Back to Gatefold
Issue #1 by Alan Strauss
August 2012 |
There are some days that seem almost perfect. The bank errors in your favor, the daily special is your favorite meal, that good looking guy two apartments down returns your smile, the Gucci bag you’ve been eying all month is on sale. Everything just clicks.
And then there are those other kind of days when you find yourself having an impromptu kung fu battle with two unknown super villains in the lobby of Silicon Valley’s biggest tech industry.
Today being one of the latter.
The worst thing, Tigra reflected -- although really the day was already so clogged with worst things that any pick was apt to be contentious -- was when she didn’t recognize their costumes. Costumes were pretty much the best part of the lifestyle. In private all but the butchest superheroes agreed on that much. In what other career did you get to wear the craziest coolest outfit you could cobble together from the back of your closet and justify it as work clothes? Plus they even had a practical application.
Costumes served as kind of color coding, a memory aid. You might not know who was calling himself what ridiculous codename from one week to the next but remembering who wore a purple spandex onesie with a bullet shaped helmet? You couldn’t remove those memories with a bottle of bleach. And a lot of the costumes were actually designed to be helpful. Guy with a web motif? Spider powers. The one in the star-spangled outfit colored red white and blue? Yep, former soldier with a flare for the patriotic. Buff shirtless dude wrapped in a sarong like Hercules? Probably actually Hercules.
So costumes were good. Not recognizing a costume was bad. Not only that, it was dangerous. An unfamiliar costume meant an unfamiliar opponent and that meant anything was game. The perfect recipe for serious bodily injury.
Unfortunately, sometimes they didn’t give you much choice. Sometimes you just had to wing it and hope you were right in your guesswork. Fortunately the two lunatics currently slugging it out seemed to be focusing on each other. They’d yet to notice Tigra’s arrival and that gave her at least a few seconds to observe.
The big one was definitely a meta and young by the looks of her. She stood about fifteen foot tall, filling the lobby with her gawky overgrown body. Since the doors had been intact when Tigra arrived that suggested she hadn’t entered the building that size. Her costume was an uninformative blue and purple number but judging by the clumsy overhand punches she was aiming at her opponent, leaving fissures in the tile flooring upon impact, bigness was probably her main deal.
The other one didn’t even have a costume. Which, again, in private, the hero community basically agreed was always a dick move. She was wearing a faded yellow T-shirt and what looked like a poorly fitted pair of mom jeans. Her build seemed out of place as well. Tigra put her in her mid to late thirties with a body shape that was, if not fat, definitely a little thicker than the norm. Yet she was moving like a woman half her age and size, nimbly rolling and ducking her opponent’s attacks with ballet grace.
These two weren’t the only ones present either. A half dozen uniformed security guards were laying scattered and dazed across the floor. One was already in the process of un-dazing himself and, as he propped an assault rifle against his shoulder, Tigra leapt into action. He was aiming for the big one -- rather unambitious of him, she thought -- and she had no way of knowing if the girl was bulletproof. It was always better to keep things from getting fatal if possible. Especially when she still had no clue what was going on.
“Um, sorry about this!” Her foot landed in the guard’s midsection as she yanked the weapon from his grasp, bringing it back around to connect gently with the side of his head. Well, gentle-ish, enough so that he sunk to the ground with a groan instead of a concussion. “Nothing personal. Just trying to keep everybody alive!”
Which was becoming increasingly difficult as the giant one chose that moment to get creative. Instead of another punch she tried an ungainly kick, sending rows of leather-lined benches hurtling across the room. The second woman leapfrogged them with relative ease. Several of the guards were less lucky.
Okay, Tigra told herself. I’ve got to end this soon or someone is bound to get hurt, maybe killed. So what would Captain America do? No. Stop that. What would Tigra do? You’ve got skills, use them, girl.
So she opted for what were her real superpowers, at least in her estimation. Her winning personality. Her reasonableness. Her irresistible charm.
Springing off her hind legs Tigra launched to the top of a globe-shaped bronze fixture in the center of the lobby. It placed her roughly at eye level with the giant. “Hey! Enough already! Quit trying to kill each other for a minute and listen!
They stopped. They actually stopped. The giant cocked her head, mousy brown hair spilling over one shoulder as she eyed her curiously.
“Keep this up one or both of you are going to end up in the hospital! Can’t we just talk it out like rational adult women? I’m sure whatever’s happened it’s not worth being killed over.”
The lobby was still and Tigra felt a pulse of excitement in her breast. It was working. She was talking them down. Everyone who thought she was just some third-rater with tiger stripes and a cat tail were so full of it. She had a gift. She -
A steel ashcan floated up from the floor. It wavered in place several moments while everyone stared. Then the woman in her civies sneered and made a quick slicing gesture with one hand. The ashcan came hurtling towards Tigra like an oversized bullet. She attempted to dodge but her perch was narrow and the object struck her hard on the shoulder. Only her cat reflexes kept her from landing directly on her face.
So telekinesis, she noted, dots swimming before her eyes as the two now focused their attention on a single prone opponent. Someone cracked her knuckles.
It was always better when she recognized the costumes.
And then there are those other kind of days when you find yourself having an impromptu kung fu battle with two unknown super villains in the lobby of Silicon Valley’s biggest tech industry.
Today being one of the latter.
The worst thing, Tigra reflected -- although really the day was already so clogged with worst things that any pick was apt to be contentious -- was when she didn’t recognize their costumes. Costumes were pretty much the best part of the lifestyle. In private all but the butchest superheroes agreed on that much. In what other career did you get to wear the craziest coolest outfit you could cobble together from the back of your closet and justify it as work clothes? Plus they even had a practical application.
Costumes served as kind of color coding, a memory aid. You might not know who was calling himself what ridiculous codename from one week to the next but remembering who wore a purple spandex onesie with a bullet shaped helmet? You couldn’t remove those memories with a bottle of bleach. And a lot of the costumes were actually designed to be helpful. Guy with a web motif? Spider powers. The one in the star-spangled outfit colored red white and blue? Yep, former soldier with a flare for the patriotic. Buff shirtless dude wrapped in a sarong like Hercules? Probably actually Hercules.
So costumes were good. Not recognizing a costume was bad. Not only that, it was dangerous. An unfamiliar costume meant an unfamiliar opponent and that meant anything was game. The perfect recipe for serious bodily injury.
Unfortunately, sometimes they didn’t give you much choice. Sometimes you just had to wing it and hope you were right in your guesswork. Fortunately the two lunatics currently slugging it out seemed to be focusing on each other. They’d yet to notice Tigra’s arrival and that gave her at least a few seconds to observe.
The big one was definitely a meta and young by the looks of her. She stood about fifteen foot tall, filling the lobby with her gawky overgrown body. Since the doors had been intact when Tigra arrived that suggested she hadn’t entered the building that size. Her costume was an uninformative blue and purple number but judging by the clumsy overhand punches she was aiming at her opponent, leaving fissures in the tile flooring upon impact, bigness was probably her main deal.
The other one didn’t even have a costume. Which, again, in private, the hero community basically agreed was always a dick move. She was wearing a faded yellow T-shirt and what looked like a poorly fitted pair of mom jeans. Her build seemed out of place as well. Tigra put her in her mid to late thirties with a body shape that was, if not fat, definitely a little thicker than the norm. Yet she was moving like a woman half her age and size, nimbly rolling and ducking her opponent’s attacks with ballet grace.
These two weren’t the only ones present either. A half dozen uniformed security guards were laying scattered and dazed across the floor. One was already in the process of un-dazing himself and, as he propped an assault rifle against his shoulder, Tigra leapt into action. He was aiming for the big one -- rather unambitious of him, she thought -- and she had no way of knowing if the girl was bulletproof. It was always better to keep things from getting fatal if possible. Especially when she still had no clue what was going on.
“Um, sorry about this!” Her foot landed in the guard’s midsection as she yanked the weapon from his grasp, bringing it back around to connect gently with the side of his head. Well, gentle-ish, enough so that he sunk to the ground with a groan instead of a concussion. “Nothing personal. Just trying to keep everybody alive!”
Which was becoming increasingly difficult as the giant one chose that moment to get creative. Instead of another punch she tried an ungainly kick, sending rows of leather-lined benches hurtling across the room. The second woman leapfrogged them with relative ease. Several of the guards were less lucky.
Okay, Tigra told herself. I’ve got to end this soon or someone is bound to get hurt, maybe killed. So what would Captain America do? No. Stop that. What would Tigra do? You’ve got skills, use them, girl.
So she opted for what were her real superpowers, at least in her estimation. Her winning personality. Her reasonableness. Her irresistible charm.
Springing off her hind legs Tigra launched to the top of a globe-shaped bronze fixture in the center of the lobby. It placed her roughly at eye level with the giant. “Hey! Enough already! Quit trying to kill each other for a minute and listen!
They stopped. They actually stopped. The giant cocked her head, mousy brown hair spilling over one shoulder as she eyed her curiously.
“Keep this up one or both of you are going to end up in the hospital! Can’t we just talk it out like rational adult women? I’m sure whatever’s happened it’s not worth being killed over.”
The lobby was still and Tigra felt a pulse of excitement in her breast. It was working. She was talking them down. Everyone who thought she was just some third-rater with tiger stripes and a cat tail were so full of it. She had a gift. She -
A steel ashcan floated up from the floor. It wavered in place several moments while everyone stared. Then the woman in her civies sneered and made a quick slicing gesture with one hand. The ashcan came hurtling towards Tigra like an oversized bullet. She attempted to dodge but her perch was narrow and the object struck her hard on the shoulder. Only her cat reflexes kept her from landing directly on her face.
So telekinesis, she noted, dots swimming before her eyes as the two now focused their attention on a single prone opponent. Someone cracked her knuckles.
It was always better when she recognized the costumes.
“SUPER FASHION”
Earlier…
Bethany Parker-Taggart was humming under her breath as the elevator began its descent. She was shocked to hear herself doing such a thing. Did it imply excess nervous energy? Nervous energy could be caused by a number of factors: prolonged stress, the buildup of certain hormones and chemical compounds in the bloodstream, poor diet, attempting to steal a multimillion dollar piece of experimental technology while breaking and entering. All things known to give the jitters to other people, but to herself?
That was irritating. Equally irritating: she couldn’t place the tune.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, accounting. Two men in navy blue business suits stepped in, nodding politely before continuing a private debate over this year’s fantasy football picks. They went down two floors then exited, laughing at some joke whose punchline she’d totally missed. The entire time Bethany found herself fingering her ID badge.
Actually, technically, not her ID badge. The ID badge and keycard of Karen Watkowski, lab assistant, first class, duties including but not limited to equipment maintenance and after hours clean-up. Not on the surface a particularly sought-after item, even when attached, as it was now, to her snazzy sky blue lab coat. Nevertheless Bethany had paid over a million dollars cash for Karen to report them missing along with her ‘stolen’ car sometime later this afternoon.
So pretty expensive as outfits went but nothing compared to what she was wearing underneath it. An experimental skintight -- actually it seemed a little baggy under the arms but how to fix that? -- suit made from unstable molecules, a byproduct of a two point five billion dollar research grant from the Pentagon into the safe productive applications of Pym Particles into new environments. All of which were code words for militarization and counter-terrorism initiatives, the bread and butter of Atlas Enterprises nowadays. The suit was a reject project and Bethany had simply helped herself to it on the way out. Waste not, want not.
The elevator opened to the first floor. A bright midday sun struck her eyes through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. The light glinted off Henry, an ugly bronze statue who stood perpetually hunched in the center of the room, hoisting the AE corporate logo in the shape of a globe on his wide burnished back. Except for him, a few milling security guards, and the eternally bored receptionist, the lobby was mostly empty this time of day.
Easy peasy. Just like she planned. Bethany still kept her fingers poised over the injection button in the costume’s right glove however. One press and ten units of Pym Particulate would be subcutaneously injected into her system. The thought actually gave her a bit of a thrill. She wondered what it might feel like. Did it hurt?
That would have to wait until later. Bethany wasn’t going to need it now. She was too smart for that. All she had to do was hold her head up high, walk right out the front door, and…
“Miss, wait a minute! You’re not authorized to be here! Somebody stop her!”
# # # # #
Earlier Still…
The Shao-Lom monks of Titan had devised innumerable methods for strengthening body and mind of their disciples. Among the most arduous were the Chambers of Twelve Torments. Heather Douglas had first been subjected to it when she was only ten years old and the pain had been beyond description. Despite weekly sessions it was not until deep in her adolescence that she, known only as Moondragon by then, could pass through all twelve of the brutal chambers without screaming herself hoarse.
Nonetheless this was far worse in her estimation. Even the old head priest might have shuddered to contemplate it.
“I said bring me a beer, would you? Are you deaf in there woman?”
Her body sighed and stood up. She walked over to the fridge and plucked a can from a twelve pack on the bottom shelf. The loathsome lump of human tissue known as Donald accepted it from his spot on the couch without so much as a thank you. “Took you long enough. Like your butt couldn’t stand to lose a few. You’d think you were allergic to exercise or something…”
All occurring completely unbidden by Moondragon. In direct conflict with her desires in fact. She was merely along for the ride. And this inexplicable state of affairs had been going on for months now. How or why she could not say, only that this hellish prison appeared to be inescapable.
Now her host returned to her post at the kitchenette and resumed thumbing through a magazine. It was a kind of celebrity tabloid rag of which this one seemed inordinately fond. Moondragon would have looked away only she couldn’t look away as her eyeballs belonged not to herself but to her host. And so they remained firmly glued to the magazine.
Which, currently, was open to a two page spread on the love lives of various Hollywood bachelors. Reading these was de rigueur, but thankfully they’d already finished this one earlier. Her host wet her thumb and moved on to the next article, a gossipy piece on the top ten worst superheroines. Some sort of tiger lady won it but her host wasn’t much interested in that kind of dirt and quickly flipped the page. Their eyes were met with an ad of an imposing glass skyscraper, copy reading: ‘Atlas Enterprises, a Global Leader in Smart Solutions to Tomorrow’s Problems.’ In front of the building stood a man in a crisp black suit. He was middle-aged, smiling pleasantly and…
Him!
Recognition struck Moondragon’s psyche like a thunderbolt. She knew this man! His face she recognized instantly with a surge of hatred that shocked even her in its virulence. He was the one who did this to her, she knew, from the depths of her soul. That smile had seared itself into her memory. But why? And, more importantly, how?
Moondragon expected the page to be turned again any minute. Instead her host lingered there and she noticed her fingers were now clutching the thin glossy paper in a ball, having torn it free from the staples. What’s more she could feel its texture against her skin. She could feel again! And when she instructed her host’s hand to release the paper, it actually complied.
She had broken free at last! Moondragon had assumed control.
And there was no time to waste. Her memories might still be a jumble but she had a lead now at least. She would find out what had been done to her, who had imprisoned her psyche in this miserable body, and woe to any that stood in her way. For mercy was not a word in Moondragon’s vocabulary. Not for offenses this grave.
But first things first. Grabbing her host body’s purse, she snatched the car keys from the table, then found a pair of worn out sneakers that fit her feet. She was making rapid strides towards the door when Donald just happened to exit the bathroom directly into her path.
“Hey,” he mumbled, looking her up and down. “Where you think you’re going?”
“Out, you imbecile. Move.”
His jaw dropped. Very likely he had never heard words of that tone drop from this particular mouth. “You can’t talk to me that way. And you’re not going anywhere. Not without a better explanation than that.”
Rational common sense informed her that a lie would have sufficed. She could have borrowed any one of a number of phrases she’d heard her host using over the last month of her grueling captivity. I need to pick up some things from the store. I’m taking a walk to clear my head. I’m going for takeout, what would you like? Donald would probably have accepted any of them, especially the latter.
But this was faster and, admittedly, more enjoyable.
His body was sent pinwheeling through the flimsy screen door. The momentum carried him across the front porch and over the railing into a row of juniper bushes where he all but disappeared save for his bare hairy legs and a low moan.
Not too bad, Moondragon reflected. That had only been a small telekinetic bolt -- this body’s untutored mind didn’t seem capable of much more -- but it had gotten the job done. In time she’d improve. A moment later she was in her so-called husband’s pickup and behind the wheel. Moondragon had never driven one of these automobile things before but she’d seen her host doing it plenty of times. Should be simple enough.
As the truck went squealing out of the driveway, an elderly neighbor stood mouth agape, the water from the hose he’d forgotten dousing his rose garden.
She hadn’t even thought to wave.
# # # # #
Even More Earlier…
You’re not going to do it. Don’t you dare do it. Not in the studio bathroom’s sink of all places.
Greer Grant-Nelson, Tigra to her friends and even more so to her enemies, stared at her reflection in the mirror and told herself that she didn’t really feel sick. It was just post-interview nerves. Her brain concurred. Her stomach however refused to listen.
It had been a complete and thorough disaster. No saving grace, no silver lining, no nothing. What was worse is that in her heart Tigra felt she should have known better. This was not the first time.
The appearance had sounded innocuous enough. She’d been invited to join in a discussion panel segment of The Hype on an upcoming book called Super Woman Couture by Webster Strawslinger. Eight hundred dollars for an hour’s work and the show’s sweet talking programming director had even told her she’d be allowed to plug her website. What she didn’t tell her was the book’s thesis or the segment’s tagline.
Super Woman Couture: Are the loose morals and provocative outfits of so-called superheroines harming America?
Catchy? No. Embarrassing? Gods yes, especially when the answer for host and author both was apparently a big fat yes. She had been invited here to provide the counterargument except no one told her she was going to be making a counterargument or having any arguments whatsoever actually. Which was undoubtedly not an accidental oversight on their part.
It was the sort of situation a person needs a PA to guard against but how was she going to afford a PA when she could barely make her car payments lately?
Jackson Orizio, host of The Hype, snotty and superior as you please: “Tell me…what kind of message do you think it sends our children when you go around in public fighting crime or whatever it is you do in what amounts to your underwear? What sort of example is that setting for young girls today?”
Stammer. Stutter. Awkward laughter that fails to defuse the tension.
And that had been one of her cleverer responses.
Tigra studied her face and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. It wasn’t even really nerves making her feel sick. It was just plain old embarrassment. She’d walked blindly into a hit piece and took every single bullet. They didn’t even mention her website at all. Just try to plug a Swimsuit Calendar after that lead-in!
One of the stalls behind her creaked open and a young woman stepped out smoothing her skirt. Running her hands under the adjacent faucet, she avoided making eye contact then surreptitiously snapped a photograph with her phone before exiting. Great. More fodder for the gossip blogs. Tigra Coughs Up Hairball in Public Bathroom.
You need to get out of here, she told herself. Before you do something truly regrettable. Like accidentally shove that writer down the stairwell. Twice. Stuffing her handful of personal effects back in her handbag and fishing out a pair of sunglasses, she turned around to find herself face-to-face with the programming director.
“Oh, there you are! I thought you might have left already. Great show!”
Tigra hissed. “What do you want?”
“I just thought you’d like to know,” the woman began, crossing her arms in a manner that communicated if not arrogance, then a least a distinct lack of remorse. “There’s some kind of disturbance going on at the Atlas building a few blocks down. Spandex appears to be involved.”
“And?”
“Well, you are some kind of superhero aren’t you?”
What she wouldn‘t have given to claw the smirk right off her face.
# # # # #
Now…
As plans went it was not her finest hour. While her host probably knew the San Jose area backwards and forwards, Moondragon did not. Nor was she familiar with the quaint set of earthling laws known as the California traffic code. This lead to what might be fairly termed a streak of bad luck when she ignored a flashing red light dangling above an intersection to slam bumper first into a telephone pole. When she tried to back it out, the vehicle stubbornly refused to dislodge itself, and steam began to pour from under the hood. This was also apparently a bad thing.
Fortunately, as it often did, good luck followed bad. Seeing her distress an older man in work overhauls pulled up to the curb to ask if he might offer her any assistance. She said that he could, specifically, he might direct her to the building in this picture she was holding. He knew it. Atlas Enterprises of course. Downtown. Can’t miss the eyesore. Do you work there?
Not exactly but a little psychic nudge was enough to get him to do what he was already inclined to do, namely give the attractive female a ride there. As he dropped her off in the parking lot, she dismissed him with a curt wave of her hand, promptly forgetting his name along with the abandoned pick-up. Her mind was on one thing only.
Answers.
Moondragon marched through the front door past security and towards the reception booth. She slapped the ad from the magazine down on the counter with a scowl. “Where is this man?”
The receptionist crinkled her brow, unused to such a rude greeting, and fixed a frigid stare on the scruffily dressed woman standing before her desk. When that failed to have the usual wilting effect she gave in to curiosity, leaning over to examine the picture. “Why that’s Mr. Taggart, isn’t it?”
“You will tell me where to find him.”
“I will not! You have to contact his secretary for an appointment first. You can’t just march in off the streets.”
Moondragon frowned. She considered ripping the information from the woman’s mind but there was no guarantee she knew anything. This one was clearly just a low level lackey and, besides that, she was not sure how well this body could conduct telepathic intrusion of that intense a nature. The physical brain she was using had not been through the lifetime of training her own had. Its limitations were vast.
“Never mind,” she decided, spotting an elevator opening nearby. “I will find him myself.”
“Miss, wait a minute! You’re not authorized to be here! Somebody stop her!”
The lobby went ballistic. Security guards rushed forward, hands on their pistols, as the girl who’d just stepped off the elevator began to grow in size, shredding the lab coat she was wearing to reveal a purple bodysuit underneath. She raised her fist as if to strike and Moondragon knew that she was in the right place after all. The viper’s nest. The defenses here were far more formidable than she would have expected.
So she did what came natural. She attacked.
Soon the guards were joined by other better armed defenders each of whom she took out with brutal efficiency. This body was not used to fighting but Moondragon had trained in the martial arts her entire life. That knowledge remained in her memories. It was enough to disarm such ineffectual riffraff as these, particularly with the giant one swinging her arms about wildly, lashing out at everything that moved, even the guards, who should have been on her side.
A peculiar absence of tactics on their part but Moondragon didn’t have time to figure it out. She was too busy dodging the giant’s blows herself, waiting for an opportunity to strike, sizing up her clumsy opponent for a finishing move. A pressure point blow applied at the right spot should work no matter the height of her enemy. She just needed to get close enough and was about to do so when a third enemy, another meta with the features of a cat, interrupted their fight, gabbling something about surrendering now and talking it out like adults. The cheapest of subterfuges. Moondragon used her telekinetic skills to blindside her with a metal bin and felt sublime satisfaction as she struck the ground hard.
Having now identified the easiest target, she closed in, and was surprised when the prone feline launched herself backwards, her feet landing a glancing blow just under her chin. Such never would have happened normally. This body’s reflexes were pathetic.
Moondragon aimed a hard roundhouse at the tiger lady’s head and was blocked. Her opponent countered with her claws and she caught her furry wrist, flipping her over one shoulder with smooth grace. Again the cat landed on her feet and tried to knock her off her own with a sweeping kick. Moondragon nimbly leapt over it, planting a hard blow just under the feline’s ribcage.
Tiger lady yelped but didn’t back down. They were both breathing heavily now. And someone was laughing.
“You two are awesome! All that jumping around…how do you do that?”
They both glanced up to see the giant grinning down at them like a kid. Again very strange behavior for an enemy Moondragon observed. And the tiger woman she’d been fighting was not totally unfamiliar. What if she’d judged the whole situation too hastily? Her whole plan, she realized ,with a sudden and highly uncharacteristic pang of self-doubt, had been pure emotion. She’d been acting on anger not wisdom.
How stupid.
“Those sirens are getting closer. In a minute we’re going to be completely surrounded by cops.” Before her bewildered eyes the giant shrunk down to normal proportions. Less than normal in fact. She was actually quite small in stature with skinny arms and a rather flat chest. Her face was flushed from the exertion even more than Moondragon’s own. “C’mon. We’d better get out of here. They won’t press charges against me, it’d be way too embarrassing for the company, but you two on the other hand…”
The tiger lady huffed. “Me? I was trying to stop the fight! You two are the criminals!”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” the girl countered before pointing out one of the downed security guards. “But that’s what they’ll remember. I saw you knock him out.”
“I was saving your life.”
“Which was really cool of you, but trust me when I say they don’t appreciate finer details around here when it comes to litigation. The only thing Atlas does better than weapons is lawsuits.” She crossed her thin arms, growing suddenly impatient. “So are you two coming or staying? Your choice but you’d better make it quick or you’re on your own.”
Moondragon glanced back at the elevator and the ruinous results of her overly rash assault, the approaching sirens echoing in her ears. She needed time to regroup. She needed not to be arrested.
The decision had already been made.
# # # # #
Maybe if her day hadn’t gone so poorly Tigra would have made another more responsible choice. She was pretty sure proper Avenger protocol would have been to hold both of them for authorities. She was also pretty sure that would have resulted in a renewal of combat and her ribs were aching enough already. Better to go along and learn what she could peaceably. Better in terms of her health at least. The older woman had packed a surprisingly strong punch.
“So who are you? Nice cheap shot with that trash bin back there by the way.”
“I am Moondragon, disciple of the Shao-Lom, prodigy of the Eternals.”
Tigra snorted. “Baloney. I know Moondragon. You don’t look a thing like her.”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that one like yourself would judge everything on surface appearance?”
On the other hand, she did talk somewhat like her. Right down to that arrogant lift of her left eyebrow.
Meanwhile, their young friend, if that was the right word for someone who’d been attempting to murder them just moments earlier, drove the pair to her home on the other side of the valley. As they pulled past the gates and up the sloping driveway, Tigra found herself losing track of the conversation. It was large. It was modern.
It was ridiculously expensive.
There were four other cars resting in the cavernous garage where they parked. All of them were shiny new and foreign, and could probably go from zero to sixty in under four seconds. Things only got more sickening on their way inside as they walked by a pool wide enough to submerge Tigra’s whole apartment and still have room for a pleasant soak. A handful of bored young people reclined around it. A few waved disconsolately.
“My friends,” their host Bethany explained. “I’d introduce you but I can’t recall their names right now.”
It was clear to Tigra that this was a woman to be hated and she wasn’t even going to try to make that difficult. Their host was probably no older than twenty, not even adult enough to drink, and here she was living in one of the nation’s most expensive cities with a setup that would make a Saudi prince envious.
You’re an Avenger, Tigra reminded herself. You’ve been to other planets. You’ve got nothing to be jealous about.
“Oh, my God!” she blurted, unable to stop herself, “is that a personal theater?”
Bethany shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. Kinda sexy, huh? I really should use it more often. I love movies.”
“And this is all genuine leather isn’t it?”
“Sure. What else would it be? You should look at the chandelier I just had put up in the dining room. It’s killer. All crystal, each piece handcrafted by these artisan guys i-”
“Enough!”
They paused to discover Moondragon glowering at them. Annoyed would have been an overly charitable description of her expression. Which made for another persuasively authentic imitation of the real thing Tigra had to concede. The proof was definitely adding up.
“I will not stand here and have you waste my time. I’ve no patience for children’s games.”
“I‘m wasting your time?” answered Bethany. “Here I thought I was doing you both a favor. And who says I’m playing games?”
“That suit you’re wearing. You stole it. For thrills.”
The girl didn’t try to deny it to her credit. In fact she looked rather proud to have her achievement recognized aloud and perhaps even a bit impressed. “Wow. How’d you guess that?”
“I guess nothing. I’m psychic and you’ve been mentally patting yourself on the back ever since we left.”
Bethany smiled. “Neat. This just keeps getting better. A psychic is a great addition.”
“If you think your glibness is cute you are sadly mistaken.”
A shrug. “I don’t particularly care how others perceive me to tell the truth. But I do think you should hear my proposition before you run off.”
“You’ve nothing that could interest me. Keep your purloined property for all I care. I have a mission of my own.”
“I‘d already guessed as much. You’re looking for this guy aren’t you?” Bethany held up a piece of wrinkled paper and carefully flattened it out on the tabletop. It was a magazine ad for Atlas Enterprises. Tigra didn’t recognize the man standing in it as anything special but Moondragon’s face was suddenly rapt. “So am I. His name is Randal Taggart. You’re not going to find him at the Atlas building though. Not this one or the Mumbai branch either.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s been missing for five months now.”
Moondragon’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that?”
“Well, he’s my father for one. He’s the reason I can afford all of this.” The girl waved her arm around the room, encompassing the house and all its pricy furnishings. “He’s also the reason I broke into that building. I needed access to his work computer and, for reasons we need not go into right now, I’m banned from the premises. The whole suit thing was just a spur of the moment bonus.”
Bethany reached into one the pouches on her belt and produced a flash drive, holding it forth for their examination, before plugging it into a nearby laptop.
“This is what I needed. You see, I think he’s been kidnapped, and what’s more he’s not the only one. I’ve compiled a list of over twenty-five scientists and high tech industry innovators who’ve also gone missing in the same time frame. I think someone is kidnapping them and if I compare the log of his meetings and transactions with those I‘ve collected from the other missing persons, I may just uncover a connecting thread.” She bit her lip. “Hopefully. Bit of a gamble. I’m optimistic though!”
Tigra crossed her arms. Assuming this girl wasn‘t insane -- and it was awfully premature for that -- this was actually starting to sound rather serious. “Why not just go to the authorities?”
“Because I’d like to find him alive and I haven’t much faith in the FBI given the caliber of people my father dealt with on a regular basis. High tech weapons development involves some very heavy hitters.”
“Why not the Avengers then?”
“They wouldn’t listen to someone like me,” the girl replied with a shake of her head that left her tussled brown hair even more of a tangled mess. “Or at least…if they did, they’d want to do things their own way. They certainly wouldn’t want me involved. That’s why I need my own team. That’s why I need you.”
The silence that descended after those words was so complete they could have heard a flea sneeze. It was finally broken by a derisive snort from Moondragon.
“Preposterous.”
“If you think you know a better way to find my dad, I’m all ears. Maybe wandering around randomly smashing your way into buildings has yielded better results than months of research and inquiries on my part.”
Moondragon frowned. “I don’t normally do that sort of thing. I’ve found myself in an…unusual situation.”
“Story of my life,” Tigra joked to the amusement of neither, her attempt at levity failing to cut the tension. It was always that way. “Only I don’t see why you think I’d sign on with you. If your father and all those other scientists actually are missing, I want to help of course, but why wouldn’t I just take this to official channels? What do I stand to gain by trusting you?”
Bethany nodded pertly at this perfectly reasonable question. Slipping into a chair behind her desk she began to peck away at the laptop’s keyboard. For a moment they almost thought she’d forgotten them, so absorbed she looked. Perhaps she really was nuts after all.
“Okay! Let’s see… You’re Tigra, right? Yeah, that’s your picture right there. You photograph well! So according to the wiki you’ve got some mystical medallion which grants you, duh, cat powers obviously…um…fought crime for a couple years…blah blah blah…a lackluster stint on the Avengers…”
“Lackluster? I was a founding member of the West Coast branch!”
“I’m just reading off the internet. ‘…following a lackluster stint on the Avengers and a supporting role with the Fantastic Four*, she has since become a minor celebrity and part-time vigilante.’” Bethany wrinkled her nose. “I’m guessing that doesn’t pay well. I do. Plus my family owns a publishing company, a monthly magazine, and two radio stations.”
* (See M2K Fantastic Four, v1 #5-17 - Al)
“So?”
Bethany went back to reading. “‘…voted Time Magazine’s Worst Super Heroine three times running and a five time recipient of People’s Worst Dressed Celebrities, Tigra is…’”
“Okay,” she interrupted, thankful not for the first time about how effectively fur hides a red face. “Enough. I get where you’re going. So the last few years haven’t been great but…”
“We can help each other is what I’m saying. Plus we’ll be saving lives, maybe…at least if we find them.”
“And what makes you qualified for something like this?”
Another of those dismissive shrugs that were rapidly grating on everyone’s nerves. “I graduated college when I was sixteen. I have two PhDs. How many do you two have?”
“Mere pieces of paper do not denote wisdom, girl,” answered Moondragon. “This is not a pursuit for dilettantes.”
“So none then, I take it.”
Tigra exchanged glances with Moondragon. As sales went this was definitely of the hard variety.
“It is paramount I find this Taggart man as soon as possible. I need to learn what happened to me and how I became stuck in…” Moondragon indicated her current body with a tone of supreme distaste, “…this. You would appear to be the only lead I have, unfortunately.”
Both now looked expectantly to Tigra who in turn couldn’t help taking another glance around the opulent office. She could have parked her car in it. Her twelve year old used car with the sticky gear shift, balding tires, and perpetually hair matted upholstery.
“So, um, how much exactly are we talking? Salary-wise I mean…”
Bethany Parker-Taggart sat back in her chair and grinned.
# # # # #
Meanwhile…
Money, as all realists knew, was the world’s finest lubricant. It made the gears turn.
So it was in the span of a mere three hours, the little imbroglio in the lobby of Atlas Enterprises was already on its way to becoming a memory. The damage had all been superficial. The fractured flooring, dented walls, and ruined benches would all be fixed with new and better materials before the weekend was over. Even easier to replace were the people. A simple phone call had sufficed to find new security guards to take over for those injured in the fight. Before the year was out he’d have them all fired and hire a more experienced force in their place.
Johan Winston Abrams saw to all of this as he saw to everything that pertained to Atlas. He was the man who controlled the corporation’s finances. It was he who moved the gears. It had been that way ever since Taggart had gone missing. Truthfully, it had been that way even before that. Taggart had long ago morphed into a corporate masthead when his business went truly global, the inventor having little stamina for the humdrum of day-to-day operations. Johan did not miss his input greatly.
Stepping into the empty conference room, he opened his laptop and plugged it into the media terminal. The wall-sized conferencing screen winked to life as a video call began to stream. He lowered himself to one knee and waited patiently. It did not take long.
“Report, Number Eleven.”
Johan looked up. The scarlet hooded visage of Number One now filled the screen. His voice as ever was eerie under the effects of a modulator.
“All went as planned. The intruders escaped the building without incident. The police have no leads while my people have already identified two of the three perpetrators. One is a minor Avenger alum known as Tigra. The other is…problematic.”
“Explain.”
“Mr. Taggart’s daughter.”
There was no change in tone as Number One replied. “Are you certain?”
“We have security camera footage that allowed for facial recognition. She attempted to disable them using her father’s old console override but of course I closed that loophole months ago. It was also she who accessed her father’s computer and recovered the files I planted there.”
“I do not see how this complicates matters then.”
Johan shifted uncomfortably. He always seemed to sweat profusely during these meetings. “Just that it would be unfortunate if anything happened to Mr. Taggart’s daughter…”
“Are these your true feelings?”
They were not. Randal had doted on his spoiled daughter ever since her birth and Johan had grown used to feigning equal concern for the brat. He had forgotten to whom he was speaking at this moment. There were no false pieties within the Secret Empire.
“No. Her wellbeing does not concern me at all.”
“Good. Such sentimentality is inappropriate in our organization and for our world’s future.”
He bowed his head further to acknowledge the truth of these words.
“You will proceed with the plan exactly as devised.”
Devised by Johan himself although those acknowledgements went unspoken. It had been created as a failsafe. Files were planted on Taggart’s computer as well as those of their other victims so that they could easily be found by vigilante types should they ever come snooping into their activities. Johan had thought it more prudent to provide them with a false scent than leave them nothing and risk more intrusive investigating.
Particularly since that false scent would them directly into the hands of one of their own. He had not anticipated Taggart’s daughter would be the first. Although in the end such a detail hardly mattered.
“Do you wish to have them brought to Elysium upon capture?”
There was a pause before the modulator crackled again. “No. These ones do not interest me. Have them delivered to our business associate in the Savage Land. He should be able to make good use of them and then dispose of the evidence afterwards.”
Johan smiled. He appreciated neatness. “I will inform Number Twelve of their imminent arrival then.”
“You may also inform Number Twelve that upon completion of this task he will become the new Number Eleven.”
“The new Number Eleven…?”
A shiver shot up Johan’s back upon hearing this news. Eleven was his number. To have another placed in contention for the same rank was enormously dangerous. It could only ever end one way. With the survival of the fittest.
“Yes,” One continued. “You have done well today. Your caution has potentially saved us from unwanted attention. You are now being placed in contention for Number Eight. Should you prove yourself worthy of it, we will speak of greater things.”
“You honor me.”
“I do not. A poor choice of words. Each earns his own honor.”
“Of course you are right…”
“May the strongest prevail, Number Eight.”
“Maybe the strongest prevail,” Johan repeated as the video went dark. Once he was confident that the Secret Empire truly had severed the connection, he let out a ragged sigh and removed a silk kerchief from his suit pocket to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
He had been promoted but that too was not without risk. The current Number Eight was new to their organization, only a few months in, and already he had slain the previous Number Nine as well the perpetually unlucky Number Thirteen and four more contenders besides. Johan knew he would need to act quickly if he was to usurp him.
Success meant that entry to Elysium was in his sight for the first time. He had earned that distinction. He would earn greater still in the coming days.
The strongest would indeed prevail.
# # # # #
NEXT ISSUE: Who is Number One?!? Why are the world’s greatest minds disappearing?!? And what does the Secret Empire have in store for our clueless heroines?!? Mysteries abound as Lady Liberators continues next issue!
Bethany Parker-Taggart was humming under her breath as the elevator began its descent. She was shocked to hear herself doing such a thing. Did it imply excess nervous energy? Nervous energy could be caused by a number of factors: prolonged stress, the buildup of certain hormones and chemical compounds in the bloodstream, poor diet, attempting to steal a multimillion dollar piece of experimental technology while breaking and entering. All things known to give the jitters to other people, but to herself?
That was irritating. Equally irritating: she couldn’t place the tune.
The elevator stopped on the fifth floor, accounting. Two men in navy blue business suits stepped in, nodding politely before continuing a private debate over this year’s fantasy football picks. They went down two floors then exited, laughing at some joke whose punchline she’d totally missed. The entire time Bethany found herself fingering her ID badge.
Actually, technically, not her ID badge. The ID badge and keycard of Karen Watkowski, lab assistant, first class, duties including but not limited to equipment maintenance and after hours clean-up. Not on the surface a particularly sought-after item, even when attached, as it was now, to her snazzy sky blue lab coat. Nevertheless Bethany had paid over a million dollars cash for Karen to report them missing along with her ‘stolen’ car sometime later this afternoon.
So pretty expensive as outfits went but nothing compared to what she was wearing underneath it. An experimental skintight -- actually it seemed a little baggy under the arms but how to fix that? -- suit made from unstable molecules, a byproduct of a two point five billion dollar research grant from the Pentagon into the safe productive applications of Pym Particles into new environments. All of which were code words for militarization and counter-terrorism initiatives, the bread and butter of Atlas Enterprises nowadays. The suit was a reject project and Bethany had simply helped herself to it on the way out. Waste not, want not.
The elevator opened to the first floor. A bright midday sun struck her eyes through a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. The light glinted off Henry, an ugly bronze statue who stood perpetually hunched in the center of the room, hoisting the AE corporate logo in the shape of a globe on his wide burnished back. Except for him, a few milling security guards, and the eternally bored receptionist, the lobby was mostly empty this time of day.
Easy peasy. Just like she planned. Bethany still kept her fingers poised over the injection button in the costume’s right glove however. One press and ten units of Pym Particulate would be subcutaneously injected into her system. The thought actually gave her a bit of a thrill. She wondered what it might feel like. Did it hurt?
That would have to wait until later. Bethany wasn’t going to need it now. She was too smart for that. All she had to do was hold her head up high, walk right out the front door, and…
“Miss, wait a minute! You’re not authorized to be here! Somebody stop her!”
# # # # #
Earlier Still…
The Shao-Lom monks of Titan had devised innumerable methods for strengthening body and mind of their disciples. Among the most arduous were the Chambers of Twelve Torments. Heather Douglas had first been subjected to it when she was only ten years old and the pain had been beyond description. Despite weekly sessions it was not until deep in her adolescence that she, known only as Moondragon by then, could pass through all twelve of the brutal chambers without screaming herself hoarse.
Nonetheless this was far worse in her estimation. Even the old head priest might have shuddered to contemplate it.
“I said bring me a beer, would you? Are you deaf in there woman?”
Her body sighed and stood up. She walked over to the fridge and plucked a can from a twelve pack on the bottom shelf. The loathsome lump of human tissue known as Donald accepted it from his spot on the couch without so much as a thank you. “Took you long enough. Like your butt couldn’t stand to lose a few. You’d think you were allergic to exercise or something…”
All occurring completely unbidden by Moondragon. In direct conflict with her desires in fact. She was merely along for the ride. And this inexplicable state of affairs had been going on for months now. How or why she could not say, only that this hellish prison appeared to be inescapable.
Now her host returned to her post at the kitchenette and resumed thumbing through a magazine. It was a kind of celebrity tabloid rag of which this one seemed inordinately fond. Moondragon would have looked away only she couldn’t look away as her eyeballs belonged not to herself but to her host. And so they remained firmly glued to the magazine.
Which, currently, was open to a two page spread on the love lives of various Hollywood bachelors. Reading these was de rigueur, but thankfully they’d already finished this one earlier. Her host wet her thumb and moved on to the next article, a gossipy piece on the top ten worst superheroines. Some sort of tiger lady won it but her host wasn’t much interested in that kind of dirt and quickly flipped the page. Their eyes were met with an ad of an imposing glass skyscraper, copy reading: ‘Atlas Enterprises, a Global Leader in Smart Solutions to Tomorrow’s Problems.’ In front of the building stood a man in a crisp black suit. He was middle-aged, smiling pleasantly and…
Him!
Recognition struck Moondragon’s psyche like a thunderbolt. She knew this man! His face she recognized instantly with a surge of hatred that shocked even her in its virulence. He was the one who did this to her, she knew, from the depths of her soul. That smile had seared itself into her memory. But why? And, more importantly, how?
Moondragon expected the page to be turned again any minute. Instead her host lingered there and she noticed her fingers were now clutching the thin glossy paper in a ball, having torn it free from the staples. What’s more she could feel its texture against her skin. She could feel again! And when she instructed her host’s hand to release the paper, it actually complied.
She had broken free at last! Moondragon had assumed control.
And there was no time to waste. Her memories might still be a jumble but she had a lead now at least. She would find out what had been done to her, who had imprisoned her psyche in this miserable body, and woe to any that stood in her way. For mercy was not a word in Moondragon’s vocabulary. Not for offenses this grave.
But first things first. Grabbing her host body’s purse, she snatched the car keys from the table, then found a pair of worn out sneakers that fit her feet. She was making rapid strides towards the door when Donald just happened to exit the bathroom directly into her path.
“Hey,” he mumbled, looking her up and down. “Where you think you’re going?”
“Out, you imbecile. Move.”
His jaw dropped. Very likely he had never heard words of that tone drop from this particular mouth. “You can’t talk to me that way. And you’re not going anywhere. Not without a better explanation than that.”
Rational common sense informed her that a lie would have sufficed. She could have borrowed any one of a number of phrases she’d heard her host using over the last month of her grueling captivity. I need to pick up some things from the store. I’m taking a walk to clear my head. I’m going for takeout, what would you like? Donald would probably have accepted any of them, especially the latter.
But this was faster and, admittedly, more enjoyable.
His body was sent pinwheeling through the flimsy screen door. The momentum carried him across the front porch and over the railing into a row of juniper bushes where he all but disappeared save for his bare hairy legs and a low moan.
Not too bad, Moondragon reflected. That had only been a small telekinetic bolt -- this body’s untutored mind didn’t seem capable of much more -- but it had gotten the job done. In time she’d improve. A moment later she was in her so-called husband’s pickup and behind the wheel. Moondragon had never driven one of these automobile things before but she’d seen her host doing it plenty of times. Should be simple enough.
As the truck went squealing out of the driveway, an elderly neighbor stood mouth agape, the water from the hose he’d forgotten dousing his rose garden.
She hadn’t even thought to wave.
# # # # #
Even More Earlier…
You’re not going to do it. Don’t you dare do it. Not in the studio bathroom’s sink of all places.
Greer Grant-Nelson, Tigra to her friends and even more so to her enemies, stared at her reflection in the mirror and told herself that she didn’t really feel sick. It was just post-interview nerves. Her brain concurred. Her stomach however refused to listen.
It had been a complete and thorough disaster. No saving grace, no silver lining, no nothing. What was worse is that in her heart Tigra felt she should have known better. This was not the first time.
The appearance had sounded innocuous enough. She’d been invited to join in a discussion panel segment of The Hype on an upcoming book called Super Woman Couture by Webster Strawslinger. Eight hundred dollars for an hour’s work and the show’s sweet talking programming director had even told her she’d be allowed to plug her website. What she didn’t tell her was the book’s thesis or the segment’s tagline.
Super Woman Couture: Are the loose morals and provocative outfits of so-called superheroines harming America?
Catchy? No. Embarrassing? Gods yes, especially when the answer for host and author both was apparently a big fat yes. She had been invited here to provide the counterargument except no one told her she was going to be making a counterargument or having any arguments whatsoever actually. Which was undoubtedly not an accidental oversight on their part.
It was the sort of situation a person needs a PA to guard against but how was she going to afford a PA when she could barely make her car payments lately?
Jackson Orizio, host of The Hype, snotty and superior as you please: “Tell me…what kind of message do you think it sends our children when you go around in public fighting crime or whatever it is you do in what amounts to your underwear? What sort of example is that setting for young girls today?”
Stammer. Stutter. Awkward laughter that fails to defuse the tension.
And that had been one of her cleverer responses.
Tigra studied her face and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. It wasn’t even really nerves making her feel sick. It was just plain old embarrassment. She’d walked blindly into a hit piece and took every single bullet. They didn’t even mention her website at all. Just try to plug a Swimsuit Calendar after that lead-in!
One of the stalls behind her creaked open and a young woman stepped out smoothing her skirt. Running her hands under the adjacent faucet, she avoided making eye contact then surreptitiously snapped a photograph with her phone before exiting. Great. More fodder for the gossip blogs. Tigra Coughs Up Hairball in Public Bathroom.
You need to get out of here, she told herself. Before you do something truly regrettable. Like accidentally shove that writer down the stairwell. Twice. Stuffing her handful of personal effects back in her handbag and fishing out a pair of sunglasses, she turned around to find herself face-to-face with the programming director.
“Oh, there you are! I thought you might have left already. Great show!”
Tigra hissed. “What do you want?”
“I just thought you’d like to know,” the woman began, crossing her arms in a manner that communicated if not arrogance, then a least a distinct lack of remorse. “There’s some kind of disturbance going on at the Atlas building a few blocks down. Spandex appears to be involved.”
“And?”
“Well, you are some kind of superhero aren’t you?”
What she wouldn‘t have given to claw the smirk right off her face.
# # # # #
Now…
As plans went it was not her finest hour. While her host probably knew the San Jose area backwards and forwards, Moondragon did not. Nor was she familiar with the quaint set of earthling laws known as the California traffic code. This lead to what might be fairly termed a streak of bad luck when she ignored a flashing red light dangling above an intersection to slam bumper first into a telephone pole. When she tried to back it out, the vehicle stubbornly refused to dislodge itself, and steam began to pour from under the hood. This was also apparently a bad thing.
Fortunately, as it often did, good luck followed bad. Seeing her distress an older man in work overhauls pulled up to the curb to ask if he might offer her any assistance. She said that he could, specifically, he might direct her to the building in this picture she was holding. He knew it. Atlas Enterprises of course. Downtown. Can’t miss the eyesore. Do you work there?
Not exactly but a little psychic nudge was enough to get him to do what he was already inclined to do, namely give the attractive female a ride there. As he dropped her off in the parking lot, she dismissed him with a curt wave of her hand, promptly forgetting his name along with the abandoned pick-up. Her mind was on one thing only.
Answers.
Moondragon marched through the front door past security and towards the reception booth. She slapped the ad from the magazine down on the counter with a scowl. “Where is this man?”
The receptionist crinkled her brow, unused to such a rude greeting, and fixed a frigid stare on the scruffily dressed woman standing before her desk. When that failed to have the usual wilting effect she gave in to curiosity, leaning over to examine the picture. “Why that’s Mr. Taggart, isn’t it?”
“You will tell me where to find him.”
“I will not! You have to contact his secretary for an appointment first. You can’t just march in off the streets.”
Moondragon frowned. She considered ripping the information from the woman’s mind but there was no guarantee she knew anything. This one was clearly just a low level lackey and, besides that, she was not sure how well this body could conduct telepathic intrusion of that intense a nature. The physical brain she was using had not been through the lifetime of training her own had. Its limitations were vast.
“Never mind,” she decided, spotting an elevator opening nearby. “I will find him myself.”
“Miss, wait a minute! You’re not authorized to be here! Somebody stop her!”
The lobby went ballistic. Security guards rushed forward, hands on their pistols, as the girl who’d just stepped off the elevator began to grow in size, shredding the lab coat she was wearing to reveal a purple bodysuit underneath. She raised her fist as if to strike and Moondragon knew that she was in the right place after all. The viper’s nest. The defenses here were far more formidable than she would have expected.
So she did what came natural. She attacked.
Soon the guards were joined by other better armed defenders each of whom she took out with brutal efficiency. This body was not used to fighting but Moondragon had trained in the martial arts her entire life. That knowledge remained in her memories. It was enough to disarm such ineffectual riffraff as these, particularly with the giant one swinging her arms about wildly, lashing out at everything that moved, even the guards, who should have been on her side.
A peculiar absence of tactics on their part but Moondragon didn’t have time to figure it out. She was too busy dodging the giant’s blows herself, waiting for an opportunity to strike, sizing up her clumsy opponent for a finishing move. A pressure point blow applied at the right spot should work no matter the height of her enemy. She just needed to get close enough and was about to do so when a third enemy, another meta with the features of a cat, interrupted their fight, gabbling something about surrendering now and talking it out like adults. The cheapest of subterfuges. Moondragon used her telekinetic skills to blindside her with a metal bin and felt sublime satisfaction as she struck the ground hard.
Having now identified the easiest target, she closed in, and was surprised when the prone feline launched herself backwards, her feet landing a glancing blow just under her chin. Such never would have happened normally. This body’s reflexes were pathetic.
Moondragon aimed a hard roundhouse at the tiger lady’s head and was blocked. Her opponent countered with her claws and she caught her furry wrist, flipping her over one shoulder with smooth grace. Again the cat landed on her feet and tried to knock her off her own with a sweeping kick. Moondragon nimbly leapt over it, planting a hard blow just under the feline’s ribcage.
Tiger lady yelped but didn’t back down. They were both breathing heavily now. And someone was laughing.
“You two are awesome! All that jumping around…how do you do that?”
They both glanced up to see the giant grinning down at them like a kid. Again very strange behavior for an enemy Moondragon observed. And the tiger woman she’d been fighting was not totally unfamiliar. What if she’d judged the whole situation too hastily? Her whole plan, she realized ,with a sudden and highly uncharacteristic pang of self-doubt, had been pure emotion. She’d been acting on anger not wisdom.
How stupid.
“Those sirens are getting closer. In a minute we’re going to be completely surrounded by cops.” Before her bewildered eyes the giant shrunk down to normal proportions. Less than normal in fact. She was actually quite small in stature with skinny arms and a rather flat chest. Her face was flushed from the exertion even more than Moondragon’s own. “C’mon. We’d better get out of here. They won’t press charges against me, it’d be way too embarrassing for the company, but you two on the other hand…”
The tiger lady huffed. “Me? I was trying to stop the fight! You two are the criminals!”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” the girl countered before pointing out one of the downed security guards. “But that’s what they’ll remember. I saw you knock him out.”
“I was saving your life.”
“Which was really cool of you, but trust me when I say they don’t appreciate finer details around here when it comes to litigation. The only thing Atlas does better than weapons is lawsuits.” She crossed her thin arms, growing suddenly impatient. “So are you two coming or staying? Your choice but you’d better make it quick or you’re on your own.”
Moondragon glanced back at the elevator and the ruinous results of her overly rash assault, the approaching sirens echoing in her ears. She needed time to regroup. She needed not to be arrested.
The decision had already been made.
# # # # #
Maybe if her day hadn’t gone so poorly Tigra would have made another more responsible choice. She was pretty sure proper Avenger protocol would have been to hold both of them for authorities. She was also pretty sure that would have resulted in a renewal of combat and her ribs were aching enough already. Better to go along and learn what she could peaceably. Better in terms of her health at least. The older woman had packed a surprisingly strong punch.
“So who are you? Nice cheap shot with that trash bin back there by the way.”
“I am Moondragon, disciple of the Shao-Lom, prodigy of the Eternals.”
Tigra snorted. “Baloney. I know Moondragon. You don’t look a thing like her.”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that one like yourself would judge everything on surface appearance?”
On the other hand, she did talk somewhat like her. Right down to that arrogant lift of her left eyebrow.
Meanwhile, their young friend, if that was the right word for someone who’d been attempting to murder them just moments earlier, drove the pair to her home on the other side of the valley. As they pulled past the gates and up the sloping driveway, Tigra found herself losing track of the conversation. It was large. It was modern.
It was ridiculously expensive.
There were four other cars resting in the cavernous garage where they parked. All of them were shiny new and foreign, and could probably go from zero to sixty in under four seconds. Things only got more sickening on their way inside as they walked by a pool wide enough to submerge Tigra’s whole apartment and still have room for a pleasant soak. A handful of bored young people reclined around it. A few waved disconsolately.
“My friends,” their host Bethany explained. “I’d introduce you but I can’t recall their names right now.”
It was clear to Tigra that this was a woman to be hated and she wasn’t even going to try to make that difficult. Their host was probably no older than twenty, not even adult enough to drink, and here she was living in one of the nation’s most expensive cities with a setup that would make a Saudi prince envious.
You’re an Avenger, Tigra reminded herself. You’ve been to other planets. You’ve got nothing to be jealous about.
“Oh, my God!” she blurted, unable to stop herself, “is that a personal theater?”
Bethany shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so. Kinda sexy, huh? I really should use it more often. I love movies.”
“And this is all genuine leather isn’t it?”
“Sure. What else would it be? You should look at the chandelier I just had put up in the dining room. It’s killer. All crystal, each piece handcrafted by these artisan guys i-”
“Enough!”
They paused to discover Moondragon glowering at them. Annoyed would have been an overly charitable description of her expression. Which made for another persuasively authentic imitation of the real thing Tigra had to concede. The proof was definitely adding up.
“I will not stand here and have you waste my time. I’ve no patience for children’s games.”
“I‘m wasting your time?” answered Bethany. “Here I thought I was doing you both a favor. And who says I’m playing games?”
“That suit you’re wearing. You stole it. For thrills.”
The girl didn’t try to deny it to her credit. In fact she looked rather proud to have her achievement recognized aloud and perhaps even a bit impressed. “Wow. How’d you guess that?”
“I guess nothing. I’m psychic and you’ve been mentally patting yourself on the back ever since we left.”
Bethany smiled. “Neat. This just keeps getting better. A psychic is a great addition.”
“If you think your glibness is cute you are sadly mistaken.”
A shrug. “I don’t particularly care how others perceive me to tell the truth. But I do think you should hear my proposition before you run off.”
“You’ve nothing that could interest me. Keep your purloined property for all I care. I have a mission of my own.”
“I‘d already guessed as much. You’re looking for this guy aren’t you?” Bethany held up a piece of wrinkled paper and carefully flattened it out on the tabletop. It was a magazine ad for Atlas Enterprises. Tigra didn’t recognize the man standing in it as anything special but Moondragon’s face was suddenly rapt. “So am I. His name is Randal Taggart. You’re not going to find him at the Atlas building though. Not this one or the Mumbai branch either.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s been missing for five months now.”
Moondragon’s eyes narrowed. “And how would you know that?”
“Well, he’s my father for one. He’s the reason I can afford all of this.” The girl waved her arm around the room, encompassing the house and all its pricy furnishings. “He’s also the reason I broke into that building. I needed access to his work computer and, for reasons we need not go into right now, I’m banned from the premises. The whole suit thing was just a spur of the moment bonus.”
Bethany reached into one the pouches on her belt and produced a flash drive, holding it forth for their examination, before plugging it into a nearby laptop.
“This is what I needed. You see, I think he’s been kidnapped, and what’s more he’s not the only one. I’ve compiled a list of over twenty-five scientists and high tech industry innovators who’ve also gone missing in the same time frame. I think someone is kidnapping them and if I compare the log of his meetings and transactions with those I‘ve collected from the other missing persons, I may just uncover a connecting thread.” She bit her lip. “Hopefully. Bit of a gamble. I’m optimistic though!”
Tigra crossed her arms. Assuming this girl wasn‘t insane -- and it was awfully premature for that -- this was actually starting to sound rather serious. “Why not just go to the authorities?”
“Because I’d like to find him alive and I haven’t much faith in the FBI given the caliber of people my father dealt with on a regular basis. High tech weapons development involves some very heavy hitters.”
“Why not the Avengers then?”
“They wouldn’t listen to someone like me,” the girl replied with a shake of her head that left her tussled brown hair even more of a tangled mess. “Or at least…if they did, they’d want to do things their own way. They certainly wouldn’t want me involved. That’s why I need my own team. That’s why I need you.”
The silence that descended after those words was so complete they could have heard a flea sneeze. It was finally broken by a derisive snort from Moondragon.
“Preposterous.”
“If you think you know a better way to find my dad, I’m all ears. Maybe wandering around randomly smashing your way into buildings has yielded better results than months of research and inquiries on my part.”
Moondragon frowned. “I don’t normally do that sort of thing. I’ve found myself in an…unusual situation.”
“Story of my life,” Tigra joked to the amusement of neither, her attempt at levity failing to cut the tension. It was always that way. “Only I don’t see why you think I’d sign on with you. If your father and all those other scientists actually are missing, I want to help of course, but why wouldn’t I just take this to official channels? What do I stand to gain by trusting you?”
Bethany nodded pertly at this perfectly reasonable question. Slipping into a chair behind her desk she began to peck away at the laptop’s keyboard. For a moment they almost thought she’d forgotten them, so absorbed she looked. Perhaps she really was nuts after all.
“Okay! Let’s see… You’re Tigra, right? Yeah, that’s your picture right there. You photograph well! So according to the wiki you’ve got some mystical medallion which grants you, duh, cat powers obviously…um…fought crime for a couple years…blah blah blah…a lackluster stint on the Avengers…”
“Lackluster? I was a founding member of the West Coast branch!”
“I’m just reading off the internet. ‘…following a lackluster stint on the Avengers and a supporting role with the Fantastic Four*, she has since become a minor celebrity and part-time vigilante.’” Bethany wrinkled her nose. “I’m guessing that doesn’t pay well. I do. Plus my family owns a publishing company, a monthly magazine, and two radio stations.”
* (See M2K Fantastic Four, v1 #5-17 - Al)
“So?”
Bethany went back to reading. “‘…voted Time Magazine’s Worst Super Heroine three times running and a five time recipient of People’s Worst Dressed Celebrities, Tigra is…’”
“Okay,” she interrupted, thankful not for the first time about how effectively fur hides a red face. “Enough. I get where you’re going. So the last few years haven’t been great but…”
“We can help each other is what I’m saying. Plus we’ll be saving lives, maybe…at least if we find them.”
“And what makes you qualified for something like this?”
Another of those dismissive shrugs that were rapidly grating on everyone’s nerves. “I graduated college when I was sixteen. I have two PhDs. How many do you two have?”
“Mere pieces of paper do not denote wisdom, girl,” answered Moondragon. “This is not a pursuit for dilettantes.”
“So none then, I take it.”
Tigra exchanged glances with Moondragon. As sales went this was definitely of the hard variety.
“It is paramount I find this Taggart man as soon as possible. I need to learn what happened to me and how I became stuck in…” Moondragon indicated her current body with a tone of supreme distaste, “…this. You would appear to be the only lead I have, unfortunately.”
Both now looked expectantly to Tigra who in turn couldn’t help taking another glance around the opulent office. She could have parked her car in it. Her twelve year old used car with the sticky gear shift, balding tires, and perpetually hair matted upholstery.
“So, um, how much exactly are we talking? Salary-wise I mean…”
Bethany Parker-Taggart sat back in her chair and grinned.
# # # # #
Meanwhile…
Money, as all realists knew, was the world’s finest lubricant. It made the gears turn.
So it was in the span of a mere three hours, the little imbroglio in the lobby of Atlas Enterprises was already on its way to becoming a memory. The damage had all been superficial. The fractured flooring, dented walls, and ruined benches would all be fixed with new and better materials before the weekend was over. Even easier to replace were the people. A simple phone call had sufficed to find new security guards to take over for those injured in the fight. Before the year was out he’d have them all fired and hire a more experienced force in their place.
Johan Winston Abrams saw to all of this as he saw to everything that pertained to Atlas. He was the man who controlled the corporation’s finances. It was he who moved the gears. It had been that way ever since Taggart had gone missing. Truthfully, it had been that way even before that. Taggart had long ago morphed into a corporate masthead when his business went truly global, the inventor having little stamina for the humdrum of day-to-day operations. Johan did not miss his input greatly.
Stepping into the empty conference room, he opened his laptop and plugged it into the media terminal. The wall-sized conferencing screen winked to life as a video call began to stream. He lowered himself to one knee and waited patiently. It did not take long.
“Report, Number Eleven.”
Johan looked up. The scarlet hooded visage of Number One now filled the screen. His voice as ever was eerie under the effects of a modulator.
“All went as planned. The intruders escaped the building without incident. The police have no leads while my people have already identified two of the three perpetrators. One is a minor Avenger alum known as Tigra. The other is…problematic.”
“Explain.”
“Mr. Taggart’s daughter.”
There was no change in tone as Number One replied. “Are you certain?”
“We have security camera footage that allowed for facial recognition. She attempted to disable them using her father’s old console override but of course I closed that loophole months ago. It was also she who accessed her father’s computer and recovered the files I planted there.”
“I do not see how this complicates matters then.”
Johan shifted uncomfortably. He always seemed to sweat profusely during these meetings. “Just that it would be unfortunate if anything happened to Mr. Taggart’s daughter…”
“Are these your true feelings?”
They were not. Randal had doted on his spoiled daughter ever since her birth and Johan had grown used to feigning equal concern for the brat. He had forgotten to whom he was speaking at this moment. There were no false pieties within the Secret Empire.
“No. Her wellbeing does not concern me at all.”
“Good. Such sentimentality is inappropriate in our organization and for our world’s future.”
He bowed his head further to acknowledge the truth of these words.
“You will proceed with the plan exactly as devised.”
Devised by Johan himself although those acknowledgements went unspoken. It had been created as a failsafe. Files were planted on Taggart’s computer as well as those of their other victims so that they could easily be found by vigilante types should they ever come snooping into their activities. Johan had thought it more prudent to provide them with a false scent than leave them nothing and risk more intrusive investigating.
Particularly since that false scent would them directly into the hands of one of their own. He had not anticipated Taggart’s daughter would be the first. Although in the end such a detail hardly mattered.
“Do you wish to have them brought to Elysium upon capture?”
There was a pause before the modulator crackled again. “No. These ones do not interest me. Have them delivered to our business associate in the Savage Land. He should be able to make good use of them and then dispose of the evidence afterwards.”
Johan smiled. He appreciated neatness. “I will inform Number Twelve of their imminent arrival then.”
“You may also inform Number Twelve that upon completion of this task he will become the new Number Eleven.”
“The new Number Eleven…?”
A shiver shot up Johan’s back upon hearing this news. Eleven was his number. To have another placed in contention for the same rank was enormously dangerous. It could only ever end one way. With the survival of the fittest.
“Yes,” One continued. “You have done well today. Your caution has potentially saved us from unwanted attention. You are now being placed in contention for Number Eight. Should you prove yourself worthy of it, we will speak of greater things.”
“You honor me.”
“I do not. A poor choice of words. Each earns his own honor.”
“Of course you are right…”
“May the strongest prevail, Number Eight.”
“Maybe the strongest prevail,” Johan repeated as the video went dark. Once he was confident that the Secret Empire truly had severed the connection, he let out a ragged sigh and removed a silk kerchief from his suit pocket to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
He had been promoted but that too was not without risk. The current Number Eight was new to their organization, only a few months in, and already he had slain the previous Number Nine as well the perpetually unlucky Number Thirteen and four more contenders besides. Johan knew he would need to act quickly if he was to usurp him.
Success meant that entry to Elysium was in his sight for the first time. He had earned that distinction. He would earn greater still in the coming days.
The strongest would indeed prevail.
# # # # #
NEXT ISSUE: Who is Number One?!? Why are the world’s greatest minds disappearing?!? And what does the Secret Empire have in store for our clueless heroines?!? Mysteries abound as Lady Liberators continues next issue!