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Issue #4 by Alan Strauss
Jan 2014 |
Former first mate Clegg stood upon the forecastle of the Black Swan, adjusting his binoculars. There wasn’t much to see in truth. Below stretched a sea of dense jungle foliage, broken only by jagged mountain peaks to the distant south. The setting sun cast a harsh orange glow across the horizon. Pretty no doubt.
Not that he had much time for pretty.
They were three days in-land now, four days into his new captaincy, the result of a long-planned mutiny brought to sudden fruition. Clegg still felt a glow of satisfaction at how easy it had been for him to take charge. The once great Barracuda - if indeed, he ever had been that - was old, feeble, lacking drive, and addled by romantic daydreaming. It had been time for him to fall. Time for Clegg to rise.
For was that not what the Secret Empire preached? Rightful ascendancy for the strongest, the fittest, the cleverest? Guilt and regrets were the tools lesser men used to keep their betters subordinate. Clegg was beyond such sentimentality. This was but the first step of a long climb to destiny. And somewhere at the peak, it awaited him.
Elysium. The future. The culmination of man. Requiring only one great enough to achieve it.
Clegg had no doubts that it would be him. No doubts at all. Even if that meant, for the time being at least, he must occupy himself with petty errands. Such as the one he was currently enmeshed in. For, along with the contract to deliver those three women to the Empire’s Savage Land associate, another task had been handed down, a return cargo to be taken from this prehistoric menagerie. A laundry list of freaks and monsters desired by no less than Number One himself. Aerians from the Shalan province, Tree Men from the Botor region, Pterons from the southern interior.
Why they were wanted Clegg did not know or particularly care. Trafficking in human cargo - if these creatures even qualified as such - was as old as the profession of piracy itself. A fact their squeamish former captain should have recognized.
“Clegg, I’ve fresh news from the away crew.”
He frowned, fixing his hard stare on the stooped messenger. Peggety was one of the older hands who helped keep the Black Swan afloat, a technician by training, worthless on the ground or in a fight, which is why he’d been kept behind. He’d also stood amongst those who’d initially sided with Barracuda. Clegg did not forget such things.
“Captain Clegg, you maggot!”
The old man bristled at the correction but covered his irritation with a respectful bow of his head. “Aye, captain, begging your pardon.”
Clegg smirked. The world was so full of weaklings and cowards. “Well, what is it, damn you? Speak up!”
“They’ve sent a message over the two-way. Seems they’ve run into some kind of organized resistance down there. They’re thinking it may be too dangerous to go on…”
“Too dangerous?” He grunted his disapproval. “These people are mere primitives. Our weapons are more than a match for anything they can throw at us, whatever their numbers. Tell those dogs to remain in place and we’ll join them with the ship. A barrage or two from our guns should clear the area of any restless savages.”
“But captain, the fighting’s fierce they say! We’d likely run the risk of killing our own should we do that, not to mention setting the whole jungle ablaze…”
“And do I look o’er concerned?” Clegg placed his muscled arms on his hips, a stance that only emphasized his already prodigious size. The gawky technician wilted beneath his shadow and with him any further dissent. “Now you’ve got your orders, I believe. Move this blasted rig!”
Peggety scurried off as Clegg chuckled to himself. It was hard to believe he’d ever settled for the role of first mate when running things was this much fun. These soft men weren’t used to a real leader but they would learn quickly. There was a stark difference between merely playing pirate and actually being one.
Dropping the binoculars back into their case, Clegg strode across the main deck, the ship already beginning its laborious turn. His new high-powered rifle was calling to him, the one he’d seized from Barracuda’s prized weapons collection. He was eager to test its range and this was sure to be a prime opportunity. If they drew in close enough he might even prove able to snag a few kills from up here.
“Now what the blazes is this?” Clegg bellowed as he reached the entrance to his quarters. The doors stood wide open, swinging on their hinges with the motions of the ship. Even the most foolish of the men should know by now his cabin was off limits, especially after what he’d done to Jenkins. It seemed some never learned but the hard way. “I’d best not find anything missing in here or by God someone will regret it…”
“Oh, there is nothing taken, rest assured,” a voice answered from within. A woman’s voice if his ears weren’t mistaken. “For there is only thing here I seek. You.”
Clegg barged inside, hand on the butt of his pistol, to find his initial thoughts correct. The intruder was indeed but a girl. Slim, blond, and garbed in a simple leotard fashioned from leopard fur. Clearly one of the primitives who inhabited these lands, somehow snuck aboard, perhaps when they were loading their human cargo. His rage began to melt into mirth.
“Me, eh? Do you have a name, girlie?”
She nodded. “My name is Shanna. My people call me the She-Devil. You are the captain of this ship? The one called Clegg who kidnaps the people of this land?”
“That I am. I’ve no clue how you got up here or past our security systems undetected, but you’ve found your man, alright. Now what do you propose to do with me, I wonder?”
Reaching for the handle of her knife, she answered with a smile.
Not that he had much time for pretty.
They were three days in-land now, four days into his new captaincy, the result of a long-planned mutiny brought to sudden fruition. Clegg still felt a glow of satisfaction at how easy it had been for him to take charge. The once great Barracuda - if indeed, he ever had been that - was old, feeble, lacking drive, and addled by romantic daydreaming. It had been time for him to fall. Time for Clegg to rise.
For was that not what the Secret Empire preached? Rightful ascendancy for the strongest, the fittest, the cleverest? Guilt and regrets were the tools lesser men used to keep their betters subordinate. Clegg was beyond such sentimentality. This was but the first step of a long climb to destiny. And somewhere at the peak, it awaited him.
Elysium. The future. The culmination of man. Requiring only one great enough to achieve it.
Clegg had no doubts that it would be him. No doubts at all. Even if that meant, for the time being at least, he must occupy himself with petty errands. Such as the one he was currently enmeshed in. For, along with the contract to deliver those three women to the Empire’s Savage Land associate, another task had been handed down, a return cargo to be taken from this prehistoric menagerie. A laundry list of freaks and monsters desired by no less than Number One himself. Aerians from the Shalan province, Tree Men from the Botor region, Pterons from the southern interior.
Why they were wanted Clegg did not know or particularly care. Trafficking in human cargo - if these creatures even qualified as such - was as old as the profession of piracy itself. A fact their squeamish former captain should have recognized.
“Clegg, I’ve fresh news from the away crew.”
He frowned, fixing his hard stare on the stooped messenger. Peggety was one of the older hands who helped keep the Black Swan afloat, a technician by training, worthless on the ground or in a fight, which is why he’d been kept behind. He’d also stood amongst those who’d initially sided with Barracuda. Clegg did not forget such things.
“Captain Clegg, you maggot!”
The old man bristled at the correction but covered his irritation with a respectful bow of his head. “Aye, captain, begging your pardon.”
Clegg smirked. The world was so full of weaklings and cowards. “Well, what is it, damn you? Speak up!”
“They’ve sent a message over the two-way. Seems they’ve run into some kind of organized resistance down there. They’re thinking it may be too dangerous to go on…”
“Too dangerous?” He grunted his disapproval. “These people are mere primitives. Our weapons are more than a match for anything they can throw at us, whatever their numbers. Tell those dogs to remain in place and we’ll join them with the ship. A barrage or two from our guns should clear the area of any restless savages.”
“But captain, the fighting’s fierce they say! We’d likely run the risk of killing our own should we do that, not to mention setting the whole jungle ablaze…”
“And do I look o’er concerned?” Clegg placed his muscled arms on his hips, a stance that only emphasized his already prodigious size. The gawky technician wilted beneath his shadow and with him any further dissent. “Now you’ve got your orders, I believe. Move this blasted rig!”
Peggety scurried off as Clegg chuckled to himself. It was hard to believe he’d ever settled for the role of first mate when running things was this much fun. These soft men weren’t used to a real leader but they would learn quickly. There was a stark difference between merely playing pirate and actually being one.
Dropping the binoculars back into their case, Clegg strode across the main deck, the ship already beginning its laborious turn. His new high-powered rifle was calling to him, the one he’d seized from Barracuda’s prized weapons collection. He was eager to test its range and this was sure to be a prime opportunity. If they drew in close enough he might even prove able to snag a few kills from up here.
“Now what the blazes is this?” Clegg bellowed as he reached the entrance to his quarters. The doors stood wide open, swinging on their hinges with the motions of the ship. Even the most foolish of the men should know by now his cabin was off limits, especially after what he’d done to Jenkins. It seemed some never learned but the hard way. “I’d best not find anything missing in here or by God someone will regret it…”
“Oh, there is nothing taken, rest assured,” a voice answered from within. A woman’s voice if his ears weren’t mistaken. “For there is only thing here I seek. You.”
Clegg barged inside, hand on the butt of his pistol, to find his initial thoughts correct. The intruder was indeed but a girl. Slim, blond, and garbed in a simple leotard fashioned from leopard fur. Clearly one of the primitives who inhabited these lands, somehow snuck aboard, perhaps when they were loading their human cargo. His rage began to melt into mirth.
“Me, eh? Do you have a name, girlie?”
She nodded. “My name is Shanna. My people call me the She-Devil. You are the captain of this ship? The one called Clegg who kidnaps the people of this land?”
“That I am. I’ve no clue how you got up here or past our security systems undetected, but you’ve found your man, alright. Now what do you propose to do with me, I wonder?”
Reaching for the handle of her knife, she answered with a smile.
“BATTLE ROYALE”
The blind man took it full in the face.
Moondragon smiled grimly as the blunt end of her spear connected in a satisfying crunch. Jamming the blade in the ground, she launched herself into the air, following up her attack with a jaw-shattering knee lift. Sloppy technique by her normal standards but effective enough. Her opponent was sent sprawling backwards into his cohorts, unconscious and probably nursing a concussion. One more down.
Plenty to go.
Her partner was so far fairing at least as well, although that quarter of the battlefield sounded more like a Breakworld pit ring than a proper fight. The remaining wolves yipped and snarled as their opponent refused to stay still long enough to sink their teeth into, her own claws tearing jagged trails wherever she sprung. Their master, the one they called Lupo, shouted hoarsely to the sky, cupping his ruined face in both hands, the flesh hanging from them in shreds.
The whole scene was bloody chaos. Tigra’s frenzy was more feral than human, and Moondragon thanked the gods for that. Her savagery was keeping their enemies a bay where a more cautious style would have failed. The woman had strength in her after all. Untrained and not yet properly harnessed, but there, as she’d recognized so many years ago when first propelling her into the Avengers.*
* (See Avengers #211 - Al)
If Tigra embraced that ferocity, that strength, her potential was enormous. As it was her own lack of confidence and inherent need for approval had held her back. Left her tepid, indecisive, and ever willing to take a backseat to others far less deserving. A scenario Moondragon had noted with frustrating frequency among Earth women.
So this opportunity for unchecked ferocity and brutality was good so far as that went, a broadening of potential Moondragon would have to build on should this dysfunctional partnership of theirs continue. She would make her stronger, harder, crueler…
If of course they survived this fight. The odds of which weren’t especially high in her blunt estimation.
As the sightless warrior tumbled backwards, the four-armed brute called Barbarus lumbered back into the fray, still nursing a left hand crippled moments before with a finger-shattering blow from her spear’s shaft. A lucky shot as much as anything and she’d still had the element of surprise and freshness then. Already this pathetic host body of hers was growing tired and she knew this particular opponent’s strength was prodigious. A single strike might very well end it for her, while Moondragon could perhaps land a dozen or more to little noticeable effect.
Quit whining, she told herself. It has to be done. You find a way to win or die, you wretch.
Simple when you put it like that.
Moondragon lugged her weapon up and prepared to renew battle…when at once the world began to lurch. She felt it swooning beneath her feet, legs struggling to stay upright. Except it wasn’t the ground swaying, not judging by the others on the field. The change was coming from within herself. Her sense of balance had been thrown off-kilter but by what? This body couldn’t possibly be that exhausted, not this soon.
It was then Moondragon noticed a woman crouching at the edge of the treeline, fixing her with an intense stare. Looking through her almost and Moondragon realized she was being assaulted by other meta-human means. This knowledge came too late. Barbarus swung and her attempt to dodge was slow and clumsy. The blow caught her mid-center and sent Moondragon crashing into the trunk of a tree.
The impact left the back of her head bleeding. Ribs bruised maybe broken. Get up, curse you, get up. Barbarus closed in, his right leg pulling back to deliver a no doubt lethal kick. Moondragon’s eyes seized on a nearby rock and she launched it telekinetically at his snarling face. The heavy stone struck with a resounding crack, flattening the cartilage of his nose, and forcing him down to one knee.
Yet still there was no reprieve. Behind him another hunter was already leveling his bow, arrow knocked in place and ready to loose, while Tigra was now weaving erratically across the field, her own balance undermined. There were too many. Simply too many.
The hunter smiled grimly, sighting in his target as a high-pitched keen filled the air, and…
Everything went white.
# # # # #
“I propose to kill you, captain.” Shanna the She-Devil answered simply. “Unless you’d rather surrender to tribal justice?”
Clegg belted out a laugh. He was not sure which he found more amusing: the girl’s sheer audacity or the fact she actually seemed sincere. This pretty bit of indigent fluff was going to threaten him, a man who could bench-press two of her like without breaking a sweat? He considered drawing his gun and shooting her down right now but it would take some time before the ship reached its location. There was no reason not to have some fun with her first.
“If you’re lucky you’ll die quick for I’m in no mood to be merciful, girl.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
He swung, assuming one clumsy blow would be enough to lay her out on the cabin floor, but her speed proved uncanny. The blow sailed several inches above her head as she ducked under his reach, drawing a slender stone knife from a sheath on her hip in the very same motion. A ragged bloody line trailed down from his stomach to his left hip.
“The hell-- !!” he howled, lunging at her again, barking his shin against the leg of a stool as another cut joined the first. Within the passage of mere seconds Clegg found himself a mess of crimson gashes, blood seeping into his eyes and causing him to stumble backwards blindly. He fell hard onto the deck, fumbling for the gun in his waistband.
The She-Devil eyed him coldly, tossing her knife into the air to catch it by the tip and send the stone projectile spiraling towards him. His pistol fell from limp fingers as the blade embedded itself through the back of his hand, emerging from his palm in a gout of red. Screams echoed over the ship.
If Clegg had paused long enough to think, he might have realized the woman was unarmed at that moment and that he still had several pounds of muscle on her lithesome frame. But his shallow pool of courage was drained. Panic had taken its place. Scrambling upright, he fled headlong across the ship, stumbling over loose coils of ropes and his own his two feet, until at last falling face first before the polished tips of a pair of coal black boots.
Their owner smiled down at him.
“Clegg, my boy,” Captain Barracuda said softly with a sympathetic cluck of his tongue while drawing his needle-sharp sword. “I assume you already know the time-honored punishment for mutiny?”
# # # # #
Okay, first… First remember your name. Then repeat it to yourself. You can do that, can’t you?
She had no sight and the only sound that filled her ears belonged to her own rapidly beating heart. Her muscles were sore and tense; her teeth clenched tight as a vice. The fur along her back stood on edge while a thousand smells assaulted her senses. Something coppery - blood, could it really be blood, her own or someone else’s? - tainted her mouth. The animal urge to snarl and flee was almost overwhelming.
Greer Grant Nelson. That’s your name. Remember it. Get ahold of yourself. Greer Grant Nelson…
The Nelson was from Sgt. Bill Nelson. Respected policeman. Loyal confidant. Loving husband. Long dead. She tried to recollect his face and after a moment it finally came, hazy though, less distinct with every passing day. How many years had it been? She tried to remember that too. The more she focused on her memories, her rational self, the more the other loosened its savage feline grip. The more she was able to assert control.
Control… Hmf. Like you’ve ever had control, girl. Not in this life…
She’d told herself that she was marrying Bill for love. He was a kind man, overprotective to a fault, sincere, old-fashioned even. Simple and secure. It was the latter she wanted most, the love secondary. She’d never known any real security in life, never felt like a proper part of anything. Awkward. Uncertain. Unable to maintain a longterm relationship or goal. An alien in her own skin.
That was Greer Grant Nelson. Control just didn’t factor into it. Life was a matter of holding on and hoping the winds of fate were kind. They rarely were though. Her husband had been shot and killed while off-duty, just some stupid random act of God. In an instant that phantom of security had been taken away.
She’d vainly sought to regain it through Dr. Tumulo’s impossible experiments. She volunteered to become a costumed hero, one of those people who always looked so confident and powerful in the magazines, but she should have known better. No matter how hard she played at it, she was still herself at the end of the day. A square peg in a round hole. Becoming Tigra had proved as fraught with setbacks and embarrassments as the rest of her life. Maybe even more so.
The inhuman thing that was now part of her psyche wrestled for control almost every day. She found herself at odds with her own body and desires, unsure which belonged to it and which stemmed from her own secret self. At times she wondered just who she was anymore. Greer Grant Nelson? College dropout, widower, serial nobody? Not for very long time. Tigra then? Who was Tigra though? A misfit Avenger? A superhuman? Maybe something less than human?
And now her life was about to end, the plaything of sadists, an afternoon’s entertainment for wealthy voyeurs. Her fate was being decided by unseen others and she didn’t even know who or why. A pawn. A thing. A punchline.
Aw, gawd, feel sorry for yourself enough? Nobody ever fixed their life by crying about it, you know.
Yeah, thanks me, she thought, more criticism, just what I needed. The darkness of her vision had given way to a bright and piercing pinpoint of light. Distant but gradually drawing closer. Was she dead? Or just dying?
Well, this makes that whole pity party kinda moot, doesn’t it? At least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Means I must have done something right. No pitchforks in the ass or lakes of hellfire for me…although it is kinda hot…muggy actually…and…
“Hey you! Snap out of it!”
# # # # #
Self assessment: Eight out of ten, easy. Overly generous maybe but Bethany Parker-Taggart hated it when people were stingy with praise, particularly when the one being evaluated was herself. Point of fact is she’d taken a piece of advanced near-alien technology, a 3D holographic video projector, and fashioned it into a crude but functioning weapon. Bonus points for activating it just in time to prevent a creepy humanoid frog monster from slitting her throat. How many people could have pulled that off? Not many, she figured, and most of them were probably at least old enough to drink. That alone had to be worth a hard seven.
The principle behind the makeshift weapon was the same as a flash grenade, and not for the first time she found herself appreciating the perks of growing up as the incorrigibly curious daughter to one the world’s largest weapons manufacturer. A press of the triggering mechanism released a blinding flash of light at an intensity of ten million candelas, temporarily overloading the eyes’ photoreceptors. Time required for retinas to readjust: roughly two minutes, assuming the absence of retinal scarring in which case permanent blindness was a distinct possibility.
So, okay, a bit of a risk there, she admitted, given that her teammates were located within the field of fire. Not a lot of options though. No point in beating herself about it, right? A one point deduction at worst.
Two minutes wasn’t exactly a huge window though. Following the sounds of nearby fighting, she’d traced it to its source, discovering her friends on the losing side of a lopsided fight and reacting by instinct. Or something like instinct. Technically she didn’t really have combat instincts, never having done this sort of thing before, so maybe a better word for it was (reckless) impulse. She simply threw an arm across her face and slammed down on the trigger, hoping for the best.
Screaming, flailing, shouting, and a series of semi-comical face plants commenced. She located Tigra on the edge of the unfolding chaos but the Avenger alum was insensible, which itself highlighted a small strategic flaw in Bethany’s plan. She couldn’t exactly carry her allies to safety given their weight difference and they were both now as blind as their enemies. Definitely a two point deduction there, fair is only fair.
Luckily, Moondragon was in better shape. Metaphorically. With all the fresh cuts and bruises, she looked as though someone had run her through a threshing machine, but she was still cognizant of the situation. She recognized Bethany’s voice immediately and shrugged off her disorientation with shocking speed, a benefit perhaps of her extrasensory abilities, reacting as if her sight was a luxury she could temporarily do without, no big deal.
Together they extracted Tigra, and Bethany set off the weapon one last time, effectively burning out the circuits, but leaving their still recovering hunters blinded once again. For awhile. They weren’t exactly out of the woods yet. Or the jungle, if one wanted to be pedantic. Still, no doubt about it, she, Bethany Parker-Taggart had kinda saved the day. She’d even taken a hostage. Three points to the good, for an eight out of ten self-assessment, not bad at all a first outing. Ignoring all the other first outings that weren’t nearly so complimentary of course.
“Hey, I wonder if the Avengers use a similar system?”
“What?” her teammate hissed, glaring at her through the narrow slits of her eyes. Tigra was coming around at last but she still seemed out of it, more than could be reasonably attributed to aftereffects from the flash. Also surly and, for lack of a better word, rather catty.
“Never mind. Just thinking out loud. How long before they catch up?”
“If we stay here, not long at all,” Moondragon noted, “and neither of you are in any condition to fight them off.”
“No offense, but you don’t exactly look like you’re ready for a title bout yourself.”
“You might be surprised, girl. I have been trained to withstand the worst physical hardships imaginable, to call upon reserves of strength most people don’t even know exist, and…”
“Boast like nobody’s business?”
Bethany thought that was a pretty good comeback but maybe her delivery was off or something since nobody laughed. Moondragon chose instead to ignore her altogether, turning on their captive, the frog man who’d attempted to murder Bethany just a short time ago. She’d bound his webbed hands with the same rope that had been used to tie her up earlier.* He didn’t seem particularly interested in escaping anyways. Instead he watched them with his large luminous purple eyes, the baggy tissue around his throat expanding slightly with every breath.
* (See last issue. - Al)
“We need to move but we need to know where we’re headed first.” Moondragon knelt on her haunches, a hard look in her eyes as she stared into the stunted creature’s mottled face. “So, if you want to live, you tell us who’s behind this game and where we can find him, understand?”
The creature’s tongue flicked nervously out of his mouth, a glistening pink tendril that made Bethany’s stomach flip-flop. “Amphibius does not want to die, pretty ladies, but he does not know. He and the other mutates merely play the game as offered. Wealth and prizes…so many nice things to be had…all very rare in the Savage Land…do not blame us…it is not personal…”
Moondragon struck him a blow that sent Amphibius sprawling on the ground with a screech. Placing her heel against the base of his throat, she pressed down until he was gasping for air.
“Hey, c’mon, Avengers don’t kill,” Tigra started but a withering glare silenced her just as quickly. For the first time Bethany realized how little she knew about her about her new partners. How dangerous they might just be in a corner.
“I don’t see any active-duty Avengers here, do you? And speaking for myself I intend to leave this place alive. The fates of those who wish to prevent my doing so are a distant concern at best. Understand?”
The last question directed toward Amphibius as she released the strangling pressure of her foot. He fought to recapture his breath, gasping violently as a torrent of words spilled from his mouth. “It is true! We do not know! The see-thru man just appears in the sky one day and says we will be rewarded if we play his game, we and all the other tribes. And he always keeps his word so far! He always gives us pretty prizes when we win!”
“Where? Where do you collect your prizes, fool?”
“Wherever he tells us. It is always different. Blindside thinks they come by ship from the outside world. We never meet anyone in charge…only the…”
Moondragon scowled. “Only the what?”
At this the creature gave a sickly smile. “The wolves. Sometimes when we cannot capture the quarry ourselves, the wolves come. No one escapes the wolves.”
“We’ve already dealt with your friend’s wolves.”
There was a chortling in the back of his throat, like water bubbling in a pot, laughter perhaps. “Not these wolves, pretty ladies, not these ones.”
Moondragon paused, looking as though she’d like to strike him again, but seeming to realize the futility. It was obvious he was telling the truth. The creature knew nothing useful and they were no better off now than before they’d interrogated him. The exercise had merely wasted valuable minutes, minutes their enemies were no doubt using to close the distance between them.
“The see-thru man, he comes! Look!”
The trio glanced up to see a small silver ball floating overhead. Camera lens sprouted from it like porcupine quills and the mocking voice of their host roared from the tiny speakers.
Contestants! You’re still with us! I would expect a cat girl to have nine lives of course, but the others too?
Bethany heard Tigra sigh from somewhere behind her. Moondragon merely glowered, clenching her fists as though yearning for a real opponent to fight, instead of this…thing. For her own part, Bethany was more interested in the device itself. The camera balls were new. The others seemed to recognize them but she hadn’t seen one herself until this moment.
It really was a rather interesting design actually…
Spectacular! That means you’ve all survived the first round, contestants! A holographic image of a portly man with jaundiced skin had now joined the voice, leering at them with teeth the size of piano keys. One thousand points have now been credited to each of your accounts! Just a few hundred more and you can cash them in for lifetime supply of flavored mineral water, a hand-crafted Belgian cuckoo clock, and other such highly coveted prizes! Provided…
“Provided what?” Tigra asked warily.
Provided you win the other rounds of course!
“And how many rounds are we talking?”
The image flickered as the grin disappeared, pursed mouth fading into the copious rolls of fat of the monster’s chin, gimlet eyes gazing down at the women with malignant hate.
However many it takes. You don’t want the viewers to leave unsatisfied do you? Ars longa, vita brevis.
A shower of sparks punctuated these final words as Moondragon knocked the sphere out of the air with the shaft of her spear. It bounced off the trunk of a tree, smashing into halves, one of which rolled and landed at the tip of Bethany’s boot. She bent down to pick it up.
“So we’re doomed, basically,” Tigra announced, a note of resignation in her exhausted voice. “He’s going to keep throwing things at us until we drop. We’re never going to be allowed to walk away and we don’t even know which direction to run…”
Turning the device over her hand, Bethany examined the internal components, as the ghost of a smile crept over her face.
“Actually, I may have an idea…”
# # # # #
The sun began its evening descent as they pushed further into the dense jungle overgrowth. The heat remained oppressive, a thick wall of humidity every bit as dense as the foliage, leaving their clothes, hair, and body damp with sweat. They were all drained - tired, thirsty, hot. Moondragon could literally feel the exertion of every fresh step, leaving her frustrated and angry. If she was her normal self she’d have shown no signs of the physical toll, for her own body was a thing of razor sharp perfection. Whereas this one? Considerably less so. The fact her teammates seemed to be in even worse condition was only small consolation.
Tigra at least was proving of some use again. Utilizing her enhanced sense of smell and hearing, she was able to keep them one step ahead of their pursuers. They weren’t exactly gaining ground but they were no longer losing it, as their trackers were just as tired and wounded as them. They had no doubt already found their compatriot, Amphibius. Unable to expend energy hauling his deadweight with them, the ladies had left their captive behind, unconscious and bound to a tree.
Now they were essentially gambling their lives on the girl’s makeshift device, a fact that did not set well with Moondragon. According to Bethany, she was using the camera ball’s own remote control mechanism to track its signal back to its source.
To quote: “They’re streaming it on a half hour time differential. The whole fight or hunt or whatever you want to call it. That means the cameras must be relaying their feed to a central processor, which then sorts, repackages, and sends the data out to their audience.”
Which meant there had to be some kind of headquarters nearby. Besides that, she reasoned, they must maintain a secure holding area to keep their unwilling contestants. A certain degree of pre-game preparation was doubtless necessary before each show. So they’d have to place them somewhere remote and secluded while things were being set-up.
An argument convincing enough on its face but the girl had been convincing before, walking them blithely into the very trap that brought them here. Bethany’s confidence might be sky-high but Moondragon’s faith in her was not. She may have come through at a crucial moment earlier, but she was still a neophyte with uncertain intentions. That Moondragon had given her this much rein was likely a testament to just how rattled her memory loss had left her. No one made decisions for Moondragon but Moondragon, after all. She needed to seize control, if there was to be any hope of success in finding her attacker.
Provided of course they survived the Savage Land first.
“This way. The signal’s a lot stronger now. Like, real close.”
Moondragon frowned. They’d come to the edge of a dense cluster of liana trees and were now staring out at a mile long clearing, empty save for a few rocks and the knee-high jungle grass. No sign of any habitation or manmade defenses. No cover either.
“I don’t see anything, girl.”
“Bethany’s fine, thanks,” came the tart reply, “and I’m just telling you what the device is telling me.”
“Perhaps you put it together wrong then.”
Her partner’s face grew red, or at least slightly more red than the muggy heat had already made it. “Oh, yeah, right. I’m sure. I probably just got my engineering doctorates off the internet or something. I’m sure I don’t know a thing about technology. Obviously you’re the expert.”
“The only thing obvious to me,” Moondragon responded, bluntly, “is that, once again, the place you’ve led us to is not the place we need to be. What we’re looking for is some kind of installation, not a barren patch of ground. The only thing we’re going to accomplish by walking out there is to get ourselves spotted and very likely killed.”
This did give Bethany some pause. She began fiddling with the wires of her makeshift tracker again, causing the half-sphere to suddenly stop beeping, until she slapped it with the flat of her palm. A performance that did nothing to increase Moondragon’s confidence.
“Maybe it’s, um, invisible? If the light-refracting capability of their technology is enough to produce 3D holograms like the ones we’ve seen, then a cloaking device is well within the realm of possibility…and, well…”
Dropping down from her perch on an overhanging branch, Tigra landed between the two of them, effectively cutting their debate short. “Oh, for crying out loud! Let’s just go, okay? I’d rather die with an arrow in the back than from the headache you two are giving me. Did either one of even consider that it could be underground? Supervillans love to build their lairs underground, trust me.”
Underground…
Moondragon caught Bethany glancing her way, identical thoughts likely running through her head. “Well, are you coming then? You’ve already wasted enough time arguing with me, girl. We can’t afford to waste anymore.” The annoyance on her young teammate’s face was almost enough to make Moondragon smile. Almost.
Together they entered the clearing, eyes warily trained on the horizon, as the evening sun burned red atop the treeline. They progressed about a quarter of a mile inwards, the tracker beeping louder at every passing second, when another camera ball buzzed by overhead.
There you are contestants! Rather risky to be so out in the open, don’t you think? Why, I can hear our intrepid hunters approaching even n-
A thrust of Moondragon’s spear cut their host short in a burst of static. Yanking the ball off the blade’s tip, she tossed it into the thick grass where the thing exploded with a noisy pop, sending out a small plume of smoke. In the moment of silence that followed it, the ambient sounds of the jungle temporarily stilled, Tigra’s ears perked up.
“Something’s off. I’m hearing trace noises that…”
“That what?”
“…don’t quite belong. Almost like machinery or air filters…”
They had come to a patch of grass unlike the rest, stiff and matted down, bereft of any rocks or geological irregularities. Too perfect, too flat, too uniformly straight at the perimeters. With a little work, they managed to uncover the edges of the camouflage mat and pulled it back to reveal a large metal hatch. A few minutes strenuous effort was enough to pry it open, revealing a stairwell leading down.
Artificial lights flickered to life one at a time as they descended, bathing the women in a pale blue glow. The air became considerably cooler and the soft purr of machinery gradually grew in volume until at last they entered a kind of processing room. Clean, sterile, with a row of clear plexiglass pods lining the walls. Human forms could be seen laying within several of them, tranquil and still as though sleeping. At the center of the room sat a terminal and a row of apparently inactive tri-pedal robots, three-fingered arms resting calmly against their sides and trays bedecked with syringes, pills, and catheters attached to their chests. As a final jaunty touch a powder blue nurse’s cap sat atop each of their squat heads.
Moondragon glanced back at her teammates. A mixture of disbelief and fascination had already settled onto Bethany’s face as she took to studying the surrounding, and decidedly alien, tech. Tigra was peering into the containment pods, looking as wan as someone covered in fur could look.
“They’re still alive, just drugged, I think. We have to free them.”
Did they? Moondragon hesitated. A quick mind scan confirmed what her teammate suspected. They were alive, just sedated, and from what she could tell mostly average human beings taken from all over the globe. Businessmen, homemakers, teachers, soldiers. In no way deserving of their fate. Yet the last thing she needed was more helpless people underfoot, decreasing her own odds of survival.
They could not in good conscious leave them here though. Moondragon knew first hand what it was to have her freedom taken from her, having only recently escaped imprisonment*, and it was obvious what would happen if these civilians were left behind. They would be killed, either in these twisted games, or by the jungle itself.
(As of LL #1 - Al)
“Agreed,” she answered, with some reluctance. “There must be some way to open the cell doors, and we’ll need to find means to rouse them.”
Her teammates nodded and even Bethany moved to comply, focusing her mechanical skills on deciphering the central terminal and its puzzling array of switches and screens. Moondragon scanned the walls themselves, searching for some kind of simple release mechanism, when she found her attention drawn to one of the cells in particular. It was larger than the others and the woman within seemed to fill every inch of it. Her bright red hair spread in a halo across the cushion behind her head and her arms and legs were thick with cords of muscle.
An attempted mind scan was violently rebuffed as though some outside force was repelling her telepathy. It was a sensation that felt eerily familiar, something just at the edge of her memory, an answer to that…
“Um, bald lady? I don’t think, we’re, ah, alone…”
Moondragon snapped back to the present and realized with a flash of disgust that she’d again let her guard down too soon. A low growling sound had now filled the room as glinting silvery shapes quietly dropped from holes in the ceiling, so silent and elegant that their movement could barely be detected by ear. She counted three then four then…
Oh my! Guests! Well, this is a first! What a rare treat for our viewers, although some editing may be required on the final footage. Best to never show the sausage being made, eh? Or eaten as the case may be.
There was no holographic image this time, as very likely no projectors had been installed here, just a face on the terminal’s viewscreen, grinning ear to ear, a pointed beard jutting from its bulbous chin and a poufy Elizabethan collar draped around its thick neck.
I hope you like my pets. They’re not very good with strangers, I fear. I really should put up that beware of dogs sign, one day. Ah well. To paraphrase the bard…
The creatures were now in plain view, some on four legs, others standing on their hinds, all glinting metal and burning red eyes. Their jaws opened and closed with audible snaps. Moondragon brought her spear into a defensive position, pressing her back against one of the containment units.
Cry havoc, and let slips the wolves of war!
The nearest of the warwolves leapt, bounding effortlessly across the room, its talons arcing towards her throat. Moondragon just managed to strike it on the temple with her spear, sending the creature rolling into the nurse-bots, mechanical limbs and lacy aprons flying. Two others immediately snapped tight holds onto the shaft of her weapon. One squeeze from their powerful jaws was enough to snap it in twain.
“Go,” she yelled to the others. “Find the control room and shut this place down! I can handle these monsters!”
With a snarl the wolves jerked the shards of her weapon from her hands as the others slowly circled.
Hopefully…
# # # # #
Tigra raced ahead as the pair worked their way deeper into the complex. They ran through hallways, down more flights of stairs, up several others, far more of the latter than should be feasible by her reckoning. According to her own internal compass, some of these stairs should have delivered them topside again, but somehow never did. Either she was so tired her brain was playing tricks or the dimensions of this place made little rational sense, scaling around and back in on itself, repeats, reruns, passages that ended in abrupt cancellations. Labyrinthine almost, a structure built more from whimsy than practicality.
There were no living scents to detect, animal or human, but eventually Tigra’s ears picked up a sound like television static mixed with music. She grabbed Bethany, so exhausted by now she was barely mobile, and pulled her along by brute force, hoping those metal creatures that attacked them in the holding area were the only ones of their kind. If there more waiting in ambush, she wasn’t sure she could handle them by herself and the girl would be worse than useless in a fight.
Another turn in the passage and they entered what she knew at once to be the heart of the complex. A vast domed room with concrete tiled floors and an array of overhead lighting panels, alive with the hum of high-powered technology. Tigra had seen other supercomputers from her time dating Henry Pym - another bit of the past best forgotten - and this looked much the same, row upon row of jet black cabinets filled with dozens of blades holding hundreds of processors. That terminology was far as her knowledge extended though. She could guess though that the processing power of this network must be massive and probably worth countless millions to establish and run. How they even powered it here in the middle of the Savage Land was inconceivable.
The sight was impressive enough to leave Bethany agog. The impact was rather less on Tigra. It was basically just a lot of plastic and microchips as far as she was concerned. What interested her far more was what lay beyond the supercomputer grid, an impossibly vast arrangement of video monitors of varying size and shape. On them was displayed information of various kinds - Facebook pages, wikipedia entries, Youtube videos, Twitter feeds, CNN updates, films, television series, concerts, media from all over the world. All of which was in the process of being changed, molded, re-sculpted, or constructed whole clothe even as they watched.
Several of the monitors showed action scenes not unlike that which they’d just escaped. People being hunted, killed, tortured, screaming, fleeing, fighting for their lives, not just in the jungle but in every conceivable locale, urban, desert, arctic, places without names. Still more showed an endless array of costumed battles: Reed Richards slugging it out with the Wizard as the Baxter Building crumbled around them, Darkhawk dousing Constricter with darkforce blasts outside a NYC bank, Force Works waging a running battle with the North Korean army, and countless others like them. On one of the larger screens she could witness Moondragon desperately fending off the warwolves, their razor talons and jaws tearing at her flesh to a thumping hip-hop soundtrack.
It was impossible to take it all in or know which feeds were current, past, or even real.
Tigra’s head began to pound from the sheer overwhelming noise of it. A cacophony of voices, music, and information drowned her senses. From internal speakers Vivaldi’s Concerto in G screamed over it all at maximum volume, and she knew that was the name not because she had any classical background but because that’s what the screen running the iTunes ap read.
Tigra clasped her hands to her ears, trying not to scream, or maybe she was screaming and simply couldn’t hear it. When she opened her eyes again, she noted a figure gliding along the monitors, tall and spindly, his scarecrow arms bobbing through the air as though conducting a symphony.
She grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and spun him around, claws positioned before his face, which she was shocked to find smooth and blank like a mannequin. A flashbulb flicker made her blink and now the blank became a cartoon close-up of Elmer Fudd, his mouth a-gap with shock. The voice it spoke with, however, was as calm, soothing, and impersonal as an automated teller.
“Hello. I am Major Domo. May I help you?”
“Where is he?” Tigra shouted to be heard over the flood of information, only to have the volume at once drop to a whisper, causing her voice to echo shrilly through the room. “Where is he?” she repeated.
“Who do you mean?”
She glared. “The fat creep with the oversized teeth and lousy sense of humor.”
His face loaded a new pic - Queen Elizabeth thoroughly offended by a gauche social faux pas.
“Surely you can’t be referring to our Lord-and-Impresario Mojo, the epitome of wit, charm, and taste?”
Tigra shook him and growled, each word a punctuation point. “Where! Is! He!”
His face shifted again, now a handsome GQ model with dark hair and a winning smile that highlighted the wonders of modern dentistry. “Right here. All around you. In the air. Everywhere! Our Lord Mojo has transcended the mortal coil. Alas we could not save his body, but we could save his soul. His information. And what a wonderful world in which to exist as pure information! So many new opportunities for entertainment! This being but one of the cruder forms.” Major Domo waved his spidery hands at the monitors behind him, which continued to upload, download, and process information as if of their own accord. “If you would like a tour, I would gladly provide one, for a reasonable fee, for nothing in this world is free, another novel delight. The Mojoverse had grown so very boring. But this place…”
Her claws sunk deeper into his shoulders, pressing down into what felt not like flesh, but a loose cluster of plastic and circuitry. “If you don’t answer me…”
“He is answering you. I don’t think there is a Mojo.” Bethany had joined her, eyes wide and darting as she tried vainly to take in the whole of the monitor array. “He’s some kind of software program, isn’t he?
“Oh, he’s so much more than that!” Major Domo laughed, or rather shared a sound bite of laughter, pre-teen girls giggling, theatrical cackling, children shrieking with delight. “He is the future of entertainment, which is say the future of everything. He is the bringer of digitized joy, the truest form of pleasure.”
“I doubt his victims would agree.”
“Victims? What victims?” A pic of a befuddled old man, eyelids and lower lip drooping in consternation. “He provides vibrancy, relevancy, and, yes, permanence to even the dullest of lives he touches and records! They may die, yes, but they will live forever as part of him! As part of the Mojonet! Their lives entertaining generation upon generation of viewers, the noblest of all modern day sacrifices. Death to the old life and its lack of purpose. Praise to the new life and infinite enterta-”
A flash of Tigra’s claws and the thing’s head hit the ground with a sudden clatter. No blood or sparks or even oil followed. Its body fell simply back against the screens, making a hollow sound where it struck. Bethany shot a quizzical look her way to which she shrugged.
“Conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Now how do we stop this thing?”
The girl bit her lip. Not normally a great way to start. “I’m not sure…”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? It’s, like, a big computer or something, can’t you just shut it down?”
Tigra was still shouting she realized which is probably why Bethany was shouting back at her. “I’m an engineer, not a hacker, and there’s not even a proper interface! It’s not like there’s a power switch I can hit!”
A smiley face flashed across the decapitated head. “Long live the new Flesh!” Tigra punted it, sending its shifting faces skidding across the floor.
“I thought you were smart!”
“I am! Would you like to hear my dissertation on dark matter containment fields?”
“I don’t know, would that help?”
“Aw, gawd…” the girl moaned, as though Tigra’s idiocy was beyond her ability to even process. Well, fine then, she decided. This had always been her problem with eggheads. When they weren’t off actively building doomsday machines or Ultrons or worse, they were never there when you needed them. No, they just left you shrunk down and locked in a cage in their laboratory and…
Okay, bad memory that. So think, what would the Avengers do here? Probably send you back to the Quinjet while Iron Man or Vision or someone like that did all the cool stuff, so forget them. Might as well just do what a real superhero does best…
Break things.
The first row of supercomputers toppled over easily enough, smashing down on the hard tile with a satisfying crunch, sending sparks and circuit boards flying through the air. Wherever she found a knot of wires, she yanked them, tearing up power couplings and damaging outlets. A hearty chunk of steel from some internal component or other that probably cost a cool grand served as a decent enough club which she used to batter the other consoles and terminals. Soon the video screens began to broadcast fuzz, and error messages cropped up in window after window. An angry buzzing screeched through the walls. Vivaldi died mid-crescendo.
Contestants!…contestants!…you’ll never win the…hot tub…
“See? It’s working. Problem solved. And I didn’t even finish college.”
“Somehow I believe you,” Bethany noted dryly, shouldering over one of the towers herself, as the overhead lights started to flicker uncertainly. “You do realize this probably wasn’t his only copy though and that by wrecking the computers, we’ve totally ruined just about any chance of finding out who set us up and hired them to kidnap us?”
Oh. Admittedly that wasn’t the first thought to cross her mind. Still, she’d had do something, and destroying the insane lunatic’s control room was usually pretty high on the Avengers to-do list. Usually.
“Hrm… Win some, lose some, right?”
“Let me guess. That’s what Captain America usually said at the end of the mission?”
Tigra made a face. “Very funny. At least we’re not dead…”
“There is that,” Bethany answered with a note of genuine relief while kneeling down to prod the severed head of Major Domo with her index finger. She looked as if she expected it to say something but it remained as silent and dead as the rest of the smashed-up machines.
“C’mon, we should check on Moondragon.”
She nodded absently, still staring at the head, before finally scooping it up and placing it under the crook of her arm. Tigra gave her a sharp look - the Avengers to-do list did not in general include taking heads as trophies - but received only a shrug in return. As they exited, the last of the vidscreens blinked off behind them and the ceaseless hum of infotainment processing was for the moment at least silenced.
# # # # #
Moondragon was already in the process of releasing the prisoners when her teammates returned. She was relieved to see them and not just because they were alive. She’d suspected that much when the containment units popped open and the warwolves abruptly fled. So, yes, it was fine and good they were alive, but mostly she was just happy to have someone else around to handle the civilians. Their incessant questioning and nagging was already driving her to distraction.
“Deal with them,” she instructed, waving her hand dismissively at the milling crowd. “They’re frightened and stupid and I haven’t the patience.”
“Nice to see you again too.”
Tigra took over, calmly letting the prisoners know the situation was well in hand, playing the role of diplomatic first responder. Meanwhile, Bethany stood about, looking out of place, clearly as uncertain as to how to deal with regular people as Moondragon herself. Curious that. She would have to figure this girl out and what made her tick soon if this partnership of theirs was to continue.
For now, Moondragon attention shifted back to the strange woman from the specially constructed pod, the muscled amazon with the telepathic block. Her eyes were now open and she was standing on her own power yet she remained otherwise unresponsive. She would not answer questions, even to so much as nod yes or no, but neither was she deaf. If given a simple command, such as ‘stand up’ or ‘raise your right arm’, she would instantly comply.
“Who are you, I wonder,” Moondragon asked aloud, probing the edges of the woman’s mind, only to be repelled once again.
Tigra was in the process of helping an elderly Asian woman step down from her containment cell when she looked up. “Who is what now?”
“Nothing. How is it you shut the system down by the way?”
“Oh, you know…just the usual… No sweat, really.”
“She smashed everything,” Bethany explained, “like a maniac.”
“Ah. Very effective. One of my own favorite stratagems actually.”
The girl rolled her eyes and Tigra took that opportunity to quickly change the subject, suggesting they get these people topside as soon as possible. Moondragon could see no point in lingering here and so reluctantly agreed, instructing the giantess to follow along with the others, leaving that mystery for another time. As for the reason to her reluctance, it was waiting just outside as the last of them stepped into the clearing. Thirty-some men stood surrounding the hatch in a loose semi-circle, weapons at the ready, a prickly web of arrows, spears, and sharpened blades catching the light of the fading dusk.
The four-armed brute Barbarus was among their numbers, face a swollen mass and favoring one arm, but looking no less dangerous for the fact. Lupus was tending his wolves, the remnants of which yipped and snarled at the prospect of another chance at them. Even their former captive was present, eagerly awaiting their arrival, bobbing up and down on his back legs, a malicious grin spread across his wide mouth.
“Pretty ladies,” he mocked. “Did you think we forgot about you?”
“The game’s over. You won’t be rewarded even if do kill us…”
This being Tigra’s feeble attempt at reasoning with them. Moondragon knew better than to bother. Her mind was already at work picking out the weakest targets. Who she could kill before one of them eventually killed her. There was no winning this fight. Not in their current state.
Amphibius gurgled his laughter. “You gave us such a merry chase! Humiliated us. Hurt my friends. Hurt me.” His hand tightened around the handle of his blade as his tone grew dark. “Some things provide their own rewards, yes?”
They all tensed, waiting only for the first of them to act, when a dark shadow passed overhead. The sun setting at last perhaps or storm clouds moving in. Something like thunder sounded, only far too loud, and the next thing Moondragon knew several of the hunters were being thrown through the air as the turf exploded underneath their feet. Those still standing began to point and yell and, finally, panic.
For it was not a shadow but a ship. An eighteenth century galleon to be precise hovering overhead, its cannons raining fire. As the hunters fled for the treeline, a rope ladder dropped from above, and a familiar figure appeared. Captain Barracuda waved his hat at them in greetings, grinning ear to ear upon spying the surprised expressions on their upturned faces.
“Ahoy there! Would such fair, albeit excessively bloody, ladies need a ride perhaps?”
For the moment the sight and sound of him was not as obnoxious as it might normally be. “The last ride you gave us was not at all to our liking,” Moondragon shouted up at him.
“A thousand pardons for that! My first mate is bit on the willful side. He’s been cured of it, although I fear the treatment came at a steep price. He will not be rejoining us for the return trip, nor will his friends. They’ve gone to the devil, you might say. Or She-Devil as she preferred to be called.” Twisting the right tip of his ebony mustache between thumb and finger, while his other hand clung tightly to the rope, he smiled apologetically. “Which is why I must clarify my offer ever so slightly. I am short a good dozen deckhands and you seem to currently be possessed of several idle ones…”
She raised a brow. “You expect me to swab your deck?”
His expression was utterly scandalized, or might have been, if not for his roguish grin. “A vision such as yourself, my good lady? Never in a hundred, nay a million years, would it cross my mind! It is the others I wish to borrow, and just until we get into port. Your sidekicks would of course have free run of my ship…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, he did not just say sidekicks, did he?”
Moondragon paid no heed to her teammates’ complaints nor to Barracuda’s extended hand as she seized the first rung of the ladder herself. “Good. We accept on one condition then: that we set sail immediately for New York.”
“It would be easier to re-supply at Madripoor…”
“New York City, captain. That is nonnegotiable.” She made as though to descend, and if that was a look of irritation that passed over his dark brow, it was quickly overtaken by another amiably grin.
“Very commanding! I like that! New York it is then. I shall inform the crew, my lady.”
“Greenwich village to be precise.”
“I see. And what are you going to do in Greenwich Village may I ask?”
Moondragon smirked.
“I’m going to see a doctor.”
# # # # #
Lady Libel
So about Mojo…
I brought him back to life. So there. Well, heck, that was easy! Come back next time and…
Oh, what, not good enough? Okay, fine…lets get into it then…
As you may be aware Brad Horton offed the Mojoverse but good during his run on X-Corp. I assume this came out of a feeling that that milieu was played out. Understandable. Mojo has long been a character better in theory than in practice. I still felt his was too clever a concept to leave moldering in the idea cemetery though. Fortunately Brad left a possible out in this passage…
Through [Xorn’s] acute connection with the electromagnetic spectrum, he felt Longshot, Archangel, Dazzler, and strangely…some Warwolves make the jump back to Earth. (X-Corp #24)
See some warwolves survived! And where there are warwolves, well… You get the idea. And so we get Mojo 8.0 based now on Earth and existing solely as a malicious piece of software on the intertubes. But why? Because there’s just so much you can do with him! He’s a villain who represents the commoditizing of the human experience into raw exploitative entertainment. His is a world where human life is considerably less important than whatever cheap melodrama can be squeezed out of it. In an era of YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and reality television, he’s not just another villain, he’s representational of a real trend. He’s more relevant now than he was at the time he was created.
Think of how invasive such a character could potentially be…secretly monitoring and stealing every phone conversation, digital photograph, tweet and/or video recording, altering them as he sees fit. Mojo could potentially change the trajectory of people’s lives and careers, causing chaos and suffering purely for the amusement of his sadistic audience.
It’s brilliant. Mojo is brilliant. I couldn’t let him stay dead. He’s too good. There’s dozen or more great Mojo stories just waiting to be told. I’d love to write another one now that he’s back in action on M2K. And I’d love it even more if someone else beat me to it.
- Alan
Moondragon smiled grimly as the blunt end of her spear connected in a satisfying crunch. Jamming the blade in the ground, she launched herself into the air, following up her attack with a jaw-shattering knee lift. Sloppy technique by her normal standards but effective enough. Her opponent was sent sprawling backwards into his cohorts, unconscious and probably nursing a concussion. One more down.
Plenty to go.
Her partner was so far fairing at least as well, although that quarter of the battlefield sounded more like a Breakworld pit ring than a proper fight. The remaining wolves yipped and snarled as their opponent refused to stay still long enough to sink their teeth into, her own claws tearing jagged trails wherever she sprung. Their master, the one they called Lupo, shouted hoarsely to the sky, cupping his ruined face in both hands, the flesh hanging from them in shreds.
The whole scene was bloody chaos. Tigra’s frenzy was more feral than human, and Moondragon thanked the gods for that. Her savagery was keeping their enemies a bay where a more cautious style would have failed. The woman had strength in her after all. Untrained and not yet properly harnessed, but there, as she’d recognized so many years ago when first propelling her into the Avengers.*
* (See Avengers #211 - Al)
If Tigra embraced that ferocity, that strength, her potential was enormous. As it was her own lack of confidence and inherent need for approval had held her back. Left her tepid, indecisive, and ever willing to take a backseat to others far less deserving. A scenario Moondragon had noted with frustrating frequency among Earth women.
So this opportunity for unchecked ferocity and brutality was good so far as that went, a broadening of potential Moondragon would have to build on should this dysfunctional partnership of theirs continue. She would make her stronger, harder, crueler…
If of course they survived this fight. The odds of which weren’t especially high in her blunt estimation.
As the sightless warrior tumbled backwards, the four-armed brute called Barbarus lumbered back into the fray, still nursing a left hand crippled moments before with a finger-shattering blow from her spear’s shaft. A lucky shot as much as anything and she’d still had the element of surprise and freshness then. Already this pathetic host body of hers was growing tired and she knew this particular opponent’s strength was prodigious. A single strike might very well end it for her, while Moondragon could perhaps land a dozen or more to little noticeable effect.
Quit whining, she told herself. It has to be done. You find a way to win or die, you wretch.
Simple when you put it like that.
Moondragon lugged her weapon up and prepared to renew battle…when at once the world began to lurch. She felt it swooning beneath her feet, legs struggling to stay upright. Except it wasn’t the ground swaying, not judging by the others on the field. The change was coming from within herself. Her sense of balance had been thrown off-kilter but by what? This body couldn’t possibly be that exhausted, not this soon.
It was then Moondragon noticed a woman crouching at the edge of the treeline, fixing her with an intense stare. Looking through her almost and Moondragon realized she was being assaulted by other meta-human means. This knowledge came too late. Barbarus swung and her attempt to dodge was slow and clumsy. The blow caught her mid-center and sent Moondragon crashing into the trunk of a tree.
The impact left the back of her head bleeding. Ribs bruised maybe broken. Get up, curse you, get up. Barbarus closed in, his right leg pulling back to deliver a no doubt lethal kick. Moondragon’s eyes seized on a nearby rock and she launched it telekinetically at his snarling face. The heavy stone struck with a resounding crack, flattening the cartilage of his nose, and forcing him down to one knee.
Yet still there was no reprieve. Behind him another hunter was already leveling his bow, arrow knocked in place and ready to loose, while Tigra was now weaving erratically across the field, her own balance undermined. There were too many. Simply too many.
The hunter smiled grimly, sighting in his target as a high-pitched keen filled the air, and…
Everything went white.
# # # # #
“I propose to kill you, captain.” Shanna the She-Devil answered simply. “Unless you’d rather surrender to tribal justice?”
Clegg belted out a laugh. He was not sure which he found more amusing: the girl’s sheer audacity or the fact she actually seemed sincere. This pretty bit of indigent fluff was going to threaten him, a man who could bench-press two of her like without breaking a sweat? He considered drawing his gun and shooting her down right now but it would take some time before the ship reached its location. There was no reason not to have some fun with her first.
“If you’re lucky you’ll die quick for I’m in no mood to be merciful, girl.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
He swung, assuming one clumsy blow would be enough to lay her out on the cabin floor, but her speed proved uncanny. The blow sailed several inches above her head as she ducked under his reach, drawing a slender stone knife from a sheath on her hip in the very same motion. A ragged bloody line trailed down from his stomach to his left hip.
“The hell-- !!” he howled, lunging at her again, barking his shin against the leg of a stool as another cut joined the first. Within the passage of mere seconds Clegg found himself a mess of crimson gashes, blood seeping into his eyes and causing him to stumble backwards blindly. He fell hard onto the deck, fumbling for the gun in his waistband.
The She-Devil eyed him coldly, tossing her knife into the air to catch it by the tip and send the stone projectile spiraling towards him. His pistol fell from limp fingers as the blade embedded itself through the back of his hand, emerging from his palm in a gout of red. Screams echoed over the ship.
If Clegg had paused long enough to think, he might have realized the woman was unarmed at that moment and that he still had several pounds of muscle on her lithesome frame. But his shallow pool of courage was drained. Panic had taken its place. Scrambling upright, he fled headlong across the ship, stumbling over loose coils of ropes and his own his two feet, until at last falling face first before the polished tips of a pair of coal black boots.
Their owner smiled down at him.
“Clegg, my boy,” Captain Barracuda said softly with a sympathetic cluck of his tongue while drawing his needle-sharp sword. “I assume you already know the time-honored punishment for mutiny?”
# # # # #
Okay, first… First remember your name. Then repeat it to yourself. You can do that, can’t you?
She had no sight and the only sound that filled her ears belonged to her own rapidly beating heart. Her muscles were sore and tense; her teeth clenched tight as a vice. The fur along her back stood on edge while a thousand smells assaulted her senses. Something coppery - blood, could it really be blood, her own or someone else’s? - tainted her mouth. The animal urge to snarl and flee was almost overwhelming.
Greer Grant Nelson. That’s your name. Remember it. Get ahold of yourself. Greer Grant Nelson…
The Nelson was from Sgt. Bill Nelson. Respected policeman. Loyal confidant. Loving husband. Long dead. She tried to recollect his face and after a moment it finally came, hazy though, less distinct with every passing day. How many years had it been? She tried to remember that too. The more she focused on her memories, her rational self, the more the other loosened its savage feline grip. The more she was able to assert control.
Control… Hmf. Like you’ve ever had control, girl. Not in this life…
She’d told herself that she was marrying Bill for love. He was a kind man, overprotective to a fault, sincere, old-fashioned even. Simple and secure. It was the latter she wanted most, the love secondary. She’d never known any real security in life, never felt like a proper part of anything. Awkward. Uncertain. Unable to maintain a longterm relationship or goal. An alien in her own skin.
That was Greer Grant Nelson. Control just didn’t factor into it. Life was a matter of holding on and hoping the winds of fate were kind. They rarely were though. Her husband had been shot and killed while off-duty, just some stupid random act of God. In an instant that phantom of security had been taken away.
She’d vainly sought to regain it through Dr. Tumulo’s impossible experiments. She volunteered to become a costumed hero, one of those people who always looked so confident and powerful in the magazines, but she should have known better. No matter how hard she played at it, she was still herself at the end of the day. A square peg in a round hole. Becoming Tigra had proved as fraught with setbacks and embarrassments as the rest of her life. Maybe even more so.
The inhuman thing that was now part of her psyche wrestled for control almost every day. She found herself at odds with her own body and desires, unsure which belonged to it and which stemmed from her own secret self. At times she wondered just who she was anymore. Greer Grant Nelson? College dropout, widower, serial nobody? Not for very long time. Tigra then? Who was Tigra though? A misfit Avenger? A superhuman? Maybe something less than human?
And now her life was about to end, the plaything of sadists, an afternoon’s entertainment for wealthy voyeurs. Her fate was being decided by unseen others and she didn’t even know who or why. A pawn. A thing. A punchline.
Aw, gawd, feel sorry for yourself enough? Nobody ever fixed their life by crying about it, you know.
Yeah, thanks me, she thought, more criticism, just what I needed. The darkness of her vision had given way to a bright and piercing pinpoint of light. Distant but gradually drawing closer. Was she dead? Or just dying?
Well, this makes that whole pity party kinda moot, doesn’t it? At least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Means I must have done something right. No pitchforks in the ass or lakes of hellfire for me…although it is kinda hot…muggy actually…and…
“Hey you! Snap out of it!”
# # # # #
Self assessment: Eight out of ten, easy. Overly generous maybe but Bethany Parker-Taggart hated it when people were stingy with praise, particularly when the one being evaluated was herself. Point of fact is she’d taken a piece of advanced near-alien technology, a 3D holographic video projector, and fashioned it into a crude but functioning weapon. Bonus points for activating it just in time to prevent a creepy humanoid frog monster from slitting her throat. How many people could have pulled that off? Not many, she figured, and most of them were probably at least old enough to drink. That alone had to be worth a hard seven.
The principle behind the makeshift weapon was the same as a flash grenade, and not for the first time she found herself appreciating the perks of growing up as the incorrigibly curious daughter to one the world’s largest weapons manufacturer. A press of the triggering mechanism released a blinding flash of light at an intensity of ten million candelas, temporarily overloading the eyes’ photoreceptors. Time required for retinas to readjust: roughly two minutes, assuming the absence of retinal scarring in which case permanent blindness was a distinct possibility.
So, okay, a bit of a risk there, she admitted, given that her teammates were located within the field of fire. Not a lot of options though. No point in beating herself about it, right? A one point deduction at worst.
Two minutes wasn’t exactly a huge window though. Following the sounds of nearby fighting, she’d traced it to its source, discovering her friends on the losing side of a lopsided fight and reacting by instinct. Or something like instinct. Technically she didn’t really have combat instincts, never having done this sort of thing before, so maybe a better word for it was (reckless) impulse. She simply threw an arm across her face and slammed down on the trigger, hoping for the best.
Screaming, flailing, shouting, and a series of semi-comical face plants commenced. She located Tigra on the edge of the unfolding chaos but the Avenger alum was insensible, which itself highlighted a small strategic flaw in Bethany’s plan. She couldn’t exactly carry her allies to safety given their weight difference and they were both now as blind as their enemies. Definitely a two point deduction there, fair is only fair.
Luckily, Moondragon was in better shape. Metaphorically. With all the fresh cuts and bruises, she looked as though someone had run her through a threshing machine, but she was still cognizant of the situation. She recognized Bethany’s voice immediately and shrugged off her disorientation with shocking speed, a benefit perhaps of her extrasensory abilities, reacting as if her sight was a luxury she could temporarily do without, no big deal.
Together they extracted Tigra, and Bethany set off the weapon one last time, effectively burning out the circuits, but leaving their still recovering hunters blinded once again. For awhile. They weren’t exactly out of the woods yet. Or the jungle, if one wanted to be pedantic. Still, no doubt about it, she, Bethany Parker-Taggart had kinda saved the day. She’d even taken a hostage. Three points to the good, for an eight out of ten self-assessment, not bad at all a first outing. Ignoring all the other first outings that weren’t nearly so complimentary of course.
“Hey, I wonder if the Avengers use a similar system?”
“What?” her teammate hissed, glaring at her through the narrow slits of her eyes. Tigra was coming around at last but she still seemed out of it, more than could be reasonably attributed to aftereffects from the flash. Also surly and, for lack of a better word, rather catty.
“Never mind. Just thinking out loud. How long before they catch up?”
“If we stay here, not long at all,” Moondragon noted, “and neither of you are in any condition to fight them off.”
“No offense, but you don’t exactly look like you’re ready for a title bout yourself.”
“You might be surprised, girl. I have been trained to withstand the worst physical hardships imaginable, to call upon reserves of strength most people don’t even know exist, and…”
“Boast like nobody’s business?”
Bethany thought that was a pretty good comeback but maybe her delivery was off or something since nobody laughed. Moondragon chose instead to ignore her altogether, turning on their captive, the frog man who’d attempted to murder Bethany just a short time ago. She’d bound his webbed hands with the same rope that had been used to tie her up earlier.* He didn’t seem particularly interested in escaping anyways. Instead he watched them with his large luminous purple eyes, the baggy tissue around his throat expanding slightly with every breath.
* (See last issue. - Al)
“We need to move but we need to know where we’re headed first.” Moondragon knelt on her haunches, a hard look in her eyes as she stared into the stunted creature’s mottled face. “So, if you want to live, you tell us who’s behind this game and where we can find him, understand?”
The creature’s tongue flicked nervously out of his mouth, a glistening pink tendril that made Bethany’s stomach flip-flop. “Amphibius does not want to die, pretty ladies, but he does not know. He and the other mutates merely play the game as offered. Wealth and prizes…so many nice things to be had…all very rare in the Savage Land…do not blame us…it is not personal…”
Moondragon struck him a blow that sent Amphibius sprawling on the ground with a screech. Placing her heel against the base of his throat, she pressed down until he was gasping for air.
“Hey, c’mon, Avengers don’t kill,” Tigra started but a withering glare silenced her just as quickly. For the first time Bethany realized how little she knew about her about her new partners. How dangerous they might just be in a corner.
“I don’t see any active-duty Avengers here, do you? And speaking for myself I intend to leave this place alive. The fates of those who wish to prevent my doing so are a distant concern at best. Understand?”
The last question directed toward Amphibius as she released the strangling pressure of her foot. He fought to recapture his breath, gasping violently as a torrent of words spilled from his mouth. “It is true! We do not know! The see-thru man just appears in the sky one day and says we will be rewarded if we play his game, we and all the other tribes. And he always keeps his word so far! He always gives us pretty prizes when we win!”
“Where? Where do you collect your prizes, fool?”
“Wherever he tells us. It is always different. Blindside thinks they come by ship from the outside world. We never meet anyone in charge…only the…”
Moondragon scowled. “Only the what?”
At this the creature gave a sickly smile. “The wolves. Sometimes when we cannot capture the quarry ourselves, the wolves come. No one escapes the wolves.”
“We’ve already dealt with your friend’s wolves.”
There was a chortling in the back of his throat, like water bubbling in a pot, laughter perhaps. “Not these wolves, pretty ladies, not these ones.”
Moondragon paused, looking as though she’d like to strike him again, but seeming to realize the futility. It was obvious he was telling the truth. The creature knew nothing useful and they were no better off now than before they’d interrogated him. The exercise had merely wasted valuable minutes, minutes their enemies were no doubt using to close the distance between them.
“The see-thru man, he comes! Look!”
The trio glanced up to see a small silver ball floating overhead. Camera lens sprouted from it like porcupine quills and the mocking voice of their host roared from the tiny speakers.
Contestants! You’re still with us! I would expect a cat girl to have nine lives of course, but the others too?
Bethany heard Tigra sigh from somewhere behind her. Moondragon merely glowered, clenching her fists as though yearning for a real opponent to fight, instead of this…thing. For her own part, Bethany was more interested in the device itself. The camera balls were new. The others seemed to recognize them but she hadn’t seen one herself until this moment.
It really was a rather interesting design actually…
Spectacular! That means you’ve all survived the first round, contestants! A holographic image of a portly man with jaundiced skin had now joined the voice, leering at them with teeth the size of piano keys. One thousand points have now been credited to each of your accounts! Just a few hundred more and you can cash them in for lifetime supply of flavored mineral water, a hand-crafted Belgian cuckoo clock, and other such highly coveted prizes! Provided…
“Provided what?” Tigra asked warily.
Provided you win the other rounds of course!
“And how many rounds are we talking?”
The image flickered as the grin disappeared, pursed mouth fading into the copious rolls of fat of the monster’s chin, gimlet eyes gazing down at the women with malignant hate.
However many it takes. You don’t want the viewers to leave unsatisfied do you? Ars longa, vita brevis.
A shower of sparks punctuated these final words as Moondragon knocked the sphere out of the air with the shaft of her spear. It bounced off the trunk of a tree, smashing into halves, one of which rolled and landed at the tip of Bethany’s boot. She bent down to pick it up.
“So we’re doomed, basically,” Tigra announced, a note of resignation in her exhausted voice. “He’s going to keep throwing things at us until we drop. We’re never going to be allowed to walk away and we don’t even know which direction to run…”
Turning the device over her hand, Bethany examined the internal components, as the ghost of a smile crept over her face.
“Actually, I may have an idea…”
# # # # #
The sun began its evening descent as they pushed further into the dense jungle overgrowth. The heat remained oppressive, a thick wall of humidity every bit as dense as the foliage, leaving their clothes, hair, and body damp with sweat. They were all drained - tired, thirsty, hot. Moondragon could literally feel the exertion of every fresh step, leaving her frustrated and angry. If she was her normal self she’d have shown no signs of the physical toll, for her own body was a thing of razor sharp perfection. Whereas this one? Considerably less so. The fact her teammates seemed to be in even worse condition was only small consolation.
Tigra at least was proving of some use again. Utilizing her enhanced sense of smell and hearing, she was able to keep them one step ahead of their pursuers. They weren’t exactly gaining ground but they were no longer losing it, as their trackers were just as tired and wounded as them. They had no doubt already found their compatriot, Amphibius. Unable to expend energy hauling his deadweight with them, the ladies had left their captive behind, unconscious and bound to a tree.
Now they were essentially gambling their lives on the girl’s makeshift device, a fact that did not set well with Moondragon. According to Bethany, she was using the camera ball’s own remote control mechanism to track its signal back to its source.
To quote: “They’re streaming it on a half hour time differential. The whole fight or hunt or whatever you want to call it. That means the cameras must be relaying their feed to a central processor, which then sorts, repackages, and sends the data out to their audience.”
Which meant there had to be some kind of headquarters nearby. Besides that, she reasoned, they must maintain a secure holding area to keep their unwilling contestants. A certain degree of pre-game preparation was doubtless necessary before each show. So they’d have to place them somewhere remote and secluded while things were being set-up.
An argument convincing enough on its face but the girl had been convincing before, walking them blithely into the very trap that brought them here. Bethany’s confidence might be sky-high but Moondragon’s faith in her was not. She may have come through at a crucial moment earlier, but she was still a neophyte with uncertain intentions. That Moondragon had given her this much rein was likely a testament to just how rattled her memory loss had left her. No one made decisions for Moondragon but Moondragon, after all. She needed to seize control, if there was to be any hope of success in finding her attacker.
Provided of course they survived the Savage Land first.
“This way. The signal’s a lot stronger now. Like, real close.”
Moondragon frowned. They’d come to the edge of a dense cluster of liana trees and were now staring out at a mile long clearing, empty save for a few rocks and the knee-high jungle grass. No sign of any habitation or manmade defenses. No cover either.
“I don’t see anything, girl.”
“Bethany’s fine, thanks,” came the tart reply, “and I’m just telling you what the device is telling me.”
“Perhaps you put it together wrong then.”
Her partner’s face grew red, or at least slightly more red than the muggy heat had already made it. “Oh, yeah, right. I’m sure. I probably just got my engineering doctorates off the internet or something. I’m sure I don’t know a thing about technology. Obviously you’re the expert.”
“The only thing obvious to me,” Moondragon responded, bluntly, “is that, once again, the place you’ve led us to is not the place we need to be. What we’re looking for is some kind of installation, not a barren patch of ground. The only thing we’re going to accomplish by walking out there is to get ourselves spotted and very likely killed.”
This did give Bethany some pause. She began fiddling with the wires of her makeshift tracker again, causing the half-sphere to suddenly stop beeping, until she slapped it with the flat of her palm. A performance that did nothing to increase Moondragon’s confidence.
“Maybe it’s, um, invisible? If the light-refracting capability of their technology is enough to produce 3D holograms like the ones we’ve seen, then a cloaking device is well within the realm of possibility…and, well…”
Dropping down from her perch on an overhanging branch, Tigra landed between the two of them, effectively cutting their debate short. “Oh, for crying out loud! Let’s just go, okay? I’d rather die with an arrow in the back than from the headache you two are giving me. Did either one of even consider that it could be underground? Supervillans love to build their lairs underground, trust me.”
Underground…
Moondragon caught Bethany glancing her way, identical thoughts likely running through her head. “Well, are you coming then? You’ve already wasted enough time arguing with me, girl. We can’t afford to waste anymore.” The annoyance on her young teammate’s face was almost enough to make Moondragon smile. Almost.
Together they entered the clearing, eyes warily trained on the horizon, as the evening sun burned red atop the treeline. They progressed about a quarter of a mile inwards, the tracker beeping louder at every passing second, when another camera ball buzzed by overhead.
There you are contestants! Rather risky to be so out in the open, don’t you think? Why, I can hear our intrepid hunters approaching even n-
A thrust of Moondragon’s spear cut their host short in a burst of static. Yanking the ball off the blade’s tip, she tossed it into the thick grass where the thing exploded with a noisy pop, sending out a small plume of smoke. In the moment of silence that followed it, the ambient sounds of the jungle temporarily stilled, Tigra’s ears perked up.
“Something’s off. I’m hearing trace noises that…”
“That what?”
“…don’t quite belong. Almost like machinery or air filters…”
They had come to a patch of grass unlike the rest, stiff and matted down, bereft of any rocks or geological irregularities. Too perfect, too flat, too uniformly straight at the perimeters. With a little work, they managed to uncover the edges of the camouflage mat and pulled it back to reveal a large metal hatch. A few minutes strenuous effort was enough to pry it open, revealing a stairwell leading down.
Artificial lights flickered to life one at a time as they descended, bathing the women in a pale blue glow. The air became considerably cooler and the soft purr of machinery gradually grew in volume until at last they entered a kind of processing room. Clean, sterile, with a row of clear plexiglass pods lining the walls. Human forms could be seen laying within several of them, tranquil and still as though sleeping. At the center of the room sat a terminal and a row of apparently inactive tri-pedal robots, three-fingered arms resting calmly against their sides and trays bedecked with syringes, pills, and catheters attached to their chests. As a final jaunty touch a powder blue nurse’s cap sat atop each of their squat heads.
Moondragon glanced back at her teammates. A mixture of disbelief and fascination had already settled onto Bethany’s face as she took to studying the surrounding, and decidedly alien, tech. Tigra was peering into the containment pods, looking as wan as someone covered in fur could look.
“They’re still alive, just drugged, I think. We have to free them.”
Did they? Moondragon hesitated. A quick mind scan confirmed what her teammate suspected. They were alive, just sedated, and from what she could tell mostly average human beings taken from all over the globe. Businessmen, homemakers, teachers, soldiers. In no way deserving of their fate. Yet the last thing she needed was more helpless people underfoot, decreasing her own odds of survival.
They could not in good conscious leave them here though. Moondragon knew first hand what it was to have her freedom taken from her, having only recently escaped imprisonment*, and it was obvious what would happen if these civilians were left behind. They would be killed, either in these twisted games, or by the jungle itself.
(As of LL #1 - Al)
“Agreed,” she answered, with some reluctance. “There must be some way to open the cell doors, and we’ll need to find means to rouse them.”
Her teammates nodded and even Bethany moved to comply, focusing her mechanical skills on deciphering the central terminal and its puzzling array of switches and screens. Moondragon scanned the walls themselves, searching for some kind of simple release mechanism, when she found her attention drawn to one of the cells in particular. It was larger than the others and the woman within seemed to fill every inch of it. Her bright red hair spread in a halo across the cushion behind her head and her arms and legs were thick with cords of muscle.
An attempted mind scan was violently rebuffed as though some outside force was repelling her telepathy. It was a sensation that felt eerily familiar, something just at the edge of her memory, an answer to that…
“Um, bald lady? I don’t think, we’re, ah, alone…”
Moondragon snapped back to the present and realized with a flash of disgust that she’d again let her guard down too soon. A low growling sound had now filled the room as glinting silvery shapes quietly dropped from holes in the ceiling, so silent and elegant that their movement could barely be detected by ear. She counted three then four then…
Oh my! Guests! Well, this is a first! What a rare treat for our viewers, although some editing may be required on the final footage. Best to never show the sausage being made, eh? Or eaten as the case may be.
There was no holographic image this time, as very likely no projectors had been installed here, just a face on the terminal’s viewscreen, grinning ear to ear, a pointed beard jutting from its bulbous chin and a poufy Elizabethan collar draped around its thick neck.
I hope you like my pets. They’re not very good with strangers, I fear. I really should put up that beware of dogs sign, one day. Ah well. To paraphrase the bard…
The creatures were now in plain view, some on four legs, others standing on their hinds, all glinting metal and burning red eyes. Their jaws opened and closed with audible snaps. Moondragon brought her spear into a defensive position, pressing her back against one of the containment units.
Cry havoc, and let slips the wolves of war!
The nearest of the warwolves leapt, bounding effortlessly across the room, its talons arcing towards her throat. Moondragon just managed to strike it on the temple with her spear, sending the creature rolling into the nurse-bots, mechanical limbs and lacy aprons flying. Two others immediately snapped tight holds onto the shaft of her weapon. One squeeze from their powerful jaws was enough to snap it in twain.
“Go,” she yelled to the others. “Find the control room and shut this place down! I can handle these monsters!”
With a snarl the wolves jerked the shards of her weapon from her hands as the others slowly circled.
Hopefully…
# # # # #
Tigra raced ahead as the pair worked their way deeper into the complex. They ran through hallways, down more flights of stairs, up several others, far more of the latter than should be feasible by her reckoning. According to her own internal compass, some of these stairs should have delivered them topside again, but somehow never did. Either she was so tired her brain was playing tricks or the dimensions of this place made little rational sense, scaling around and back in on itself, repeats, reruns, passages that ended in abrupt cancellations. Labyrinthine almost, a structure built more from whimsy than practicality.
There were no living scents to detect, animal or human, but eventually Tigra’s ears picked up a sound like television static mixed with music. She grabbed Bethany, so exhausted by now she was barely mobile, and pulled her along by brute force, hoping those metal creatures that attacked them in the holding area were the only ones of their kind. If there more waiting in ambush, she wasn’t sure she could handle them by herself and the girl would be worse than useless in a fight.
Another turn in the passage and they entered what she knew at once to be the heart of the complex. A vast domed room with concrete tiled floors and an array of overhead lighting panels, alive with the hum of high-powered technology. Tigra had seen other supercomputers from her time dating Henry Pym - another bit of the past best forgotten - and this looked much the same, row upon row of jet black cabinets filled with dozens of blades holding hundreds of processors. That terminology was far as her knowledge extended though. She could guess though that the processing power of this network must be massive and probably worth countless millions to establish and run. How they even powered it here in the middle of the Savage Land was inconceivable.
The sight was impressive enough to leave Bethany agog. The impact was rather less on Tigra. It was basically just a lot of plastic and microchips as far as she was concerned. What interested her far more was what lay beyond the supercomputer grid, an impossibly vast arrangement of video monitors of varying size and shape. On them was displayed information of various kinds - Facebook pages, wikipedia entries, Youtube videos, Twitter feeds, CNN updates, films, television series, concerts, media from all over the world. All of which was in the process of being changed, molded, re-sculpted, or constructed whole clothe even as they watched.
Several of the monitors showed action scenes not unlike that which they’d just escaped. People being hunted, killed, tortured, screaming, fleeing, fighting for their lives, not just in the jungle but in every conceivable locale, urban, desert, arctic, places without names. Still more showed an endless array of costumed battles: Reed Richards slugging it out with the Wizard as the Baxter Building crumbled around them, Darkhawk dousing Constricter with darkforce blasts outside a NYC bank, Force Works waging a running battle with the North Korean army, and countless others like them. On one of the larger screens she could witness Moondragon desperately fending off the warwolves, their razor talons and jaws tearing at her flesh to a thumping hip-hop soundtrack.
It was impossible to take it all in or know which feeds were current, past, or even real.
Tigra’s head began to pound from the sheer overwhelming noise of it. A cacophony of voices, music, and information drowned her senses. From internal speakers Vivaldi’s Concerto in G screamed over it all at maximum volume, and she knew that was the name not because she had any classical background but because that’s what the screen running the iTunes ap read.
Tigra clasped her hands to her ears, trying not to scream, or maybe she was screaming and simply couldn’t hear it. When she opened her eyes again, she noted a figure gliding along the monitors, tall and spindly, his scarecrow arms bobbing through the air as though conducting a symphony.
She grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and spun him around, claws positioned before his face, which she was shocked to find smooth and blank like a mannequin. A flashbulb flicker made her blink and now the blank became a cartoon close-up of Elmer Fudd, his mouth a-gap with shock. The voice it spoke with, however, was as calm, soothing, and impersonal as an automated teller.
“Hello. I am Major Domo. May I help you?”
“Where is he?” Tigra shouted to be heard over the flood of information, only to have the volume at once drop to a whisper, causing her voice to echo shrilly through the room. “Where is he?” she repeated.
“Who do you mean?”
She glared. “The fat creep with the oversized teeth and lousy sense of humor.”
His face loaded a new pic - Queen Elizabeth thoroughly offended by a gauche social faux pas.
“Surely you can’t be referring to our Lord-and-Impresario Mojo, the epitome of wit, charm, and taste?”
Tigra shook him and growled, each word a punctuation point. “Where! Is! He!”
His face shifted again, now a handsome GQ model with dark hair and a winning smile that highlighted the wonders of modern dentistry. “Right here. All around you. In the air. Everywhere! Our Lord Mojo has transcended the mortal coil. Alas we could not save his body, but we could save his soul. His information. And what a wonderful world in which to exist as pure information! So many new opportunities for entertainment! This being but one of the cruder forms.” Major Domo waved his spidery hands at the monitors behind him, which continued to upload, download, and process information as if of their own accord. “If you would like a tour, I would gladly provide one, for a reasonable fee, for nothing in this world is free, another novel delight. The Mojoverse had grown so very boring. But this place…”
Her claws sunk deeper into his shoulders, pressing down into what felt not like flesh, but a loose cluster of plastic and circuitry. “If you don’t answer me…”
“He is answering you. I don’t think there is a Mojo.” Bethany had joined her, eyes wide and darting as she tried vainly to take in the whole of the monitor array. “He’s some kind of software program, isn’t he?
“Oh, he’s so much more than that!” Major Domo laughed, or rather shared a sound bite of laughter, pre-teen girls giggling, theatrical cackling, children shrieking with delight. “He is the future of entertainment, which is say the future of everything. He is the bringer of digitized joy, the truest form of pleasure.”
“I doubt his victims would agree.”
“Victims? What victims?” A pic of a befuddled old man, eyelids and lower lip drooping in consternation. “He provides vibrancy, relevancy, and, yes, permanence to even the dullest of lives he touches and records! They may die, yes, but they will live forever as part of him! As part of the Mojonet! Their lives entertaining generation upon generation of viewers, the noblest of all modern day sacrifices. Death to the old life and its lack of purpose. Praise to the new life and infinite enterta-”
A flash of Tigra’s claws and the thing’s head hit the ground with a sudden clatter. No blood or sparks or even oil followed. Its body fell simply back against the screens, making a hollow sound where it struck. Bethany shot a quizzical look her way to which she shrugged.
“Conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Now how do we stop this thing?”
The girl bit her lip. Not normally a great way to start. “I’m not sure…”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? It’s, like, a big computer or something, can’t you just shut it down?”
Tigra was still shouting she realized which is probably why Bethany was shouting back at her. “I’m an engineer, not a hacker, and there’s not even a proper interface! It’s not like there’s a power switch I can hit!”
A smiley face flashed across the decapitated head. “Long live the new Flesh!” Tigra punted it, sending its shifting faces skidding across the floor.
“I thought you were smart!”
“I am! Would you like to hear my dissertation on dark matter containment fields?”
“I don’t know, would that help?”
“Aw, gawd…” the girl moaned, as though Tigra’s idiocy was beyond her ability to even process. Well, fine then, she decided. This had always been her problem with eggheads. When they weren’t off actively building doomsday machines or Ultrons or worse, they were never there when you needed them. No, they just left you shrunk down and locked in a cage in their laboratory and…
Okay, bad memory that. So think, what would the Avengers do here? Probably send you back to the Quinjet while Iron Man or Vision or someone like that did all the cool stuff, so forget them. Might as well just do what a real superhero does best…
Break things.
The first row of supercomputers toppled over easily enough, smashing down on the hard tile with a satisfying crunch, sending sparks and circuit boards flying through the air. Wherever she found a knot of wires, she yanked them, tearing up power couplings and damaging outlets. A hearty chunk of steel from some internal component or other that probably cost a cool grand served as a decent enough club which she used to batter the other consoles and terminals. Soon the video screens began to broadcast fuzz, and error messages cropped up in window after window. An angry buzzing screeched through the walls. Vivaldi died mid-crescendo.
Contestants!…contestants!…you’ll never win the…hot tub…
“See? It’s working. Problem solved. And I didn’t even finish college.”
“Somehow I believe you,” Bethany noted dryly, shouldering over one of the towers herself, as the overhead lights started to flicker uncertainly. “You do realize this probably wasn’t his only copy though and that by wrecking the computers, we’ve totally ruined just about any chance of finding out who set us up and hired them to kidnap us?”
Oh. Admittedly that wasn’t the first thought to cross her mind. Still, she’d had do something, and destroying the insane lunatic’s control room was usually pretty high on the Avengers to-do list. Usually.
“Hrm… Win some, lose some, right?”
“Let me guess. That’s what Captain America usually said at the end of the mission?”
Tigra made a face. “Very funny. At least we’re not dead…”
“There is that,” Bethany answered with a note of genuine relief while kneeling down to prod the severed head of Major Domo with her index finger. She looked as if she expected it to say something but it remained as silent and dead as the rest of the smashed-up machines.
“C’mon, we should check on Moondragon.”
She nodded absently, still staring at the head, before finally scooping it up and placing it under the crook of her arm. Tigra gave her a sharp look - the Avengers to-do list did not in general include taking heads as trophies - but received only a shrug in return. As they exited, the last of the vidscreens blinked off behind them and the ceaseless hum of infotainment processing was for the moment at least silenced.
# # # # #
Moondragon was already in the process of releasing the prisoners when her teammates returned. She was relieved to see them and not just because they were alive. She’d suspected that much when the containment units popped open and the warwolves abruptly fled. So, yes, it was fine and good they were alive, but mostly she was just happy to have someone else around to handle the civilians. Their incessant questioning and nagging was already driving her to distraction.
“Deal with them,” she instructed, waving her hand dismissively at the milling crowd. “They’re frightened and stupid and I haven’t the patience.”
“Nice to see you again too.”
Tigra took over, calmly letting the prisoners know the situation was well in hand, playing the role of diplomatic first responder. Meanwhile, Bethany stood about, looking out of place, clearly as uncertain as to how to deal with regular people as Moondragon herself. Curious that. She would have to figure this girl out and what made her tick soon if this partnership of theirs was to continue.
For now, Moondragon attention shifted back to the strange woman from the specially constructed pod, the muscled amazon with the telepathic block. Her eyes were now open and she was standing on her own power yet she remained otherwise unresponsive. She would not answer questions, even to so much as nod yes or no, but neither was she deaf. If given a simple command, such as ‘stand up’ or ‘raise your right arm’, she would instantly comply.
“Who are you, I wonder,” Moondragon asked aloud, probing the edges of the woman’s mind, only to be repelled once again.
Tigra was in the process of helping an elderly Asian woman step down from her containment cell when she looked up. “Who is what now?”
“Nothing. How is it you shut the system down by the way?”
“Oh, you know…just the usual… No sweat, really.”
“She smashed everything,” Bethany explained, “like a maniac.”
“Ah. Very effective. One of my own favorite stratagems actually.”
The girl rolled her eyes and Tigra took that opportunity to quickly change the subject, suggesting they get these people topside as soon as possible. Moondragon could see no point in lingering here and so reluctantly agreed, instructing the giantess to follow along with the others, leaving that mystery for another time. As for the reason to her reluctance, it was waiting just outside as the last of them stepped into the clearing. Thirty-some men stood surrounding the hatch in a loose semi-circle, weapons at the ready, a prickly web of arrows, spears, and sharpened blades catching the light of the fading dusk.
The four-armed brute Barbarus was among their numbers, face a swollen mass and favoring one arm, but looking no less dangerous for the fact. Lupus was tending his wolves, the remnants of which yipped and snarled at the prospect of another chance at them. Even their former captive was present, eagerly awaiting their arrival, bobbing up and down on his back legs, a malicious grin spread across his wide mouth.
“Pretty ladies,” he mocked. “Did you think we forgot about you?”
“The game’s over. You won’t be rewarded even if do kill us…”
This being Tigra’s feeble attempt at reasoning with them. Moondragon knew better than to bother. Her mind was already at work picking out the weakest targets. Who she could kill before one of them eventually killed her. There was no winning this fight. Not in their current state.
Amphibius gurgled his laughter. “You gave us such a merry chase! Humiliated us. Hurt my friends. Hurt me.” His hand tightened around the handle of his blade as his tone grew dark. “Some things provide their own rewards, yes?”
They all tensed, waiting only for the first of them to act, when a dark shadow passed overhead. The sun setting at last perhaps or storm clouds moving in. Something like thunder sounded, only far too loud, and the next thing Moondragon knew several of the hunters were being thrown through the air as the turf exploded underneath their feet. Those still standing began to point and yell and, finally, panic.
For it was not a shadow but a ship. An eighteenth century galleon to be precise hovering overhead, its cannons raining fire. As the hunters fled for the treeline, a rope ladder dropped from above, and a familiar figure appeared. Captain Barracuda waved his hat at them in greetings, grinning ear to ear upon spying the surprised expressions on their upturned faces.
“Ahoy there! Would such fair, albeit excessively bloody, ladies need a ride perhaps?”
For the moment the sight and sound of him was not as obnoxious as it might normally be. “The last ride you gave us was not at all to our liking,” Moondragon shouted up at him.
“A thousand pardons for that! My first mate is bit on the willful side. He’s been cured of it, although I fear the treatment came at a steep price. He will not be rejoining us for the return trip, nor will his friends. They’ve gone to the devil, you might say. Or She-Devil as she preferred to be called.” Twisting the right tip of his ebony mustache between thumb and finger, while his other hand clung tightly to the rope, he smiled apologetically. “Which is why I must clarify my offer ever so slightly. I am short a good dozen deckhands and you seem to currently be possessed of several idle ones…”
She raised a brow. “You expect me to swab your deck?”
His expression was utterly scandalized, or might have been, if not for his roguish grin. “A vision such as yourself, my good lady? Never in a hundred, nay a million years, would it cross my mind! It is the others I wish to borrow, and just until we get into port. Your sidekicks would of course have free run of my ship…”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, he did not just say sidekicks, did he?”
Moondragon paid no heed to her teammates’ complaints nor to Barracuda’s extended hand as she seized the first rung of the ladder herself. “Good. We accept on one condition then: that we set sail immediately for New York.”
“It would be easier to re-supply at Madripoor…”
“New York City, captain. That is nonnegotiable.” She made as though to descend, and if that was a look of irritation that passed over his dark brow, it was quickly overtaken by another amiably grin.
“Very commanding! I like that! New York it is then. I shall inform the crew, my lady.”
“Greenwich village to be precise.”
“I see. And what are you going to do in Greenwich Village may I ask?”
Moondragon smirked.
“I’m going to see a doctor.”
# # # # #
Lady Libel
So about Mojo…
I brought him back to life. So there. Well, heck, that was easy! Come back next time and…
Oh, what, not good enough? Okay, fine…lets get into it then…
As you may be aware Brad Horton offed the Mojoverse but good during his run on X-Corp. I assume this came out of a feeling that that milieu was played out. Understandable. Mojo has long been a character better in theory than in practice. I still felt his was too clever a concept to leave moldering in the idea cemetery though. Fortunately Brad left a possible out in this passage…
Through [Xorn’s] acute connection with the electromagnetic spectrum, he felt Longshot, Archangel, Dazzler, and strangely…some Warwolves make the jump back to Earth. (X-Corp #24)
See some warwolves survived! And where there are warwolves, well… You get the idea. And so we get Mojo 8.0 based now on Earth and existing solely as a malicious piece of software on the intertubes. But why? Because there’s just so much you can do with him! He’s a villain who represents the commoditizing of the human experience into raw exploitative entertainment. His is a world where human life is considerably less important than whatever cheap melodrama can be squeezed out of it. In an era of YouTube, Twitter, Facebook, and reality television, he’s not just another villain, he’s representational of a real trend. He’s more relevant now than he was at the time he was created.
Think of how invasive such a character could potentially be…secretly monitoring and stealing every phone conversation, digital photograph, tweet and/or video recording, altering them as he sees fit. Mojo could potentially change the trajectory of people’s lives and careers, causing chaos and suffering purely for the amusement of his sadistic audience.
It’s brilliant. Mojo is brilliant. I couldn’t let him stay dead. He’s too good. There’s dozen or more great Mojo stories just waiting to be told. I’d love to write another one now that he’s back in action on M2K. And I’d love it even more if someone else beat me to it.
- Alan