as Simon squeezed again.
“Save it. I saw his face. I saw his office. I know you were responsible for it. And I’m telling you right now; if you ever lay hands to someone I care about again… I’ll make sure you lose those hands. Permanently.”
Simon let go of Archangel’s hand, and the man cradled it to his chest like a newborn. His face was a mix of pain and bewilderment, and he shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Simon, and that’s the truth. But I have a theory. Why don’t you try it on for size? Maybe your brother isn’t as reformed as you think he is. Maybe whatever you think I did to him he did to himself. And maybe you’d better watch your back from here on out.”
“Is that a threat?”
“The only threat I think you should be worried about is the snake coiled at your feet,” Warren said. “But if you ever feel like continuing this conversation. You know where to find me.”
Warren turned on his heel, and approached Natasha and Sam, they exchanged goodbyes, and then Archangel took to wing with Natasha clinging to his back. Sam crossed the distance between them, and Simon looked away.
Sam cleared his throat. “What was all that about?”
“Nothing,” Simon said, and kept his eyes on the sky. “Nothing at all.”
NEXT ISSUE: Captain Ultra and the Ultra Crew! …the Ultra Crew?
Champion Lovers
Another whopper of an issue, but no mail to grace the letters section this time around. I’m just not as popular as I used to be, I guess, but since I have a little space here, I think it might be a good idea to plug a few of the new series here at Marvel 2000.
Young, impressionable Adnan Khan has produced the first two issues of “The Chosen”, a title that shares space with Champions. The Chosen is an entertaining and mysterious tale starring an entertaining character with mysterious abilities. Makes sense, yeah? The abilities were apparently granted to him by a higher power. Could this guy be kin to Firebird? Read it and find out!
The Knights Branch (it’s no Heroes, but hey) has undergone a surge of new blood of late in the form of two brand new titles: Tomb of Dracula by Curt Fernlund, and Man-Thing by our estimable EiC Chris Munn. Tomb of Dracula is an excellently bizarre and visionary take on a character that’s scourged honest folk for generations. Man-Thing is the shambling, plant-encrusted lovable ol’ cuss we’ve all come to know and love over the years, and Chris writes him wonderfully. And even better, Foolkiller’s there too!
So go on and take a look at some of these other titles. And check out the new writers with their fresh takes on some of our old titles. Deja on Ghost Rider, Ingram on Excalibur, and Rasbury & Hernandez on Defenders. You won’t be sorry you did.
-Mike Exner III
03/10/2004