“I love the rain,” Henry Camp, also known as Bulldozer, said as he slowly choked the life from Sam Wilson, also known as Falcon. Sam raised a fist and punched Bulldozer in the jaw. A dull clang sounded, and the larger man only smiled. “You see I got this helmet,” and the villain tipped his head forward, as if to give Falcon a better view of what he'd just struck, “and whenever it rains, like it is now f'r instance, the raindrops echo inside this chrome dome of mine. It sounds so nice it almost puts me to sleep.”
Sam could only wheeze out a gargling choke in response, but Bulldozer still clamped a meaty paw around his forearm and snapped it like a twig. Sam screamed.
“Don't interrupt,” Bulldozer said with a sneering smile. “Like I was sayin', the rain nearly puts me to sleep, but right before I do drift off, these images come into my head. Keep me up all night. You know what they are?”
Sam had no reply, so Bulldozer continued. “ Vietnam . I was in Vietnam . Don't much look it, I know, but you'd be surprised what a little god-juice can do for your looks. I was a sergeant if you can believe that. One time me and my unit, we got caught up in this little village. Our CO was a creampuff, a black bastard kinda like you come to think of it. He thought the people in that village were friendlies, but they wasn't friendly at all.”
Sam stared up into the face of Bulldozer and could see that his enemy's eyes were growing distant, reflective. If he was going to make any kind of move, it'd have to be now. But Redwing was injured, maybe dead, and Bulldozer's grip was like tempered steel. Even worse, now the larger man's face was framed by little black spots that were gradually turning a bright red. Sam tried looking elsewhere to clear the spots away, but they only redoubled their efforts, nearly blacking the face of Bulldozer away entirely. Sam was losing it, the pain of his broken arm and the lack of oxygen carrying him away. He didn't have much time.
“They let us stay with them for a while, pretty as you please,” Bulldozer continued. “We even had our way with some of their women. That kinda thing happened all the time, y'know? I usually got sloppy seconds, but this time I shacked up with this really fine, young, sloe-eyed girl, and I kept her away from most of the others. It was nice. Yellow tail's the best tail, ain't it?”
Bulldozer started to laugh. To Sam it sounded distant, like whispering at the end of a long hall.
“Stay with me, chief,” Bulldozer said, his voice like the crack of a whip. He shook Sam back to a small semblance of consciousness, and Sam whimpered as his arm swelled in pain. “Don't you wanna hear the rest of the story? It's good. I always thought a man should be entertained as he die. No point to dying quiet and alone, I say. I also say a man should die with friends, but since yours are busy with mine, I guess I'll have to do.”
Sam tried to lift his hands, attempt to pry the fingers of the juggernaut from his throat, throw another punch, at the least flip him the bird; but his arms were like dead weight. He could barely feel the break anymore.
“They put us up, put up with us, and just waited. They bided their time. And after we were all packed up and ready to hoof it out of there, they attacked us. Half of the men were killed Johnny on the spot, but the CO herded the rest of us into as much shelter as we could find. We were lucky. Charlie didn't have any hard ordinance, just some guns they'd either been given or stole from the other good old boys who wandered through their little deathtrap over the long months of the war. I was covered in blood by the time I registered the orders our CO was barking. You see, I'd been standing with my little Vietnamese princess when those bastards opened fire, and they cut her down in their zeal to do me. I got her blood all over me, man. On my face, in my eyes, in my mouth,” Bulldozer tongued where the blood from the gaping wound where his left eye used to be was running along his chin. “I never forgot that taste.
“A storm hit right after that. An ugly one. And the little roofs of the shanty we made our stand in were made of aluminum siding or something like it. I remembered wondering where they got it from, but it was just as much a mystery to me as where they got those guns. Meaningless to think about, y'know? That storm masked what we were up to pretty well though. And we managed to get out of their with our skins intact. Sent quite a few of them off to meet their makers in the process. I quit the army pretty soon after that. But that day stands out in my mind. It really does. I think about it all the time. I think about my little princess, and I think about the taste of her blood, and I think about the pitter-patter of rain on them tin rooftops. That was my own personal hell, bird-guy, and I think it's about time I ushered you off to yours.”
Bulldozer tightened his grip, and the spots before Sam's eyes exploded in a flare of ebony. But before Sam Wilson could fall completely into the black, a roaring filled his ears, filled the air surrounding them, and a wash of heat replaced the chill of the rain. Sam peered up, and through the haze of his vision saw the Champscraft hovering on the open air above them. The hangar doors spilled open, and from the breach stepped the raging figure of a god. The hands gripping his throat loosened as the god plummeted towards them, fury etched upon its face, and Sam Wilson smiled.
THE CHAMPIONS # 9
"Godly Devices"
Part Two
Written by Mike Exner III
“So tell me, Horace. Don't be shy. What do you think of him?” Loki said with a smile, as he guided Horace Jasper forward with a firm hand in the small of the old man's back. Jasper smelled faintly of mothballs and old cheese to Loki, but he was in such a good mood that he bit his tongue before he could voice such an observation.
“I don't rightly know what it is I'm looking at, Mr. Loki,” Horace said. Loki had brought him a little way down the street, and as he did a mist had risen from the pavement below them. It had clouded Horace's vision, and when he waved at the mist, it cleared, revealing a very large orb plunked right in front of him. Horace had almost walked into it. He stopped, gazing up at it – for it was at least ten feet high – and watched as the color of the thing shifted, thumbing through each color of the rainbow like an oval prism. “Did you say him?”
“Oh! I apologize, Mr. Jasper. How silly of me,” Loki said, grasping Horace by the shoulder and chuckling mildly. “I often tend to disregard the failings of human perception. To you I am sure this looks like nothing more than – how would one of your human children put it? – a giant Easter egg.”
“Yes, sir. Something like that,” Horace said. His palms were now slick with sweat, and droplets of perspiration were starting to form on his brow as well, mingling with the rain. Whatever this thing was – and Horace was quite certain “giant Easter egg” didn't qualify as an answer – it was giving off a tremendous amount of heat. The mist – although it wasn't mist, Horace realized, it was steam – had formed as the freezing rain beat upon the surface of it.
“Well then, allow me to enlighten you, my friend,” Loki said, and passed a hand through the air. Horace watched as Loki's fingertips cut through the steam, shimmering rainbow-colored strips of energy peeling from his digits, and then gasped in wonderment as the prismatic light came to life, slithering through the curls of steam and wrapping themselves tightly around the orb.
The light-bands spun rapidly, but instead of cutting into the orb and releasing what had to be the heat of a miniature sun onto Horace's face as he had feared, the straps of energy began to expand, stretching themselves beyond the scope of possibility until they covered the elliptical shape below entirely.
“Now look, Horace Jasper,” Loki whispered, his voice one of barely contained glee, “and tell me what you see.”
The bands of multicolored light merged, and the prismatic effect faded. For a moment Horace thought he could see completely through the giant egg to the street beyond – a shimmering after-image all that remained, like a mirage in the desert heat – but then the shimmer solidified, and what Horace saw next made him step backward.
“What… what is that?” Horace said, his voice barely a whimper. He was looking at the orb again, but now it was filled with what Horace could only identify as molten earth. Magma , he thought it might be called. Something from deep inside the planet, hotter than lava… hotter than the hottest flame Ms. Bonita could ever hope to generate. True heat. It was roiling and boiling inside the sphere that contained it, slamming and sloshing against the invisible barrier as though it were alive. Horace could feel rivers of sweat pouring down his face now – despite the steady, cool pattern of rain falling over his shoulders – the heat of the object more palpable to him now that he could see what was trapped within.
“Can you not see, Mr. Jasper? You are witness to something truly remarkable,” Loki said, and gestured with his hands again. He spread his arms, his hands reaching outward as if expecting an embrace from a loved one. The orb of magic surrounding the inferno vibrated harshly, and Horace had another clear image of the egg shattering, spilling a river of flame and molten sludge over his body, and burning him to a charred husk in seconds. But then the magma shifted, parting around something advancing through it, and Horace Jasper gasped audibly.
“Yes,” Loki said, his voice a whisper. “Yes, now you see. Now you see !”
Horace shook his head, trying to deny it. But he did see. Saw all too well. The heat trapped within the ethereal orb was enough to bake his skin despite the frigid rain descending over him, and yet there was something living inside of it, for Horace could see the vague outline of a man – or was it a woman, or… something else? – thrashing wildly within, and pounding against the barrier holding it in check. Something with skin as black as onyx, and eyes that blazed as fiercely as the fire around it.
“My child,” Loki said, and Horace started. He'd nearly forgotten the god was there. “And soon, very soon… it will be time for him to hatch.”
“Goddess, this place is truly the most beautiful land in all the world,” Pamela said, slipping her hand into the cascading waterfall that fell into the clear lagoon before her, reveling in the feel of the cool, blue water dancing over her fingertips. She took her hand from the deluge and plunged her fingers greedily into her mouth, sucking the sweet moisture she found there. A hand settled on her shoulder, and Pamela felt tingling bursts of pleasure surge from the point of contact and travel down the length of her spine. Her knees buckled smoothly, and she fell backward into the arms of the most beautiful creature she'd ever laid eyes on.
Her goddess.
“You must be cautious, child,” her goddess said, the voice escaping her lips as soothing as the finest melody. “You nearly fell.”
“And you were there to catch me, my goddess. As it has always been.”
Her goddess smiled down upon her, and Pamela blushed fiercely. “As it ever will be, child.” She stepped back, and laid Pamela gently on her back. The cool, moist bed of grass soothed and tickled her skin as she settled upon it. Her goddess crossed in front of her, the sheer, silken robe she wore fluttering softly in the warm breeze. Pamela looked up at her, and her goddess smoothly rolled her shoulders, her robe dropping to her ankles and piling in gentle folds at her feet.
“Now come. Show me the depths of your devotio nnnggghhh .” Her goddess said, her body tensing as a blade pierced through her breastbone. A thin ribbon of blood spurted from the wound, dotting Pamela's forehead, and she screamed in horror and rage. The blade was withdrawn, and her goddess dropped to her knees, her deathly pale face drawn into a tight grimace of shock.
Pamela drug her eyes away from her goddess, and standing in the space occupied by the most beautiful creature she'd ever known only moments before, was the most horrible visage she had ever settled her eyes upon. It was a man, covered in the stinking, stained carcass of some dead beast. The garment hung loosely even over the disgustingly obese frame the man carried. Coarse red hair covered the man from head to toe. It spilled from the makeshift collar of the hide he wore, and met with the large beard hanging from his pudgy pig-face; it lined his fat legs, and disappeared into moccasins hewn of the same animal as his tunic; it covered his arms like a molding rug, and it was then that Pamela saw the large broadsword held in his right hand, stained with the blood of her goddess.
Pamela wasted no breath on the foul creature, for even if she did speak it was doubtful such a primitive, foul being would even understand the words uttered from her lips. She did let the rage carried in her heart fire through her eyes at the man, but was horrified and ashamed to see that the only thing echoed through his own was a deep, perverse lust. A lust to kill, a lust to rape, and a lust she knew full well every man possessed… a lust to destroy all that was beautiful and good in the world.
She brought her hands from behind her back, and exposed them to the man. Held in each clenched fist were the weapons of her birthright, a pair of chain-link whips with barbed spheres at their end, granted to her by her goddess when she came of age. She whipped them up and around at waist level, and the man leaped – extraordinarilyagile for his size – neatly into the air, allowing the chains to crisscross under him. Pamela grimaced, her delicate features twisting into an ugly scowl, and renewed her attack.
The Enchantress fell to the roof; her chest crackling from the impact Dane Whitman's photonic sword had given when he drove it into the middle of her back. The Black Knight drew his sword to his side, and was about to thumb the power down and ask Sundragon to lower them to the street below so they could help the rest of the team, when the roof of the building he was standing on lit up as bright as day and shook from the force of the thunder and lightning from the storm. The spark in the sky lit the face of Sundragon, and Dane took a hesitant step back. The anger stamped on her face was genuine, not feigned, and reminded him immediately of the fury etched on the features of the Hellcat, Patsy Walker, when Dane Whitman had driven the Ebony Blade through her husband's chest.* He had thought Daimon Hellstrom slain then, and had feared for his own soul as a result, but Daimon had not died, and though Dane found relief in that, the idea that he could still find the darkness inside to take a life chilled him to the bone. He saw that darkness echoed back to him in the eyes of Pamela Douglas.
[* The battle the Black Knight refers to took place in M2K's Defenders #13 – Mike]
Sundragon held her arms out – palms up, elbows slightly bent – and energy cascaded down from her shoulders, meeting in her hands and spilling outward. The energy formed a long rope of telekinetic force in each hand, and with almost no hesitation, Pamela flicked her wrists, and the telekinetic whips darted for the Black Knight's feet. Dane jumped into the air, allowing the whips to harmlessly pass through the air underneath him. The sound of their passing was a whistling shriek, and Dane saw the whips form slashing strokes of empty space in the rain for a brief moment before the thickly falling deluge reclaimed the area the whips had just occupied.
“Pamela, stop this!” Dane said, lifting his photonic sword to parry another lightning-quick snap of the telekinetic lash, only bumping the golden cord off track so it wouldn't have the chance to wrap around the blade of his sword. If it did, one strong tug would send his weapon flying, and if he lost the sword, he'd be sliced to ribbons in instants.
“Thy words are lost upon her, mortal,” the Enchantress said. Dane took his eyes away from Pamela long enough to see the goddess straighten to her feet and glare at him, rubbing softly at the place between her breasts were the Black Knight had lodged the tip of his sword. “Her eyes perceive what I will.”
“Let her go, Amora. She doesn't belong to you.” Dane blocked another blow from the telekinetic whip, and this time let his sword continue to fall, pinning the strand of energy against the rain-soaked roof. The other whip descended, but this time the Black Knight was ready for it. He arched his back, and though the whip still collided with him – hard enough to tear through his body armor and cut his skin, he still managed to trap the cord beneath his arm. He flexed with all of his might as Pamela struggled to yank it free of his grip, and turned his shoulders to look at her. “Snap out of it, Pam! Now!”
Pamela tugged harder, and Dane could see the sorrow and desperation filling her eyes. What in the world was the Enchantress showing her? “Let them go, monster. You killed her! You killed she who was my life. You must be made to suffer.”
“I don't have time for this,” Dane said, his voice a dim growl, and relinquished his grip on the whips. As Pamela drew her weapons back for another strike, Dane hefted his sword and launched it through the air. The blade of the photonic sword collided with the temple of the Enchantress, the neural inhibitors comprising the body of the blade immediately blasting the synapses of the goddess' brain. The Enchantress screamed, her body once more falling limply to the roof of the building.
And then the whip strokes fell, and white-hot pain burst in front of Dane Whitman's eyes. It felt as if a giant had taken hold of the flesh on his back and ripped it from his bones. He cried out in pain, but it was a choked, strangled cry. Bile filled his mouth, layering his tongue with its bitter taste, and Dane Whitman felt a black world rush up through infinite space to greet him. And then he passed out.
Sundragon watched the Black Knight fall to the roof, the scene portrayed in her mind washing away as the rain beat a cold reality on the top of her head. She looked down at her hands, watching as the energy forming the telekinetic whips – not the chains of her goddess, not some fabled weapon, but her own telekinetic energy – dissipated into nothing. She turned her head, and saw the slumping form of Amora the Enchantress. She was keeled over, eyes open but distant, her head resting against the roof, twisting her neck in an awkward manner. Dane Whitman's sword lay near her jaw, the photonic field around it humming busily as the rain assaulted it. She turned her head to the unconscious Black Knight. Twin slashes of crimson lined his armored back. Blood spilled from the wounds and pooled on the roof of the building, lingering for but a brief moment until the rain broke it down into smaller pools, and then thin rivers that ran down to Sundragon's feet.
Her teammate, Dane Whitman, the leader of the Champions and the man who had broken the spell the Enchantress had cast over her. She had injured him, perhaps gravely. She should help him. Use the telekinesis she possessed to staunch the flow of blood and transport him to a hospital…
She looked back at the Enchantress. The witch had taken control of her, played with her mind and emotions in ways she had never experienced before. With hardly a thought, Pamela took a step towards Amora, allowing the golden telekinetic energy to flow down through her body. She lifted into the air, a faint golden hue encapsulating the soles of her feet and lingering in her eyes. She squinted her eyes slightly, exerting the minimalist of concentration, and a golden lasso wrapped its way around the throat of the Enchantress. Sundragon spared one look back at her floundering teammate, and then her eyes found the Enchantress again, and the noose tightened.
Bulldozer skidded along the ground like a bowling ball and slammed into a brick wall. The brick gave way around him and tumbled all around his head, neck and shoulders. He sat that way for a moment, letting the heavy rectangular stones crash into his helm. They resounded through it, and he savored the jarring tones as they thrummed against his eardrums. The sounds were not pleasant, but he embraced them all the same, letting the harsh discords fuel his feverish anger.
“You just made a big mistake, godling,” Bulldozer said, rubbing his jaw. The punch the demigod had thrown to get him off the black guy had been a good one. But he was ready now. The rumbling of his voice made him sound like a god himself. “I was annoyed with the bird-man and his fine, feathered friend for messing up my eye. I planned on killing him, his bird and then taking myself a siesta.”
Bulldozer got to his feet, bricks raining from his shoulders. He cracked his knuckles. The sound of it was audible despite the rain pounding the street. “But now you've gone and made me mad. So now I'm not going to stop until I kill you, the bird-man, all your little hero buddies, and everybody else on this damn block.”
Hercules stepped forward defiantly. His lips curled into a sneer that matched Bulldozer's perfectly. “Come, caitiff. Your words sound hollow to mine ears. Let us see if thine actions are any better.”
Bulldozer needed no more an invitation than that. He charged. Letting his muscle do the talking for him was how he'd lived his life even before Loki had granted him and his mates the strength of the gods. He and the rest of the Wrecking Crew had taken Thor… Thor! Hercules was nothing more than the Thor-lite of the Avengers. This motley bunch of losers weren't even the Avengers West Coast. They were the Champions; a title that sounded so ridiculous to Bulldozer that he and the rest of the crew had planned on smacking them around just for naming themselves something so pretentious. Champions? Champions of what? Getting their butts handed to them, maybe. Hell, Hercules was just standing there with a dumb look on his face. Just standing there! Didn't he realize what was about to happen? He was about to be hit with the force of a Mack truck right square in his pug-ugly godling fa--
Hercules lifted a hand, and Bulldozer ran directly into his cupped palm. There was a great, wet, SLAP! of sound, and Bulldozer realized he'd been stopped dead in his tracks. Hercules had not moved. Not even an inch.
“I hath found thee wanting,” Hercules said, and the tone of voice Bulldozer heard in the demigod's voice made him want to pull away, get away, run away as fast as he could. But he couldn't. Hercules had his head palmed like a Los Angeles Laker would palm a basketball. Hercules squeezed, and Bulldozer first heard, and then felt the metal of his enchanted helmet molding to the titanic grip Hercules had on it.
“How…? How are you--”
“Thou thought to slay my comrades? Thou thought little enough of me to charge like a plodding bull?” Hercules said, and then lifted Bulldozer effortlessly into the air. Henry Camp kicked out, but Hercules slipped the thrust of his foot easily. He punched Bulldozer in the face, and the result was as though a gong had been sounded in Camp's inner ear. He screamed, clutching his helmet in an effort to still the cacophony, and when he couldn't, clawed at Hercules' hand like a babe. It had no effect.
“Thou art a coward, and a fool,” Hercules said, and at that moment, a stroke of lightning descended from the sky and lit the face of the demigod. Henry Camp, who had seen horrors beyond measure more times in his life than he could ever hope to count still found he could not look into those blazing eyes for long.
“Please!” Bulldozer said, although it sounded more like a pleading wail than anything else to his ringing ears. “You gotta believe me! It wasn't my idea, okay? It's Loki!”
Hercules paused, his back stiffening as the name of the trickster god escaped the lips of the sniveling worm below. He brought Bulldozer closer, his raging face twisted into something so terrifyingly murderous that Henry Camp nearly fainted.
“Tell me of Loki, mortal. Or suffer the wrath of the Son of Zeus.”
“He's trying to hatch some kid,” Bulldozer said, his voice a quivering mess. “Some kid who's supposed to be powerful enough to kill Thor. But he needs energy to do it. A lot of it. So he got the Enchantress to muck with some yahoo named Captain Ultra, ‘cuz he figured the guy was strong enough to take Wonder Man out. But Loki wanted more energy, ‘cuz this kid is some kinda sponge or somethin'. So he visited us in the Vault and offered to give us our powers back after the Wrecker took it from us. All we hadda do was take the Champions out, and Loki was gonna take the energy from all of you to fuel this kid. Make ‘im stronger than anything Thor ever faced before. I swear that's all I know. It ain't my fault!”
Hercules frowned. “The desires of the Enchantress have ever been a mystery, but the obsessive love she holds for the god of thunder is constant. Why would she now agree to aid the trickster?”
“He… he promised her something,” Bulldozer said. “She's looking for some kind of artifact I guess. He's gonna find it for her if she helps him!”
“That's enough, Henry,” a voice said from behind Hercules, and he turned, his hand still firmly entrenched in Bulldozer's helmet. Two men stood there, men Hercules immediately recognized as Thunderball and Piledriver of the Wrecking Crew. Both men had steam rising from their powerfully built forms, as if they'd just stepped out of a sauna into a chilly winter morn. Clutched in Thunderball's fist was a swirling tangle of black hair, and at the end of it, being dragged along the street like a caveman's prize, was Firebird. “Don't tell this mother another word. It's three on one now, and we got your ba--”
Thunderball fell silent as Hercules hefted Bulldozer by his helmet and dashed his head into the pavement below. The enchanted metal drove Henry Camp's skull a full foot through the blacktop, and when Hercules lifted him from the crater he'd formed, both Thunderball and Piledriver could see that Henry Camp was out like a light. Hercules dropped him to the ground, and a dull clanging sound echoed along the length of the avenue.
“Three jackals reduced to two,” Hercules said, as he curled his hands into fists. “Dost thy have the resolve to persist upon this course of action, or dost thy yield? I prithee… Persist.”
“Have a cigar, Horace,” Loki said, beaming with pride at the glowing orb before him. “May I call you Horace? I feel we've bonded over these past few minutes, you know? Sitting here, watching as my son gestates in his little womb of fire, I feel a kinship with you. It's a little disturbing, you being a mortal and all, but pleasant in a way too, in a way I can't really describe.”
“Mr. Loki,” Horace Jasper said, his eyes were no longer on the orb behind him, for he'd turned back to the battlefield the Los Angeles city street had become. Mr. Hercules was facing off against two monsters. He'd watched as the one with the giant ball and chain weapon had pummeled a building, bringing part of it down over the top of Ms. Bonita. He'd watched as the Black Knight had snuck his way up a fire escape, hopefully to free Sundragon from the spell the witch woman had her under. But he'd seen hide nor hair of any one of them since. He watched as the helmeted-fella, Bulldozer tortured the Falcon, and then Hercules saved him, but the Falcon still hadn't moved from the spot where he'd dropped when Hercules knocked Bulldozer across the street. And the blue-light of Simon Williams' energy still floated over his head and into the terrifying object behind him, as Captain Ultra dissected it piece by piece with the strange laser-beams blasting out from his eyes. Wonder Man was resisting, and the energy was bleeding only a bit at a time, but it wouldn't be long until Wonder Man was reduced to nothing more than baby food, and there was nobody coming to save him.
Horace swallowed. “Mr. Loki. Please don't kill my friends.”
Loki clapped a hand on Horace Jasper's shoulder. Horace turned to look at him, and saw something shining in Loki's eyes he hadn't seen before. “So save them, Horace.”
Horace blinked. “Save them, Mr. Loki?”
“That's right, Horace,” Loki said, tipping Horace a wink. “I know you want to.”
“I can't,” Horace said, his brow furrowing. “I mean… how could I? I'm just a man. An old man.”
“Oh come now, Horace. You're not spinning that sad ol' tale, are you? You and I both know that's not the truth. Well, maybe half of the truth, but not the whole truth. Not by a long shot.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Loki,” Horace said, “but if you know a way I can save these people, then you better tell me right now. Right this second. I'm through playing these games.”
“You forget your place, Mr. Jasper,” Loki said, his voice thin and angry. His hand tightened on Horace's shoulder, and the old man winced. “I am the god of games. We play as long as I say we do. You are far more than you appear to be, Horace. Your friends are outnumbered and dying, and only you can help them. Look inside yourself and see what it is that you are. If not, then watch you friends die in front of you…”
Loki gestured to the street, and watched Horace Jasper's eyes, torn with emotion, as his friends continued their life and death struggle. He smiled.
“To me, it matters not.”
NEXT ISSUE: The Champions are STILL in big-league trouble, and only Horace Jasper(?) can save them! Be here next issue for the conclusion to “Godly Devices”.
CHAMPION LOVERSAnother issue in the bag, and another letter in the mailbag. This one comes from Brent Lambert, he of the inspiration behind Brent Lambert Presents, and the current co-writer of New Warriors. Brent's probably my most consistent reviewer, so let's see what he's got to say, shall we?
Okay I'm going to break this issue down scene by scene much like I did in my recent review of X-Men Prime.
I read that review. Pristine stuff. This should be good…
Lets get crackin'. The first scene with Dane and Herc was very emotionally powerful. You could feel Dane's hurt and see Herc's attempt at trying to console his friend.
I tried to convey as much depth as I could there. It can be difficult at times to capture the emotional impact grief has on someone, let alone try to utilize another character as the leaning post of support, but I'm glad it worked for you.
The second scene gave some good introspection on the part of Simon, and Mike shows just how much of a roller coaster ride this guy can be emotionally. One issue he's fighting mad and defending his bro, the next ish he's feeling down on his luck and like a general loser. That's the way Simon should be portrayed though, since he has never really been all that stable.
Simon is an interesting character to write, and he's getting more interesting all the time. The seesawing nature of his personality is due in part to the seesawing nature of my feelings regarding what direction I want to take him. The fact that Simon is a conflicted – emotionally, physically and otherwise – character by nature only complicates things further, but it's still one hell of a ride.
Sam was just cutthroat as crap in that third scene and I was loving it, but the fact that Bonita could bite back made the dialogue even more interesting. The two of them definitely have some bumps in the road ahead for them. This much I can tell.
Sam is a mentor of sorts to Bonita, but she keeps trying to snatch that pebble from his palm. Stay tuned for more from them as the series progresses, grasshoppa.
I couldn't really find anything wrong with the third scene. The fourth scene gave us the goofy, but powerful character of Captain Ultra and the appearance of the Wrecking Crew. Simon got his tail kicked royally and I loved it. The choreography of the fight was spot-on and you could definitely flinch as Simon kept getting his behind whupped. The fifth scene is something straight out of the movies. Sundragon comes in and saves the day, but the sudden appearance of Amora and Loki definitely threw me for a loop. Mike has definitely set up something big with this scene here.
The beating Simon took was another case of me flip-flopping with my feelings toward the guy. I'm also just really cruel to my characters, I think. Seriously though, I'm glad the fight-scene paid off for you, Brent. I try to never spare on the action with Champions, and hopefully this issue kept the tradition alive.
The sixth scene shows the true nature of Eric, but you still can't be sure if he's just ruthless or truly evil. Mike got into the head of Eric and showed how he could change a simple game into something dark. I could find no fault in this scene. The seventh scene was epitomized by Redwing clawing out an eye. The final scene was chilling because you have to wonder just what Loki is up to.
Eric Williams is definitely one of my favorite characters to write (even though this issue seems to discount that), and his personality is just as conflicted as his brother's. Eric will gradually be revealed – layer by slowly unraveling layer – as the series continues, and the Champions will go as he does. As for Loki, the trickster god is always up to something, and the end of this issue should prove that if nothing else.
The only problem I had with the first scene was the grave of Sean only being initialed. Now, I'm figuring Dane and Herc had to carve all the stuff that would be on the graves, and spelling out a whole name could take time. But…if Sean was truly as important to Dane as he claimed to be, I would think the Black Knight would take the time to scribe out the whole name. It's a minor complaint though, and easily overlooked.
I don't really know what made me decide on just the initials to mark the gravestone. You make a good point though, Brent. I was probably focusing more on the emotions of the characters involved than I was the objects surrounding them, to the detriment of the scene itself.
The second scene once again only gets a minor complaint from me when Simon states that the metal at the gate is hotter than metal would be in the sun. That's kinda obvious seeing as how it was just seared, but maybe Williams was trying to make a joke.
Eh. It was actually only because I wanted to make it seem like it had recently happened, to give the scene a little more vitality and make the threat more present in the reader's mind. But… we could just SAY it was a joke, right? Sure!
My only problem with scene four was when Thunderball said his little line at the end. It seemed a bit too cliché for my tastes. My only problem with the fifth scene was that Sundragon shouldn't have fallen to Amora so easily. She's the sister of Moondragon and should have just as much willpower as her sister. Pamela should have at least been able to resist her a little longer.
The cliché line was just me being corny. I like the tough-guy dialogue, and this issue with the Wrecking Crew and Hercules probably highlights that even more. The thing with Sundragon is that her telepathy has been negated, and I wanted to introduce a level of helplessness she's never felt before. I probably could have conveyed that even better through a bit of resistance to Amora's control, but hopefully it didn't take anything away from this issue.
The seventh scene had me wondering just how inexperienced Firebird is. I would figure she would at least be competent enough to handle the situation she found herself in. My main problem with the last scene is how unaffected Horace was by the appearance of an Asgardian god. I still think there's more to Horace than meets the eye. Definitely a good issue that goes a long way into moving along the plot.
Maybe you were right all along, Brent! Loki says there IS something more to Horace than meets the eye. Of course, Loki IS a trickster god, so who really knows with him, right? Bonita is a bit of a hothead right now, but there is a reason, so keep an eye out for that. Thanks for another rockin' review, man! Huzzah!
-Mike Exner III
07/02/2004
Sam could only wheeze out a gargling choke in response, but Bulldozer still clamped a meaty paw around his forearm and snapped it like a twig. Sam screamed.
“Don't interrupt,” Bulldozer said with a sneering smile. “Like I was sayin', the rain nearly puts me to sleep, but right before I do drift off, these images come into my head. Keep me up all night. You know what they are?”
Sam had no reply, so Bulldozer continued. “ Vietnam . I was in Vietnam . Don't much look it, I know, but you'd be surprised what a little god-juice can do for your looks. I was a sergeant if you can believe that. One time me and my unit, we got caught up in this little village. Our CO was a creampuff, a black bastard kinda like you come to think of it. He thought the people in that village were friendlies, but they wasn't friendly at all.”
Sam stared up into the face of Bulldozer and could see that his enemy's eyes were growing distant, reflective. If he was going to make any kind of move, it'd have to be now. But Redwing was injured, maybe dead, and Bulldozer's grip was like tempered steel. Even worse, now the larger man's face was framed by little black spots that were gradually turning a bright red. Sam tried looking elsewhere to clear the spots away, but they only redoubled their efforts, nearly blacking the face of Bulldozer away entirely. Sam was losing it, the pain of his broken arm and the lack of oxygen carrying him away. He didn't have much time.
“They let us stay with them for a while, pretty as you please,” Bulldozer continued. “We even had our way with some of their women. That kinda thing happened all the time, y'know? I usually got sloppy seconds, but this time I shacked up with this really fine, young, sloe-eyed girl, and I kept her away from most of the others. It was nice. Yellow tail's the best tail, ain't it?”
Bulldozer started to laugh. To Sam it sounded distant, like whispering at the end of a long hall.
“Stay with me, chief,” Bulldozer said, his voice like the crack of a whip. He shook Sam back to a small semblance of consciousness, and Sam whimpered as his arm swelled in pain. “Don't you wanna hear the rest of the story? It's good. I always thought a man should be entertained as he die. No point to dying quiet and alone, I say. I also say a man should die with friends, but since yours are busy with mine, I guess I'll have to do.”
Sam tried to lift his hands, attempt to pry the fingers of the juggernaut from his throat, throw another punch, at the least flip him the bird; but his arms were like dead weight. He could barely feel the break anymore.
“They put us up, put up with us, and just waited. They bided their time. And after we were all packed up and ready to hoof it out of there, they attacked us. Half of the men were killed Johnny on the spot, but the CO herded the rest of us into as much shelter as we could find. We were lucky. Charlie didn't have any hard ordinance, just some guns they'd either been given or stole from the other good old boys who wandered through their little deathtrap over the long months of the war. I was covered in blood by the time I registered the orders our CO was barking. You see, I'd been standing with my little Vietnamese princess when those bastards opened fire, and they cut her down in their zeal to do me. I got her blood all over me, man. On my face, in my eyes, in my mouth,” Bulldozer tongued where the blood from the gaping wound where his left eye used to be was running along his chin. “I never forgot that taste.
“A storm hit right after that. An ugly one. And the little roofs of the shanty we made our stand in were made of aluminum siding or something like it. I remembered wondering where they got it from, but it was just as much a mystery to me as where they got those guns. Meaningless to think about, y'know? That storm masked what we were up to pretty well though. And we managed to get out of their with our skins intact. Sent quite a few of them off to meet their makers in the process. I quit the army pretty soon after that. But that day stands out in my mind. It really does. I think about it all the time. I think about my little princess, and I think about the taste of her blood, and I think about the pitter-patter of rain on them tin rooftops. That was my own personal hell, bird-guy, and I think it's about time I ushered you off to yours.”
Bulldozer tightened his grip, and the spots before Sam's eyes exploded in a flare of ebony. But before Sam Wilson could fall completely into the black, a roaring filled his ears, filled the air surrounding them, and a wash of heat replaced the chill of the rain. Sam peered up, and through the haze of his vision saw the Champscraft hovering on the open air above them. The hangar doors spilled open, and from the breach stepped the raging figure of a god. The hands gripping his throat loosened as the god plummeted towards them, fury etched upon its face, and Sam Wilson smiled.
THE CHAMPIONS # 9
"Godly Devices"
Part Two
Written by Mike Exner III
“So tell me, Horace. Don't be shy. What do you think of him?” Loki said with a smile, as he guided Horace Jasper forward with a firm hand in the small of the old man's back. Jasper smelled faintly of mothballs and old cheese to Loki, but he was in such a good mood that he bit his tongue before he could voice such an observation.
“I don't rightly know what it is I'm looking at, Mr. Loki,” Horace said. Loki had brought him a little way down the street, and as he did a mist had risen from the pavement below them. It had clouded Horace's vision, and when he waved at the mist, it cleared, revealing a very large orb plunked right in front of him. Horace had almost walked into it. He stopped, gazing up at it – for it was at least ten feet high – and watched as the color of the thing shifted, thumbing through each color of the rainbow like an oval prism. “Did you say him?”
“Oh! I apologize, Mr. Jasper. How silly of me,” Loki said, grasping Horace by the shoulder and chuckling mildly. “I often tend to disregard the failings of human perception. To you I am sure this looks like nothing more than – how would one of your human children put it? – a giant Easter egg.”
“Yes, sir. Something like that,” Horace said. His palms were now slick with sweat, and droplets of perspiration were starting to form on his brow as well, mingling with the rain. Whatever this thing was – and Horace was quite certain “giant Easter egg” didn't qualify as an answer – it was giving off a tremendous amount of heat. The mist – although it wasn't mist, Horace realized, it was steam – had formed as the freezing rain beat upon the surface of it.
“Well then, allow me to enlighten you, my friend,” Loki said, and passed a hand through the air. Horace watched as Loki's fingertips cut through the steam, shimmering rainbow-colored strips of energy peeling from his digits, and then gasped in wonderment as the prismatic light came to life, slithering through the curls of steam and wrapping themselves tightly around the orb.
The light-bands spun rapidly, but instead of cutting into the orb and releasing what had to be the heat of a miniature sun onto Horace's face as he had feared, the straps of energy began to expand, stretching themselves beyond the scope of possibility until they covered the elliptical shape below entirely.
“Now look, Horace Jasper,” Loki whispered, his voice one of barely contained glee, “and tell me what you see.”
The bands of multicolored light merged, and the prismatic effect faded. For a moment Horace thought he could see completely through the giant egg to the street beyond – a shimmering after-image all that remained, like a mirage in the desert heat – but then the shimmer solidified, and what Horace saw next made him step backward.
“What… what is that?” Horace said, his voice barely a whimper. He was looking at the orb again, but now it was filled with what Horace could only identify as molten earth. Magma , he thought it might be called. Something from deep inside the planet, hotter than lava… hotter than the hottest flame Ms. Bonita could ever hope to generate. True heat. It was roiling and boiling inside the sphere that contained it, slamming and sloshing against the invisible barrier as though it were alive. Horace could feel rivers of sweat pouring down his face now – despite the steady, cool pattern of rain falling over his shoulders – the heat of the object more palpable to him now that he could see what was trapped within.
“Can you not see, Mr. Jasper? You are witness to something truly remarkable,” Loki said, and gestured with his hands again. He spread his arms, his hands reaching outward as if expecting an embrace from a loved one. The orb of magic surrounding the inferno vibrated harshly, and Horace had another clear image of the egg shattering, spilling a river of flame and molten sludge over his body, and burning him to a charred husk in seconds. But then the magma shifted, parting around something advancing through it, and Horace Jasper gasped audibly.
“Yes,” Loki said, his voice a whisper. “Yes, now you see. Now you see !”
Horace shook his head, trying to deny it. But he did see. Saw all too well. The heat trapped within the ethereal orb was enough to bake his skin despite the frigid rain descending over him, and yet there was something living inside of it, for Horace could see the vague outline of a man – or was it a woman, or… something else? – thrashing wildly within, and pounding against the barrier holding it in check. Something with skin as black as onyx, and eyes that blazed as fiercely as the fire around it.
“My child,” Loki said, and Horace started. He'd nearly forgotten the god was there. “And soon, very soon… it will be time for him to hatch.”
“Goddess, this place is truly the most beautiful land in all the world,” Pamela said, slipping her hand into the cascading waterfall that fell into the clear lagoon before her, reveling in the feel of the cool, blue water dancing over her fingertips. She took her hand from the deluge and plunged her fingers greedily into her mouth, sucking the sweet moisture she found there. A hand settled on her shoulder, and Pamela felt tingling bursts of pleasure surge from the point of contact and travel down the length of her spine. Her knees buckled smoothly, and she fell backward into the arms of the most beautiful creature she'd ever laid eyes on.
Her goddess.
“You must be cautious, child,” her goddess said, the voice escaping her lips as soothing as the finest melody. “You nearly fell.”
“And you were there to catch me, my goddess. As it has always been.”
Her goddess smiled down upon her, and Pamela blushed fiercely. “As it ever will be, child.” She stepped back, and laid Pamela gently on her back. The cool, moist bed of grass soothed and tickled her skin as she settled upon it. Her goddess crossed in front of her, the sheer, silken robe she wore fluttering softly in the warm breeze. Pamela looked up at her, and her goddess smoothly rolled her shoulders, her robe dropping to her ankles and piling in gentle folds at her feet.
“Now come. Show me the depths of your devotio nnnggghhh .” Her goddess said, her body tensing as a blade pierced through her breastbone. A thin ribbon of blood spurted from the wound, dotting Pamela's forehead, and she screamed in horror and rage. The blade was withdrawn, and her goddess dropped to her knees, her deathly pale face drawn into a tight grimace of shock.
Pamela drug her eyes away from her goddess, and standing in the space occupied by the most beautiful creature she'd ever known only moments before, was the most horrible visage she had ever settled her eyes upon. It was a man, covered in the stinking, stained carcass of some dead beast. The garment hung loosely even over the disgustingly obese frame the man carried. Coarse red hair covered the man from head to toe. It spilled from the makeshift collar of the hide he wore, and met with the large beard hanging from his pudgy pig-face; it lined his fat legs, and disappeared into moccasins hewn of the same animal as his tunic; it covered his arms like a molding rug, and it was then that Pamela saw the large broadsword held in his right hand, stained with the blood of her goddess.
Pamela wasted no breath on the foul creature, for even if she did speak it was doubtful such a primitive, foul being would even understand the words uttered from her lips. She did let the rage carried in her heart fire through her eyes at the man, but was horrified and ashamed to see that the only thing echoed through his own was a deep, perverse lust. A lust to kill, a lust to rape, and a lust she knew full well every man possessed… a lust to destroy all that was beautiful and good in the world.
She brought her hands from behind her back, and exposed them to the man. Held in each clenched fist were the weapons of her birthright, a pair of chain-link whips with barbed spheres at their end, granted to her by her goddess when she came of age. She whipped them up and around at waist level, and the man leaped – extraordinarilyagile for his size – neatly into the air, allowing the chains to crisscross under him. Pamela grimaced, her delicate features twisting into an ugly scowl, and renewed her attack.
The Enchantress fell to the roof; her chest crackling from the impact Dane Whitman's photonic sword had given when he drove it into the middle of her back. The Black Knight drew his sword to his side, and was about to thumb the power down and ask Sundragon to lower them to the street below so they could help the rest of the team, when the roof of the building he was standing on lit up as bright as day and shook from the force of the thunder and lightning from the storm. The spark in the sky lit the face of Sundragon, and Dane took a hesitant step back. The anger stamped on her face was genuine, not feigned, and reminded him immediately of the fury etched on the features of the Hellcat, Patsy Walker, when Dane Whitman had driven the Ebony Blade through her husband's chest.* He had thought Daimon Hellstrom slain then, and had feared for his own soul as a result, but Daimon had not died, and though Dane found relief in that, the idea that he could still find the darkness inside to take a life chilled him to the bone. He saw that darkness echoed back to him in the eyes of Pamela Douglas.
[* The battle the Black Knight refers to took place in M2K's Defenders #13 – Mike]
Sundragon held her arms out – palms up, elbows slightly bent – and energy cascaded down from her shoulders, meeting in her hands and spilling outward. The energy formed a long rope of telekinetic force in each hand, and with almost no hesitation, Pamela flicked her wrists, and the telekinetic whips darted for the Black Knight's feet. Dane jumped into the air, allowing the whips to harmlessly pass through the air underneath him. The sound of their passing was a whistling shriek, and Dane saw the whips form slashing strokes of empty space in the rain for a brief moment before the thickly falling deluge reclaimed the area the whips had just occupied.
“Pamela, stop this!” Dane said, lifting his photonic sword to parry another lightning-quick snap of the telekinetic lash, only bumping the golden cord off track so it wouldn't have the chance to wrap around the blade of his sword. If it did, one strong tug would send his weapon flying, and if he lost the sword, he'd be sliced to ribbons in instants.
“Thy words are lost upon her, mortal,” the Enchantress said. Dane took his eyes away from Pamela long enough to see the goddess straighten to her feet and glare at him, rubbing softly at the place between her breasts were the Black Knight had lodged the tip of his sword. “Her eyes perceive what I will.”
“Let her go, Amora. She doesn't belong to you.” Dane blocked another blow from the telekinetic whip, and this time let his sword continue to fall, pinning the strand of energy against the rain-soaked roof. The other whip descended, but this time the Black Knight was ready for it. He arched his back, and though the whip still collided with him – hard enough to tear through his body armor and cut his skin, he still managed to trap the cord beneath his arm. He flexed with all of his might as Pamela struggled to yank it free of his grip, and turned his shoulders to look at her. “Snap out of it, Pam! Now!”
Pamela tugged harder, and Dane could see the sorrow and desperation filling her eyes. What in the world was the Enchantress showing her? “Let them go, monster. You killed her! You killed she who was my life. You must be made to suffer.”
“I don't have time for this,” Dane said, his voice a dim growl, and relinquished his grip on the whips. As Pamela drew her weapons back for another strike, Dane hefted his sword and launched it through the air. The blade of the photonic sword collided with the temple of the Enchantress, the neural inhibitors comprising the body of the blade immediately blasting the synapses of the goddess' brain. The Enchantress screamed, her body once more falling limply to the roof of the building.
And then the whip strokes fell, and white-hot pain burst in front of Dane Whitman's eyes. It felt as if a giant had taken hold of the flesh on his back and ripped it from his bones. He cried out in pain, but it was a choked, strangled cry. Bile filled his mouth, layering his tongue with its bitter taste, and Dane Whitman felt a black world rush up through infinite space to greet him. And then he passed out.
Sundragon watched the Black Knight fall to the roof, the scene portrayed in her mind washing away as the rain beat a cold reality on the top of her head. She looked down at her hands, watching as the energy forming the telekinetic whips – not the chains of her goddess, not some fabled weapon, but her own telekinetic energy – dissipated into nothing. She turned her head, and saw the slumping form of Amora the Enchantress. She was keeled over, eyes open but distant, her head resting against the roof, twisting her neck in an awkward manner. Dane Whitman's sword lay near her jaw, the photonic field around it humming busily as the rain assaulted it. She turned her head to the unconscious Black Knight. Twin slashes of crimson lined his armored back. Blood spilled from the wounds and pooled on the roof of the building, lingering for but a brief moment until the rain broke it down into smaller pools, and then thin rivers that ran down to Sundragon's feet.
Her teammate, Dane Whitman, the leader of the Champions and the man who had broken the spell the Enchantress had cast over her. She had injured him, perhaps gravely. She should help him. Use the telekinesis she possessed to staunch the flow of blood and transport him to a hospital…
She looked back at the Enchantress. The witch had taken control of her, played with her mind and emotions in ways she had never experienced before. With hardly a thought, Pamela took a step towards Amora, allowing the golden telekinetic energy to flow down through her body. She lifted into the air, a faint golden hue encapsulating the soles of her feet and lingering in her eyes. She squinted her eyes slightly, exerting the minimalist of concentration, and a golden lasso wrapped its way around the throat of the Enchantress. Sundragon spared one look back at her floundering teammate, and then her eyes found the Enchantress again, and the noose tightened.
Bulldozer skidded along the ground like a bowling ball and slammed into a brick wall. The brick gave way around him and tumbled all around his head, neck and shoulders. He sat that way for a moment, letting the heavy rectangular stones crash into his helm. They resounded through it, and he savored the jarring tones as they thrummed against his eardrums. The sounds were not pleasant, but he embraced them all the same, letting the harsh discords fuel his feverish anger.
“You just made a big mistake, godling,” Bulldozer said, rubbing his jaw. The punch the demigod had thrown to get him off the black guy had been a good one. But he was ready now. The rumbling of his voice made him sound like a god himself. “I was annoyed with the bird-man and his fine, feathered friend for messing up my eye. I planned on killing him, his bird and then taking myself a siesta.”
Bulldozer got to his feet, bricks raining from his shoulders. He cracked his knuckles. The sound of it was audible despite the rain pounding the street. “But now you've gone and made me mad. So now I'm not going to stop until I kill you, the bird-man, all your little hero buddies, and everybody else on this damn block.”
Hercules stepped forward defiantly. His lips curled into a sneer that matched Bulldozer's perfectly. “Come, caitiff. Your words sound hollow to mine ears. Let us see if thine actions are any better.”
Bulldozer needed no more an invitation than that. He charged. Letting his muscle do the talking for him was how he'd lived his life even before Loki had granted him and his mates the strength of the gods. He and the rest of the Wrecking Crew had taken Thor… Thor! Hercules was nothing more than the Thor-lite of the Avengers. This motley bunch of losers weren't even the Avengers West Coast. They were the Champions; a title that sounded so ridiculous to Bulldozer that he and the rest of the crew had planned on smacking them around just for naming themselves something so pretentious. Champions? Champions of what? Getting their butts handed to them, maybe. Hell, Hercules was just standing there with a dumb look on his face. Just standing there! Didn't he realize what was about to happen? He was about to be hit with the force of a Mack truck right square in his pug-ugly godling fa--
Hercules lifted a hand, and Bulldozer ran directly into his cupped palm. There was a great, wet, SLAP! of sound, and Bulldozer realized he'd been stopped dead in his tracks. Hercules had not moved. Not even an inch.
“I hath found thee wanting,” Hercules said, and the tone of voice Bulldozer heard in the demigod's voice made him want to pull away, get away, run away as fast as he could. But he couldn't. Hercules had his head palmed like a Los Angeles Laker would palm a basketball. Hercules squeezed, and Bulldozer first heard, and then felt the metal of his enchanted helmet molding to the titanic grip Hercules had on it.
“How…? How are you--”
“Thou thought to slay my comrades? Thou thought little enough of me to charge like a plodding bull?” Hercules said, and then lifted Bulldozer effortlessly into the air. Henry Camp kicked out, but Hercules slipped the thrust of his foot easily. He punched Bulldozer in the face, and the result was as though a gong had been sounded in Camp's inner ear. He screamed, clutching his helmet in an effort to still the cacophony, and when he couldn't, clawed at Hercules' hand like a babe. It had no effect.
“Thou art a coward, and a fool,” Hercules said, and at that moment, a stroke of lightning descended from the sky and lit the face of the demigod. Henry Camp, who had seen horrors beyond measure more times in his life than he could ever hope to count still found he could not look into those blazing eyes for long.
“Please!” Bulldozer said, although it sounded more like a pleading wail than anything else to his ringing ears. “You gotta believe me! It wasn't my idea, okay? It's Loki!”
Hercules paused, his back stiffening as the name of the trickster god escaped the lips of the sniveling worm below. He brought Bulldozer closer, his raging face twisted into something so terrifyingly murderous that Henry Camp nearly fainted.
“Tell me of Loki, mortal. Or suffer the wrath of the Son of Zeus.”
“He's trying to hatch some kid,” Bulldozer said, his voice a quivering mess. “Some kid who's supposed to be powerful enough to kill Thor. But he needs energy to do it. A lot of it. So he got the Enchantress to muck with some yahoo named Captain Ultra, ‘cuz he figured the guy was strong enough to take Wonder Man out. But Loki wanted more energy, ‘cuz this kid is some kinda sponge or somethin'. So he visited us in the Vault and offered to give us our powers back after the Wrecker took it from us. All we hadda do was take the Champions out, and Loki was gonna take the energy from all of you to fuel this kid. Make ‘im stronger than anything Thor ever faced before. I swear that's all I know. It ain't my fault!”
Hercules frowned. “The desires of the Enchantress have ever been a mystery, but the obsessive love she holds for the god of thunder is constant. Why would she now agree to aid the trickster?”
“He… he promised her something,” Bulldozer said. “She's looking for some kind of artifact I guess. He's gonna find it for her if she helps him!”
“That's enough, Henry,” a voice said from behind Hercules, and he turned, his hand still firmly entrenched in Bulldozer's helmet. Two men stood there, men Hercules immediately recognized as Thunderball and Piledriver of the Wrecking Crew. Both men had steam rising from their powerfully built forms, as if they'd just stepped out of a sauna into a chilly winter morn. Clutched in Thunderball's fist was a swirling tangle of black hair, and at the end of it, being dragged along the street like a caveman's prize, was Firebird. “Don't tell this mother another word. It's three on one now, and we got your ba--”
Thunderball fell silent as Hercules hefted Bulldozer by his helmet and dashed his head into the pavement below. The enchanted metal drove Henry Camp's skull a full foot through the blacktop, and when Hercules lifted him from the crater he'd formed, both Thunderball and Piledriver could see that Henry Camp was out like a light. Hercules dropped him to the ground, and a dull clanging sound echoed along the length of the avenue.
“Three jackals reduced to two,” Hercules said, as he curled his hands into fists. “Dost thy have the resolve to persist upon this course of action, or dost thy yield? I prithee… Persist.”
“Have a cigar, Horace,” Loki said, beaming with pride at the glowing orb before him. “May I call you Horace? I feel we've bonded over these past few minutes, you know? Sitting here, watching as my son gestates in his little womb of fire, I feel a kinship with you. It's a little disturbing, you being a mortal and all, but pleasant in a way too, in a way I can't really describe.”
“Mr. Loki,” Horace Jasper said, his eyes were no longer on the orb behind him, for he'd turned back to the battlefield the Los Angeles city street had become. Mr. Hercules was facing off against two monsters. He'd watched as the one with the giant ball and chain weapon had pummeled a building, bringing part of it down over the top of Ms. Bonita. He'd watched as the Black Knight had snuck his way up a fire escape, hopefully to free Sundragon from the spell the witch woman had her under. But he'd seen hide nor hair of any one of them since. He watched as the helmeted-fella, Bulldozer tortured the Falcon, and then Hercules saved him, but the Falcon still hadn't moved from the spot where he'd dropped when Hercules knocked Bulldozer across the street. And the blue-light of Simon Williams' energy still floated over his head and into the terrifying object behind him, as Captain Ultra dissected it piece by piece with the strange laser-beams blasting out from his eyes. Wonder Man was resisting, and the energy was bleeding only a bit at a time, but it wouldn't be long until Wonder Man was reduced to nothing more than baby food, and there was nobody coming to save him.
Horace swallowed. “Mr. Loki. Please don't kill my friends.”
Loki clapped a hand on Horace Jasper's shoulder. Horace turned to look at him, and saw something shining in Loki's eyes he hadn't seen before. “So save them, Horace.”
Horace blinked. “Save them, Mr. Loki?”
“That's right, Horace,” Loki said, tipping Horace a wink. “I know you want to.”
“I can't,” Horace said, his brow furrowing. “I mean… how could I? I'm just a man. An old man.”
“Oh come now, Horace. You're not spinning that sad ol' tale, are you? You and I both know that's not the truth. Well, maybe half of the truth, but not the whole truth. Not by a long shot.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Loki,” Horace said, “but if you know a way I can save these people, then you better tell me right now. Right this second. I'm through playing these games.”
“You forget your place, Mr. Jasper,” Loki said, his voice thin and angry. His hand tightened on Horace's shoulder, and the old man winced. “I am the god of games. We play as long as I say we do. You are far more than you appear to be, Horace. Your friends are outnumbered and dying, and only you can help them. Look inside yourself and see what it is that you are. If not, then watch you friends die in front of you…”
Loki gestured to the street, and watched Horace Jasper's eyes, torn with emotion, as his friends continued their life and death struggle. He smiled.
“To me, it matters not.”
NEXT ISSUE: The Champions are STILL in big-league trouble, and only Horace Jasper(?) can save them! Be here next issue for the conclusion to “Godly Devices”.
CHAMPION LOVERSAnother issue in the bag, and another letter in the mailbag. This one comes from Brent Lambert, he of the inspiration behind Brent Lambert Presents, and the current co-writer of New Warriors. Brent's probably my most consistent reviewer, so let's see what he's got to say, shall we?
Okay I'm going to break this issue down scene by scene much like I did in my recent review of X-Men Prime.
I read that review. Pristine stuff. This should be good…
Lets get crackin'. The first scene with Dane and Herc was very emotionally powerful. You could feel Dane's hurt and see Herc's attempt at trying to console his friend.
I tried to convey as much depth as I could there. It can be difficult at times to capture the emotional impact grief has on someone, let alone try to utilize another character as the leaning post of support, but I'm glad it worked for you.
The second scene gave some good introspection on the part of Simon, and Mike shows just how much of a roller coaster ride this guy can be emotionally. One issue he's fighting mad and defending his bro, the next ish he's feeling down on his luck and like a general loser. That's the way Simon should be portrayed though, since he has never really been all that stable.
Simon is an interesting character to write, and he's getting more interesting all the time. The seesawing nature of his personality is due in part to the seesawing nature of my feelings regarding what direction I want to take him. The fact that Simon is a conflicted – emotionally, physically and otherwise – character by nature only complicates things further, but it's still one hell of a ride.
Sam was just cutthroat as crap in that third scene and I was loving it, but the fact that Bonita could bite back made the dialogue even more interesting. The two of them definitely have some bumps in the road ahead for them. This much I can tell.
Sam is a mentor of sorts to Bonita, but she keeps trying to snatch that pebble from his palm. Stay tuned for more from them as the series progresses, grasshoppa.
I couldn't really find anything wrong with the third scene. The fourth scene gave us the goofy, but powerful character of Captain Ultra and the appearance of the Wrecking Crew. Simon got his tail kicked royally and I loved it. The choreography of the fight was spot-on and you could definitely flinch as Simon kept getting his behind whupped. The fifth scene is something straight out of the movies. Sundragon comes in and saves the day, but the sudden appearance of Amora and Loki definitely threw me for a loop. Mike has definitely set up something big with this scene here.
The beating Simon took was another case of me flip-flopping with my feelings toward the guy. I'm also just really cruel to my characters, I think. Seriously though, I'm glad the fight-scene paid off for you, Brent. I try to never spare on the action with Champions, and hopefully this issue kept the tradition alive.
The sixth scene shows the true nature of Eric, but you still can't be sure if he's just ruthless or truly evil. Mike got into the head of Eric and showed how he could change a simple game into something dark. I could find no fault in this scene. The seventh scene was epitomized by Redwing clawing out an eye. The final scene was chilling because you have to wonder just what Loki is up to.
Eric Williams is definitely one of my favorite characters to write (even though this issue seems to discount that), and his personality is just as conflicted as his brother's. Eric will gradually be revealed – layer by slowly unraveling layer – as the series continues, and the Champions will go as he does. As for Loki, the trickster god is always up to something, and the end of this issue should prove that if nothing else.
The only problem I had with the first scene was the grave of Sean only being initialed. Now, I'm figuring Dane and Herc had to carve all the stuff that would be on the graves, and spelling out a whole name could take time. But…if Sean was truly as important to Dane as he claimed to be, I would think the Black Knight would take the time to scribe out the whole name. It's a minor complaint though, and easily overlooked.
I don't really know what made me decide on just the initials to mark the gravestone. You make a good point though, Brent. I was probably focusing more on the emotions of the characters involved than I was the objects surrounding them, to the detriment of the scene itself.
The second scene once again only gets a minor complaint from me when Simon states that the metal at the gate is hotter than metal would be in the sun. That's kinda obvious seeing as how it was just seared, but maybe Williams was trying to make a joke.
Eh. It was actually only because I wanted to make it seem like it had recently happened, to give the scene a little more vitality and make the threat more present in the reader's mind. But… we could just SAY it was a joke, right? Sure!
My only problem with scene four was when Thunderball said his little line at the end. It seemed a bit too cliché for my tastes. My only problem with the fifth scene was that Sundragon shouldn't have fallen to Amora so easily. She's the sister of Moondragon and should have just as much willpower as her sister. Pamela should have at least been able to resist her a little longer.
The cliché line was just me being corny. I like the tough-guy dialogue, and this issue with the Wrecking Crew and Hercules probably highlights that even more. The thing with Sundragon is that her telepathy has been negated, and I wanted to introduce a level of helplessness she's never felt before. I probably could have conveyed that even better through a bit of resistance to Amora's control, but hopefully it didn't take anything away from this issue.
The seventh scene had me wondering just how inexperienced Firebird is. I would figure she would at least be competent enough to handle the situation she found herself in. My main problem with the last scene is how unaffected Horace was by the appearance of an Asgardian god. I still think there's more to Horace than meets the eye. Definitely a good issue that goes a long way into moving along the plot.
Maybe you were right all along, Brent! Loki says there IS something more to Horace than meets the eye. Of course, Loki IS a trickster god, so who really knows with him, right? Bonita is a bit of a hothead right now, but there is a reason, so keep an eye out for that. Thanks for another rockin' review, man! Huzzah!
-Mike Exner III
07/02/2004