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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:03:45 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:03:45 GMT -5
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:06:04 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:06:04 GMT -5
Secret Society of Super Villains Issue 1: "Day of the Dark Lord, Chapter Three: Trial Runs." Written by David Peattie Cover by JFJ Edited by David Charlton
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:08:48 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:08:48 GMT -5
Manhunter’s next words were curt and to the point. Less than thirty minutes later, as the late afternoon became early evening, a small sky-craft skimmed through the darkening sky on its way to a small island further up the bay from San Francisco, off the shore of the beach resort town of Santa Cruz. This island was occupied by one lone building, a cone-shaped tower with a beacon at its top floor, designed to safely guide ships through the bay during the foggy nights that the area was so famous for.
On board the sky-craft were Grodd and Copperhead.
“That lighthouse ahead,” Copperhead indicated. “You’re sure that’s our destination, Grodd?”
“No error is possible,” Grodd said condescendingly. “I checked the information Manhunter gave us through the use of my mental powers…probing the minds of the men guarding this lonely scientific outpost.”
Grodd landed the sky-craft a little ways down the shore, confident that the darkening sky and his own mental powers would keep the ship from being noticed by the lighthouse staff for the time being. He and his ally got out and surveyed the area.
“A secret government lab, right here in San Francisco Bay!”, Copperhead marveled. “Wild, huh?”
“Quite,” Grodd replied, with a trace of impatience. “I suggest you act, Copperhead…now.”
Grunting, Copperhead slipped from the beached flier, slithered through the murky shadows, and like the snake he resembled, made his way up the stone tower. As he did this, Grodd moved along the shore some distance, approaching a boulder upon which sat two armed guards. Ostensibly, the guards were watching the front entrance to the lighthouse; in reality, they were far more engrossed in having a smoke and gossiping.
Grodd’s agreed-upon role in the caper was to provide a distraction while Copperhead stole the item that they had come for: a globe of solid plutonium that was being used in a series of experiments here at the lab. The gorilla couldn’t think of a more suitable way of distracting everyone but to appear out of nowhere and start attacking the guards.
So involved were these guards in their cigarettes and conversation that they failed to notice Grodd as he crept up behind them and disappeared underneath the stone crag they
were sitting on. Grodd thought he could smell alcohol on their breath as well, which would account for their carelessness.
The boulder creaked as Grodd hefted it over his head, and then, before either sentry knew what was happening, Grodd threw it, guards and all, into the surf. The hapless soldiers fell into the water just seconds after the rock itself did.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” Grodd said amiably as the two men struggled to their feet. From behind him, Grodd took note of the fact that four more sentries had heard the commotion and were now running towards him.
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Grodd continued, “allow me to point out: you’re under attack!”
One of the water-logged guards finally managed to spit out the words they were all thinking. “A g-g-gorilla,” he choked incredulously. “…a talking gorilla!”
Grodd smiled. This was actually proving to be a lot of fun.
“For an under-privileged Homo Sapiens,” the ape noted breezily, “you’re truly perceptive, my hairless friend. I am indeed a talking gorilla.”
So saying, Grodd crouched, then turned and leapt at the four guards running towards him, who were now too close to dodge out of his way.
“And unlike the simians portrayed in your grotesque “PLANET OF THE APES” films, I am not a costumed actor,” he continued. “On the contrary…I’m quite real!”
Grodd’s momentum carried him directly to the first two guards, and his outstretched fists hit them like brick walls, taking them out of the fight immediately. The other two intended to grab Grodd and bring him down, and they were joined by a third…one of the men Grodd had thrown into the water moments before. Grodd essentially ignored the two who had climbed atop his back while he picked the third one up like a rag doll. Grodd then shrugged his massive shoulders, easily dislodging the first two guards.
Flailing helplessly over Grodd’s head, the terrified guard looked to one of his comrades and pleaded, “Fred…tell me this isn’t happening!”
“I would if I could,” Fred replied, “but I can’t!”
“This is truly comical,” Grodd thought. “I couldn’t write anything this funny if I tried.”
“Fred,” the guard croaked with dismay, “I was afraid you were gonna say tha…”
That was as far as the man got, because Grodd tossed him like a human Frisbee into the other charging guards. By now, still more guards from other portions of the island complex had shown up, but they were regrouping a safe distance away from Grodd to plan their next move. Grodd was elated.
“Excellent!,” the gorilla told himself. “I’ve drawn all the guards outside…leaving Copperhead a clear field above!”
Only one dark thought spoiled Grodd’s good mood. “The slithering fool…if he misses the opportunity I’ve provided him, I’ll wring his neck…personally!”
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:10:26 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:10:26 GMT -5
Meanwhile, high above the battle below, the “slithering fool” had reached the balcony of the lighthouse, and stood poised to enter.
“Whaddaya know!,” Copperhead thought as he peered inside. “That refugee from a King Kong movie was right! This is a secret government lab…and that gizmo on the stand is what we came for!”
Gently removing the glass pane from the window, Copperhead silently entered the room and slowly stalked its lone occupant.
“A protected sphere of solid plutonium,” he mused, “guarded by one creepy old man. Shouldn’t be too hard…the old geezer will probably faint when he…”
Just then, the old man whirled, with a pistol in his hand. He fired, and the shot just barely missed Copperhead, slicing a shard out of his scaly costume. Copperhead squawked, more out of surprise than fear.
“Hold it, mister!”, the elderly gentleman demanded. “One more move and I ventilate your suit. Identify yourself, now!”
Copperhead cursed himself for not realizing what had happened earlier. Grodd had been successful in creating a diversion for the guards…perhaps too successful. When all the interior guards disappeared outside to investigate, the old man had realized that an attacker might also come for him inside…and he had quickly armed himself and prepared for trouble. Well, the geezer would find he’d bitten off more than he could chew.
“You want a name, mister?,” the venomous villain snarled. “Try Copperhead…as in, poison snakes!”
With that, Copperhead whipped his right leg up and cracked the old man right in the teeth. The force of this blow forced the elderly gent to drop his gun and crumple to the floor. Copperhead then claimed his prize and left.
“I could’ve handled that with more class,” the villain reflected as he ran for the window and jumped out, “but who has the time? It’s a dog-eat-dog world…and if a guy’s gonna get ahead, he’s gotta move.”
The fanged felon slithered his way quickly down the tower wall, cradling his loot under one arm as he did so. “Besides,” he continued, “I don’t trust that blasted gorilla. If things get hot, he’s liable to take off…and leave me behind!”
As Copperhead made it to the halfway point down the tower wall, Grodd finished knocking out the last of the guards, and looked up impatiently at his partner.
“Hurry, you idiot!,” Grodd called at the scaly scalawag. “HURRY!”
Copperhead landed on the beach and began sprinting towards the sky-craft. “Call me that again, you crummy ape, and I’ll plaster you all over the countryside!”, he responded hotly.
So intent was Copperhead on getting to the sky-craft, and making sure Grodd knew his place, that he failed to notice one of the guards coming to and realizing that he still had a duty to try and stop the crime in progress.
“So weak I can hardly move,” Fred thought as he moaned with pain, “but I’ve got to…” Slowly, torturously, he reached for his gun.
“If that plutonium falls into the wrong hands,” he continued as he fought the sluggishness in his limbs and the agony of his broken bones, “it’ll be an international disaster! Only have strength for one shot…I pray it’s a good one!”
After what had seemed like an eternity, Fred grasped his rifle, picked it up, and fired off a single shot just as Copperhead waded into the surf towards the sky-craft. Grodd was already behind the wheel, gunning the motor. As the rifle crack echoed across the beach, Fred was elated to see Copperhead lurch forward and fall.
“Oh, my lord,” Copperhead squawked, “Grodd…I’m hit! My shoulder!”
So great was the snaky villain’s pain that he pitched forward into the water. Grodd, for his part, ignored his comrade’s injury and reached out to rescue the plutonium sphere instead.
“The globe, Copperhead,” Grodd cried, “Don’t drop it!” But as their hard-fought-for prize disappeared beneath the Pacific waves, the gorilla mastermind knew that they had failed their test. It infuriated him to think how he was going to look, trying to explain this fiasco to Manhunter.
“Too late!,” Grodd snarled with disgust. “It’s gone!”
Realizing that more heavily armed authorities would already be on their way towards the scene, Grodd did the only thing he felt he could do. He closed the canopy of the sky-craft, shifted gears, and took off, heading back towards the Sinister Citadel.
As he did so, he couldn’t resist making one last disparaging remark at his former ally’s expense. “You’re more than an idiot, Copperhead,” he spat. “You’re a pathetic incompetent!”
Back in the water, Copperhead struggled to stay afloat as he begged his fleeing comrade for help. “Grodd! Don’t leave me…GRODD!”
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:11:15 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:11:15 GMT -5
Forty-five minutes later, Grodd finished making his report to the rest of the Secret Society.
“Don’t worry about Copperhead betraying us, Grodd,” Manhunter assured him. “We have ways to ensure silence.” Privately, Manhunter was already planning the call to the group’s backers, to arrange Copperhead’s escape from prison again. And in the meantime, he had a replacement for Copperhead already lined up. But Grodd and the others didn’t have to know about that, yet. He'd let them think what they wanted, if it kept them in line.
“And now, Manhunter?,” Capt. Cold asked. “What next? The unveiling of our mysterious benefactor?”
Manhunter ignored the frosty felon, hoping Cold would have enough brains to take the hint. No such luck.
“Well?,” Cold prodded.
“I told you before, Cold,” Manhunter finally replied. Our leader will reveal himself when it suits him, and not before. Not for you or for anyone else.”
“Yeah?,” Cold shot back. “Maybe I ought to rethink this whole thing…”
“That’s enough. It’s time for the next two members to embark on their own test mission,” Manhunter said as he stood up. “Wizard and Mirror Master…step forward.”
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:12:30 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:12:30 GMT -5
Thus it was that the following morning, another Secret Society skycraft shot across the sky of New York City, with Mirror Master at the controls and the Wizard in the passenger seat, keeping his thoughts to himself and trying to get some sleep. His partner, though, was making that impossible.
“…and it sure was swell of Manhunter to rig this bird with a cloaking device, so it can’t be seen by anyone. Saves me having to use one of my own,” the Mirror Master went on, part of the endless stream of chatter he’d kept up since their flight from San Francisco began. There had been several times when the Wizard had been tempted to use his magic to stop the man’s incessant blabbing somehow…by turning him into a frog, or erasing the Mirror Master’s mouth for a while, or just killing him outright…but Zard knew that indulging in any of these fantasies, as pleasant as they might be, could jeopardize their mission, and so he restrained himself. The Wizard had seen the icy stare that Manhunter gave Grodd when the gorilla came back minus his partner and empty-handed…a stare that had given even the simian mastermind pause…and he wasn’t anxious to become another target for the skilled assassin’s ire. Not that he was afraid of Manhunter, he told himself; he just felt that the Secret Society could be a good gig, and saw no need for petty frictions at this stage of the game. Zard was already making his own plans for the group, and he felt Manhunter could play a key part in those plans.
Still, the Mirror Master’s non-stop verbal excretions were driving the Wizard crazy, and he felt he had to say something. So, in response to the reflecting rogue’s last utterance, Zard replied sarcastically, “Yes, Scudder, I’m quite sure Manhunter’s prime concern is to save you work.” Then, looking out the window, he added, “That looks like our destination just up ahead…so why don’t we conclude this meaningless dialogue and focus on the business at hand?”
The miffed Mirror Master grunted in reply and turned his gaze ahead again, confirming in his own mind that their goal, the New York City branch of S.T.A.R. Labs, was just coming into view.
Also coming into view, had they been looking for it, was a large yellowish beam of light. This beam of light was on a collision course with their ship, though neither the villains nor the beam of light knew it.
The beam of light was sentient. The beam of light was also human. It was, in fact, a costumed crimefighter called the Ray, who had been active since the 1940’s as a member of the Freedom Fighters and the All Star Squadron.
As a young man, reporter Lanford “Happy” Terrill had been assigned to cover the launch of an experimental new type of weather balloon. His ride in it during an electrical storm got him belted by a bolt of lightning, which in turn activated Terrill’s meta-gene and gave him the power to turn into a beam of sunlight. He could fly, generate blinding light and intense heat, and perform other useful tricks; he used these as the Ray to fight crime and make the world generally a better place.
The Wizard and Mirror Master didn’t see Terrill coming at them because they were too focused on their pending landing on the S.T.A.R. Labs roof to pay any attention to the sky around them. Terrill didn’t see them because their ship was cloaked…and he was lost in thought, anyway.
“Since our fights with Skragg, the Super-Sniper and the Silver Ghost,” the Ray mused, “my fellow Freedom Fighters and I have been on the run. The Ghost did a nice job of framing us for his own crimes…can people actually have forgotten the good we did during World War II so fast? And the property damage during our battle with Skragg certainly didn’t help our image much!”
He continued his reverie as he unwittingly grew closer to the Secret Society skycraft.
“And since our old headquarters is now in the hands of the police, it’s up to yours truly to find new lodgings for us…”
Suddenly, with no warning, the Ray felt himself hitting something he couldn’t see and falling back towards the Earth, too dazed to stop himself. Inside the skycraft, things were not much better.
“GOOD LORD, Scudder,” the Wizard shouted as he struggled to stay in his seat. “Didn’t you see that flying fool?”
“I thought it was just sunlight, reflecting off the clouds,” the Mirror Master replied, worriedly. “Who was that, anyhow?”
“Does it matter?,” the Wizard shot back. “From the looks of the people down there pointing at us, we’ve lost our camouflage…and in case it’s escaped your notice, we’re falling!”
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:13:45 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:13:45 GMT -5
The people below, on the other hand, were quite well aware of the craft’s plunging from the sky. Panic broke loose, with everyone trying to get as far away from the impending crash site as was humanly possible. The shadow of the sky-skimmer seemed to fill the horizon completely, adding fuel to the crowd’s terror.
Just minutes before the craft was about to hit, however, it slowed to a halt in mid-air. It then disappeared altogether, re-appearing moments later on the ground near the rear entrance to the S.T.A.R. Labs building. As it settled to Earth, the canopy door opened and two very shaken villains got out.
“PHEW!,” Mirror Master exhaled with obvious relief. “I’ve gotta admit, Wiz, that was some save!”
“You’ve every right to be impressed, Scudder,” the Wizard replied, his voice shaky from his Herculean efforts. “That’s the biggest strain my sorcery has had in years.”
The two then turned their attention to the building before them. A lone doorway stood in the far right corner, the only apparent way in on this side of the structure.
Narrowing his eyes, the Mirror Master reported, “I see one guard at the door inside.”
The Wizard went slack-jawed. “You can see through walls, now?”
“Mirror x-ray contact lenses,” his partner grinned. “I’m working on a set that will duplicate all of Superman’s vision powers.”
Zard was impressed, but didn’t let himself show it. He simply said, “Why don’t you break us in, since I saved us from your clumsy driving?”
“Hey, I told you I thought he was…”
“Sunlight reflecting off a cloud. Of course.”
Scudder was about to call the Wizard a crotchety old coot, but remembering what Zard was capable of, he swallowed it and just started walking towards the door, the Wizard trudging along behind.
At the door, Mirror Master knocked casually. A slit in the door opened from the inside, disclosing a window through which the armed security guard peered out at his two oddly dressed visitors. Automatically suspicious, he picked up his microphone that connected to the P. A. system outside, and snapped, “Beat it…”
(9) As he was doing so, however, Mirror Master whipped a small round mirror from one of his pockets and pointed it at the guard’s eyes. He pressed a button on the back of the mirror, and the mirror surface began to glow in a variety of kaleidoscopic colors. The colors began to swirl around, and as the guard continued to watch, he fell silent. Then he fell into a trance.
At this point, Scudder asked, “You don’t mind if we look around a bit, do you?”
The now entranced guard put down his gun, and sleepily opened the door for the two villains.
“I didn’t think you’d mind,” Mirror Master grinned as he motioned for the Wizard to follow him in.
“Maybe he doesn’t,” came a voice from behind them, “but I do.”
The two felons whirled to confront the Ray. As he waited for them to make a move, the hero reflected on what had happened only minutes before.
“Lucky for me, I didn’t hit their ship head-on, or I’d be dead now! As it is, just glancing off of it as I did nearly knocked me into the middle of next week! If I hadn’t managed to angle my fall, so that I landed in some bushes at a nearby park, I’d probably have had to spend a month in traction!”
By this time, Mirror Master had found his tongue again. He decided to try diplomacy first.
“Well, waddaya know?,” he began. “Golden Boy is tougher than we thought! Sorry about the mid-air collision, fella…it was an accident! We’d have tried to help you, but we had to save our own hides first!”
“Maybe that lets you off for hit-and-run, friend,” the Ray retorted, “but not for breaking and entering…which I assume is what you planned to do, after hypnotizing that poor guard?”
“Oh, swell,” Scudder thought. “He’s not on our side, and he’s on to us.”
Exchanging a look with the Wizard that told him they were both having the same thoughts, Scudder sighed and said, “Okay, Wiz, you go take care of business inside…I’ll handle Capt. Sunlight here!”
As the Wizard bolted inside, Mirror Master drew two bizarre-looking guns from holsters at his sides. He fired them both simultaneously…not at, but over the Ray’s head, just slightly. Twin beams of sinister looking light breezed past the Ray’s cowl.
This made the Ray think that Scudder was aiming for his head…a natural mistake, but an error nonetheless. In response, the Ray lifted his arms and prepared to blind the Mirror Master with a beam of intense light.
That, however, was just what Scudder expected. The light beams from his guns had been only for show; the real purpose of the weapons was to capture light directed at them, and then return that light, altered into beams of pure force, at Scudder’s attacker.
“HAH!,” Scudder cried exultantly, as the Ray’s light-blast was sucked into his guns as if into a black hole. “Didn’t think I’d be ready for that, did ya, glow-worm? I figured anyone who can disguise himself as a beam of light must also be able to throw light out at will…so now you can have it back, with interest!”
Realizing his mistake, the Ray tried to duck, but wasn’t quite fast enough. One of the now-altered light beams hit him full in the chest, bringing him down.
As the Ray groaned in misery, slumped down to his hands and knees, the gloating Mirror Master moved in for the kill. But just as the reflecting rogue came near enough, the Ray surged to his feet with a burst of adrenaline, clobbering the villain with a fierce uppercut. Scudder cried, “UNKH!” in response, and hit the dirt. Unlike the Ray, he wouldn’t be moving for a while.
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:14:46 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:14:46 GMT -5
As this had been going on, the Wizard had not been idle. Upon entering the lab complex, he used his magic to turn himself invisible…much as the cloaking device had done with their sky craft…and calmly walked towards his goal: two protected spheres of solid radium.
The lab in which the radium sat was a moderately busy one, with three scientists busily puttering away in it. All three had their backs to the radium globes when Zard walked in, making it simple for him to grab them both and then turn to leave.
As he did so, however, one of the technicians…an up and coming MIT graduate from South Africa, named Ndele Mongombo…caught the movement of the globes from the corner of her eye and turned around.
“GREAT GOD!,” she cried, “The radium spheres…they’re floating away!”
“Blast!,” the Wizard thought as he seethed with anger at himself. “I forgot to make the radium invisible, too! I must be more tired than I thought…but as long as I fix my mistake, no one else need know!”
Immediately, Zard dropped the invisibility shield around himself. It was useless now, and would only further deplete his magical energies. Still grasping the globes, he uttered an incantation in ancient Tibetan, and was silently relieved when the spell did its job. The room suddenly seemed to be filled with grotesque, evil-looking phantoms, who swirled around in a figure-eight pattern and sent the shrieking scientists dodging for cover. The specters kept them at bay long enough for the Wizard to make his hasty exit. Keeping to the shadows, he managed to elude the security guards that were dashing towards the lab.
He returned outside just in time to see the Mirror Master fall to the Ray’s knockout punch. He barely dodged out of the way of the Ray’s next light-burst.
“Okay, Mandrake,” the Ray demanded, “your friend, the two-gun light show, is down for the count. What say you surrender and save us both some extra work?”
“Damn it, Scudder,” Zard muttered, “do I have to do everything myself?”
Setting the two globes down, the Wizard raised his hands, pretending to surrender. This tricked the Ray into letting his guard down for a moment, and as soon as he did, Zard zapped him with a bolt of magical lightning. The Ray fell again, this time completely unconscious.
Using another spell, the Wizard made the radium spheres float along behind him as he went to awaken the Mirror Master. He had to levitate some water from a nearby pond to splash in Scudder’s face to do so.
Naturally, upon awakening, Scudder was monumentally confused. But he soon caught up and realized that despite his having been of little help, the mission had been completed successfully. He went to work on repairing the sky craft so that he and Zard could return to San Francisco, but still had one question: what to do about the Ray?
“Don’t worry about him,” the Wizard asserted. “The hex bolt I hit him with eradicated his memory of us. When he comes to, he won’t remember a thing that happened here.”
Privately, though, Zard couldn't help but be a little concerned. The golden-clad hero had seemed familiar to him, in a way he couldn't put his finger on. Still, he mused, if it was really important, he'd remember it eventually.
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:17:23 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:17:23 GMT -5
Upon their arrival back in the Bay Area, Manhunter greeted them warmly and had the butler, Carstairs, stow the radium in a secret vault. He then selected the next two team members for their test mission: Capt. Cold and the Shadow-Thief.
Thus, another day passed, and another Secret Society sky craft began winging its way across the continent of Antarctica, nearing the Army base at McMurdo Sound. Capt. Cold was driving; he and the Shadow-Thief had been taking turns, in two hour shifts, since leaving San Francisco, to prevent them both from being over-tired. That had been Manhunter’s suggestion.
As Capt. Cold began looking for a suitable landing place, his erstwhile partner the Shadow-Thief was pensive.
“Antarctica,” the Shadow-Thief mused. “Why did Manhunter send us, of all people, to this God-forsaken place?”
“I thought it was obvious,” Capt. Cold replied. “My abilities are based on cold, and in your shadow-form, you don’t have to be concerned with how cold it gets.”
To this, the Shadow-Thief’s only response was a grunt, which Capt. Cold…Leonard Snart…took to mean that he saw Snart’s point but didn’t feel like conceding it.
“Okay, “ Shadow-Thief…Carl Sands…said finally. “If you know so much, then tell me this: what exactly is this stuff we’ve been sent to fetch…and what does Manhunter want with all these weird materials?”
“It’s called Isotope PSY-13,” Snart replied casually. “It’s a gelatin-like substance that is supposed to react with a person’s brainwaves in some way. Maybe Manhunter plans on putting it with the plutonium and radium to make a super-bomb.”
Sands openly stared at Snart. “How the blazes do you know all that?”, he asked.
“I make it a point to keep up with whatever technology the military is experimenting with,” Snart grinned. “It’s paid off for me in the past.”
Thanks to the cloaking field emitted by the sky craft, Capt. Cold was able to set the shuttle down almost at the front gates of the McMurdo military base without anyone being any the wiser. Both men knew, however, that the element of surprise would not last long.
To prepare for the climate conditions outside, Snart activated a miniature heating system in his belt buckle. It would heat up certain filaments in his costume to keep him at a comfortable 70 degrees no matter what the temperature outside was. For his part, Sands activated the Dimensiometer that he wore on his wrist, changing into the shadow-form his partner had alluded to earlier. Then they left the skycraft and began walking towards the base’s gate.
Standing on sentry duty at the gate was Private First Class Bill Carruthers, a personable and clean-cut young man from Winona, Minnesota. Carruthers had accepted this assignment three months earlier, claiming he had no problems working in “winter conditions.” He had long since changed his mind, and in his last call home, he and his wife had engaged in a long discussion about moving to Florida when his hitch was over.
Still, Carruthers was resolved that as long as he was there, he’d do his duty as best he could. So even though he expected no trouble beyond spotting a wayward polar bear, he kept his eyes open and continuously scanned the horizon in front of the base for any sign of problems.
As he was thinking…for only the 750th time that day…that he hated this post and couldn’t wait to get back Stateside, he noticed on the horizon a bizarre sight. A man wearing some sort of parka was walking towards the base, casting a shadow. Except that the shadow didn’t seem to match the man in the parka. The shadow seemed to be much taller, and wasn’t quite in line with where it should be given the position of the sun at this time of day. In fact, as the man and the shadow got closer, it really looked as if the shadow was a separate entity, not being cast by the parka-clad man at all. The nearer they got, the more it looked as if the shadow was actually walking ahead of the strangely-dressed man.
Sands and Snart had been watching the sentry this whole time, and had noted how puzzled he seemed as he stared at them. They didn’t say anything to one another; they didn’t have to. They knew what was going to have to happen if they were to succeed in their quest.
As the two villains approached to within five yards of the gate, Carruthers unlimbered his rifle and pointed it in their direction. “HALT!,” he cried, as per standard procedure. “Who goes…”
That was as far as he got, before Capt. Cold whipped his gun free of its holster and covered the hapless guard in a block of solid ice. After this assault was over, it would take the base’s surviving personnel nearly five hours to chop the ice away from PFC Bill Carruthers, whose body would then be shipped home to Minnesota with his face permanently locked in a position of open-mouthed defiance.
On the inside of the gate, another guard, Private James Sylvers of Tonopah, Nevada, heard Carruthers’ outburst and its sudden ending, and turned to get a look at his friend’s
attackers. He didn’t know who they were any more than Carruthers did, but they were obviously trouble, and so he turned away to sound an alarm.
He didn’t make it. Snart’s cold-gun cracked again, and Sylvers found his head encased in another block of ice. He didn’t freeze to death, as Carruthers did, but he suffocated from lack of air before anyone could get to him.
With these two sentries out of commission, and the rest of the base going about its indoor business blissfully unaware of the trouble at the front gate, Capt. Cold and the Shadow-Thief calmly walked across the compound towards the headquarters of the base’s commanding officer.
They were unaware that, as they did so, the unprotected rear of the base was also receiving visitors…though these newcomers were using somewhat more conventional means of approach, and were not dressed nearly as flamboyantly as were Snart and Sands.
The base’s commanding officer was one Major Jeffrey Admundson. Admundson had been through a lot in his thirty-plus years in the military; he’d seen action in Korea and Vietnam, and although he’d never distinguished himself particularly in combat, he felt he’d earned more than the lousy post he had now in Antarctica.
Still, he reflected, at least he didn’t have to face the rigors of battle any more. At the moment, the USA wasn’t actively fighting anyone (though the Cold War was still a real cause of tension among the higher ups) and even if they were, the odds of any of it coming to this snow-bound sanitarium were remote indeed.
He didn’t know that, a few months from today, his base would be Ground Zero in a battle between the Metal Men and a monstrous robot called Plutonium Man. Nor did he know, until their sudden arrival, that a group of stateside criminals was going to make today his most trying day ever.
As Admundson sat at his desk going over budget reports, his door burst open suddenly and two oddly-dressed men tromped in. One man, wearing a sort of spandex-snow suit, deliberately walked over to the waiting visitor’s chair in front of Admundson’s desk, sat down, put his feet up on the desk, then took a cigar from the box on the Major’s desk and lit it. The man’s partner, a bearded fellow in a gray body-suit, stood at the door, as if daring anyone else to come in and make trouble.
As the man in the parka finished taking a few puffs on the cigar and released a cloud of thin blue smoke into the air, he finally turned to the Major and said, "Greetings, Porky.”
For his part, Admundson kept his cool. He regarded both men with a fierce glare, then began, “I don’t know who you two are, or how you got past the guards. But I do know where you’re going, as soon as I get some more men in here: the stockade!”
He reached for his desk phone, only to see Snart kick it away from him. Admundson then made a break for it, dashing around the side of the desk and towards the door. Snart fired a few staccato bursts from his cold-gun, and in seconds, an icy ball and chain had formed around the Major’s ankle and fastened it to the leg of the desk. Caught fast, Admundson could do no more than bluster ineffectually.
“You were saying?,” Snart jeered.
Fuming, the Major at last said, “All right. What do you want?”
At this point, the Shadow-Thief left his vantage point by the door and took over as the spokesman for the pair.
“Quite simply,” Sands said smoothly, “we want the PSY-13. Hand it over, and we’re gone…no more hassles.”
“You’re insane,” Admundson sneered. “I’m not telling you anything!”
“Well, if you feel that strongly about it,” Sands replied, “then we’ll find it ourselves. Of course, if we should happen to have to kill any more of your soldiers as we look, well, you had your chance to cooperate. In the meantime, you should keep here quite nicely with the little souvenir my friend has left you with.”
With that, the two villains turned and left Admundson’s office. As they did, Snart couldn’t help tossing back an airy, “Have a nice day, butterball.”
The search for Isotope PSY-13 didn’t take long. They found it in Supply Barracks E, clearly marked. There were roughly a dozen boxes.
“Humf,” Capt. Cold snorted, “not a very generous supply!”
“Well,” the Shadow-Thief replied, “Manhunter didn’t say how much he expected us to find. He’ll just have to be satisfied with this.” Scrutinizing the boxes and their contents, he mused, “They look kind of heavy. I suppose we’ll have to take one box at a time…”
Just then, the door to the barracks slammed open again, and a slim man wearing a khaki green parka motioned to a group of aides somewhere behind him. “Awright, guys,” the man said, his back to the villains. “The coast looks clear! C’mon in!”
Snart and Sands just stood there, more outraged than surprised. They’d taken care of all the military personnel they’d seen as they hunted for the Isotope they sought; who could these clowns possibly be?
The man who had motioned to the others now entered the building, caught sight of the two costumed villains, and stopped short. As they got a better look at him, the Secret Society members noted that the newcomer was balding, with a crown of graying reddish hair surrounding his skull, and had a short mustache of the same graying reddish hair over his lip. He was about 6’1”.
As the two felons were noticing these things, the balding man was also drinking in the details about them. If anything, he liked what he saw even less than they did.
“Oh, swell,” he barked. “More costumed clowns! Ya give a guy a ritzy tailor and he thinks he’s the greatest thing since the Second Coming, or somethin’.”
Resting his hand on his cold-gun, Snart glared at the man and asked, “And just who are you, baldy, to come in and make cracks at us?”
Smarting at the insult, the interloper retorted, “The name’s “Crafty Cal” Clate, mister. An’ you two bozos got about one minute to get lost before…”
As he was talking, Snart interrupted, “Listen, you hairless eightball…”
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:18:36 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:18:36 GMT -5
Meanwhile, the Shadow-Thief was doing some fast thinking.
“Clate? “Crafty Cal” Clate?,” Sands pondered. “Good gravy, I know that name!”
His mind went back over the details of the case, the headlines he’d read years earlier.
Clate was a gangster out of Gotham City, who had made a big name for himself using a clever, if simple, ruse. Hiding a radio transmitter inside a hijacked laundry truck, he and his men had sent false police calls out on the GCPD radio, sending the police on wild goose chases while Clate and his gang robbed at will. The racket was smashed by Batman and Robin, and Clate had been cooling his heels in prison ever since.
Now, apparently, Clate was free, and had recruited a new gang. And just as apparently, they were here to steal something. Just as Sands and Snart were.
Snart and Clate were still arguing, as Sands finally stepped in. “Now, now,” he said soothingly. “Let’s not start a gang war, here. Maybe we can settle this like gentlemen.”
Addressing himself to Clate, now, Sands went on. “What my friend and I are here for are these boxes,” he said, indicating the Isotope PSY-13 crates. “That’s all. Anything else you find here is yours, with our compliments.”
By this time, Clate’s gang had crowded in around the doorway, and Snart and Sands could see that they were well-armed; each man carried an AK-47 and belts full of fresh ammo clips. Figuring that this gave him the upper hand, Clate’s mien took on a more sinister cast, if that was possible.
“Well, that’s real nice of you, Shades,” the gangster began, “but I’ve been thinkin’ that anything you two big shots want bad enough to come all the way out here for, oughta be number one on my shoppin’ list. So you just back off nice an’ slow, or my boys here are gonna make you colder than these arctic winds.”
With the speed born of constant practice, Snart whipped his cold-gun from its holster and fired twice, blasting the hands of the two gunsels in front with such intense cold that they had no choice but to drop their weapons and screech in agony. The guns themselves had been frozen instantly, and shattered as they hit the ground.
Capt. Cold then spun to face a third gunman, half-in and half-out of the doorway. The cold gun barked again, and the man froze in his tracks…literally. Because he’d been off-balance, he teetered for a moment, then fell to the ground…and like his comrade’s sub-machine guns, he too shattered like glass. Grinning, Snart holstered his gun again, assuming that this demonstration had sufficiently cowed the others.
He was wrong. Clate all but shrieked at the remaining two thugs to prompt them into action. “Grab ‘em, you nerds! Before he can draw again!” Clate himself then charged towards the Shadow-Thief, while his hesitant henchmen prepared themselves for another onslaught against Capt. Cold.
Smoothly drawing the cold gun again, Snart fired two bursts over the gangsters’ heads, forming solid blocks of ice that then crashed down, stunning the men.
Meanwhile, as soon as the shooting had started, Sands had activated his Dimensiometer again and resumed his shadow-form. When Clate lunged at him, he sailed right through and sprawled on the floor, sliding into a stack of nearby oil drums. They fell around him with a deafening clatter.
“Clate, you’re a fool,” Sands declared. “You can’t hurt me any more than you could hurt the wind!”
Clate rose, unsteadily, then slowly came towards the Shadow-Thief again.
“I’ll find a way, punk,” Clate gritted. “I’m Crafty Cal Clate! I’ll get to ya somehow!”
Though Clate couldn’t tell while Sands was in his shadow-form, his opponent had been smiling at him sardonically. But that smile faded as Clate barked out his defiance. Sands wasn’t afraid of Clate making good on his threat, but he did fear that if he and Snart were delayed much longer, that fat Major Admundson might be able to summon enough reinforcements to make their departure difficult. Best to end this in a hurry, then.
“If you want me so badly, Clate,” Sands replied, “I’ll save you the grief…and come to you!”
His arms spread out wide, the Shadow-Thief approached his foe.
“Nothing can touch me in this form,” he repeated, “but I can definitely touch you! Just think, Clate…you’ll be the first man in history to be strangled by a shadow!”
Sands surrounded Clate’s body like a coat of paint, his hands around the balding ganglord’s throat. He began squeezing like an ebony python, and in seconds, Clate was gasping for breath that his assailant wouldn’t let him have.
In moments, it was all over. Clate’s body grew limp, and Sands let it drop to the floor. He looked up to see that he and Capt. Cold were alone; Clate’s remaining two henchmen, who had recovered their wits in time to see their boss fall, had wisely fled.
Shoving Clate’s body out of the way, Snart used his cold gun to form a snow-sled. The two men piled the boxes of Isotope PSY-13 onto it, and headed back for their sky craft.
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Issue 3
Dec 13, 2005 22:19:07 GMT -5
Post by Admin on Dec 13, 2005 22:19:07 GMT -5
The following day, they were back in San Francisco, presenting a pleased Manhunter with their bounty and making their report.
“Excellent,” Manhunter said when they’d finished. “Another test mission successfully completed!” At this, Grodd bristled and looked sullen.
“Now,” Manhunter went on, “it’s time to announce the next test mission. Star Sapphire, come forward…you’ll be working on this one, with me!”
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