Seven Soldiers of Victory #11

Hollywood, California
“So what do you think, Pat? Isn't this place amazing? When I was going through here earlier with the inspectors, I couldn't get over the treasure trove stashed away in here. It's even better than I could have hoped for.”

Patrick Dugan run callused fingers through the dulling red locks on his head as he looked at the rundown buildings. He glanced over at his friend, bubbling over with enthusiasm, and let a smile creep out, but he remained unconvinced.

“You sure about this, Syl? I mean...okay, fine, we're going to rebuild Pemberton Industries, I'm on board with that,” Pat replied slowly as he followed behind Sylvester Pemberton down a wide ragged lane of concrete between a pair of rusting and chipping buildings. “But...a movie studio?”

“Not just any movie studio, buddy,” Sylvester countered as he turned a corner and pointed to the battered-looking shell of a city street. “Stellar Studios! Pat, don't you remember? The newsreels and the serials Uncle Jack made here, they were...well, stellar!” He laughed as he paced down the main street facade. “When I found out that the property itself was still intact, and more or less abandoned, I knew it was the first step in the plan.”

“A movie studio, Syl?” Pat repeated, more skeptical this time. “What do we know about making movies?”

“Nothing, but you're missing the possibilities. Look here.” Sylvester quickly strode through the lot and reached one building, pressing all his might into opening a large sliding metal door that protested every inch. “Look in there! A gold-mine for someone like you, I'm sure.”

Pat was forced to concede that the machine shop inside was large, and he recognized more of the dusty obsolete equipment than he cared to admit. “Don't you see? Movies are made differently today. The old studio system's long gone, and there's tons of people out there to draw on. With all the computers, the space requirements are all different. There's no reason we can't portion off parts of the studio and use them to build up the rest of the company. And there's no reason this here can't be all yours, buddy. Think of the things you can design. You'll put us on the map!” Syl punched his fist excitedly into Pat's shoulder.

“It's going to take a lot of money to get this shop up and running again alone. Never mind the studio, and I want to point out one more time: we don't know how to run a movie studio.”

“Yeah, yeah, that's why we hire crackerjack people to do it, and we both know who's at the top of that list,” Syl said with a wink. “Especially now that we have something concrete to pitch at her. As for the money, I've got more than people think, plus I've got investors who have more money than there were zeros back in our day, so don't worry. It's going to work.”

“So I guess it's time to give her a call and have her come out, get her on the ground floor of Pemberton Industries?” Pat asked as he pulled his cell phone out and flipped it open.

“Nope. Not Pemberton Industries. That's old-fashioned, out-of-date and I'm looking at the sleek new future,” Syl said as he stepped back out of the building, sliding a pair on a pair of sunglasses. “I gotta live in it, I'm going to embrace.”

“So then...what?”

“Glad you asked me that, Pat ol' buddy. Say hello to the keystone of Infinity, Incorporated!”

Dos Rios, Texas
“Okay, now that we've got your gizmos, I say I teach you to have fun with a shopping spree, cabrito,” Yolanda Montez stated as she and Haley Creamer stepped out of the electronics store onto the hot dusty main street. She put on her sunglasses, a soft hum catching her attention and she watched Haley's glasses turn a dark polarized green.

“Teach me to spree, huh? Okay, you're on,” Haley said with a grin as she glanced around. “Which way to the spree-ing, then?”

“This way, we can pop into this clothing store I know and we can see about getting you some stylish threads to wear,” Yolanda answered as she practically glided down the sidewalk, the sparse dry breeze catching the flowing skirt as it flared around her knees. “Then to the spa.”

“The spa?” Haley sounded unconvinced as she thumped along side the elegant Latina in her tattered blue jeans and sweatshirt with sleeves she'd hastily ripped off due to the heat. “You sure about this? What can we do at a spa but get our nails done? Never understood that.” She looked at her short fingers and then absentmindedly chewed at the tip of one.

“Oh, my poor girl, it's not getting your nails done,” Yolanda said with a laugh. “It's about getting pampered.”

“If you say so.” Haley still seemed wary, but as long as she was out of Greg Saunders's house and away from the ranch, she was happy. Not that she had a problem with Greg at all, but she couldn't believe the man hadn't heard of cable television after nearly seven months back in the 21st century. “As for my gizmos, they're for you actually.”

“For me?”

“Yeah. For your ride,” Haley explained further. “Grampa Pat can be pretty bright when he wants to, but let's face it, he's stuck back in the Forties, and that bike of yours needs the bleeding edge touch. You'll see.”

“Thanks. I think.” She gave Haley a quizzical look as they walked along the street. “So, tell me something. You grew up raised to hate Pat Dugan for vanishing on your grandmother, and the moment he pops back up, you insist on hanging with him and his friends, doing the super-hero thing like he did. That sounds more than a bit loco to me.”

Haley shrugged, a noncommittal motion as the pair stepped through a shop door and into a cool clothing store, beads of sweat annoyingly beading on her forehead from the change in temperature. Her lenses shifted from green to transparent as she looked around. “I can't really hate the guy if it wasn't his fault he got sucked through time, right? And I wanted to do the super-hero thing, ever since Mom told me about Merry, the Girl of a Thousand Gimmicks. And that's my great-grandmother, technically.” She followed Yolanda as the tall, lush woman led the teen-ager to rows of shirts and tops of all styles and colors. “I've been doing everything I can to make myself ready for this whole thing.”

“But seriously, your great-grandfather's old team?” Yolanda chuckled as she shook her head at the first shirt Haley pulled out. “Seven Soldiers? Why not the Teen Titans, or the Outsiders? Heck, the Justice League's been packing on the kid sidekicks lately like there were a Saturday morning cartoon show.”

Haley laughed as she held another shirt to her, this one selected by Yolanda. “Don't think I'm League material, and they got real brains, like the Flash and the Atom. Teen Titans? Hadn't really thought of them. Maybe when they get a name that grows up. Bad enough I'm a 'kid' to most people, I don't need my group yelling it out to everyone. As for the Outsiders, I think you need to be eighteen or older to get in.”

“Guess that makes sense,” Yolanda answered as she handed over a selection of skirts and shorts, and Haley looked askance.

“I'm in because of blood, good or bad, but what's your excuse if they're so out of date?” Haley retorted as she took the shorts and passed on the skirts. “You're all modern and almost a celebrity, at least around here. What's your excuse for hanging out with the Legion of Super-Seniors?”

The pair moved to the rear of the store and continued to talk while Haley stepped into the changing room. “Did you see the machine Greg gave me?” she said through the thin door as a pair of jeans suddenly draped themselves over the top. “How do you say no when a guy's handing out goodies like that? You may think it needs souping up, but it's the nicest ride I've ever owned. Celebrity or not, honey, radio doesn’t pay that well.”

“Okay, granted,” Haley called back as she struggled into the new clothes and looked at herself in the mirror. “So, you're a Soldier because Greg's your sugar-daddy? I think I can get behind that.”

Yolanda leaned back against a wall and barked a loud laugh at that, and shook her head. “You got an interesting way of saying things, chica. He's a good guy, he's giving me sweet gear and great advice, and as long as you never, ever repeat what I said to anyone else...it's kind of nice knowing I got someone watching my back. It can get scary out there doing this.”

Haley poked her head out from behind the stall door and grinned. “No worries, this is a changing room in a clothing store, right? That's like, a woman's confessional, isn't it? Sacred and all that? You're secret's safe with me.” She stepped out and held her arms out to display the soft red blouse and bright white shorts. “Well?”

“Mirada muy bien, muchacha,” Yolanda said approvingly. “Let's get you rung up. I'm eager to get to the pampering.”

In short order, the pair again walked down the street, and Haley finally couldn't hold back any longer. “So I've seen you pop out your nails without your gloves, which means they're real, and I've seen what they can cut through, they're really tough. So how'd you get them? They implants? Were you born with them?”

“Born with them, I guess,” Yolanda replied as she held one hand up to look at the long sharp nails. With no visible sign, she unsheathed their full length, over an inch in length. “Along with the other stuff. You know, the agility and balance. From what I've been told, I cartwheeled out of my crib.”

“That must've been a sight,” Haley chuckled as she looked closer at the nails, and adjusted a dial on her glasses. “Hmm.”

“Don't know how I got them. I was an orphan, never really knew what happened to my mother and father. I was dropped off by a young woman when I was a month old, and that's all the sisters remembered,” Yolanda explained as she retracted the nails to a more normal length. “Every now and then I give a go at finding out more, but really...” Her voice trailed off, and for once, Haley was uncomfortable and a little guilty for bringing this up.

“Sorry to hear that,” Haley said. “Never got adopted?” She bit her tongue and then added, “Forget I asked, I just can't stop my brain from thinking of three different things at once, and I gotta learn to try and check my thoughts at the door before just spouting them out.”

“It's okay. No, never adopted, no one wanted a kid that could claw the furniture,” Yolanda forced up a grin. “It's okay though. Made me the tough chica I am today, independent, successful, no need for others.” She caught Haley peering over the rim of her glasses and slapped her on the back playfully. “Unless I want them around, cabrito. Enough of my secret origin, here we are.” She pulled open the door to the spa and took a deep breath of anticipation at the familiar jangle of the little bell over the door. “Get ready for the five-star treatment!”

Haley nodded, but her brain was indeed on three other things at that moment, as it ran over the mental blueprints for upgrading Yolanda's motorcycle, dwelling on the information her glasses registered about Latina's nails, and about the sly old dog at the ranch who arranged to get these two women to hang together.

Las Cruces, New Mexico
“Okay, people, listen up!” Brenda Martin looked over the nine other people, feeling the rush of adrenaline that seemed to echo the roar of the H-92 Superhawk helicopter that carried them. All were dressed in protective gear, utility belts and packs stuffed with life-saving equipment, and all of them looked up at their leader. “You all know what we're getting dropped into, so keep those eyes peeled and stay sharp! Vulcan One has two crew that may or may not have survived the crash, and there's a report of at least five campers in the area, God help the poor bastards! The fires are going to be blazing hot and firefighting crews are struggling to contain the disaster, which means we have practically zero time to get in, find survivors and get out! And for us, zero time is...”

“All the time we need!” She beamed with pride at their reply, as they stood and took to their stations. The copter came to a jerky hover as the side door was opened. A blast of heat washed over the interior as they stared down at the scattered, but growing, fires as the first couple of Search and Rescuers dropped to the ground by heavy rappel lines, and then the copter moved to the next point, the center of the disaster. Here, Brenda dropped onto the scene, giving a whoop of excitement as the hot winds buffeted her, and made her stagger slightly when her feet hit the charred ground. She detached herself quickly and waved the chopper to the next drop off point, before turning her attention to the pivotal signs of survivors.

Deep green eyes absorbed each detail possible between the radiant blaze of the flames and the choking dark of the smoke. Short dark brown hair matted to her head as she wiped soot from the protective mask she wore as she neared a strange, glittering piece of fabric. It was spread wide, but shriveled quickly from the growing inferno. It was like nothing she'd ever seen before, as she made her way to it. She was sure she'd seen a tell-tale tug near the center. Solar sail, she thought as she reached the edge and tentatively reached for the edges, unsure of what to expect. That's what the brief said. Solar sail experiment. One of the astronauts was supposed to be out on the sail as it plummeted, there's no way he could have survived that...right?

The sail twisted and yanked from her as she saw something rising up from the center. It took a human-like shape beneath the glittering metallic cloth of the ruined sail. “Captain DeVante?” she called out to the rising shape as the heat swelled around the area. She felt like she was caught in a tornado of super-heated air, and gasped even with the oxygen and cooling fabric of her protective suit. “Is that you? I'm Brenda Martin, Search and Rescue, I'm here to help you. Don't move, and I'll have you out from under there in no time! Just stay still!” She pulled a heavy survival knife from the sheath at the small of her back and prepared to slice away at the strange material. Then she noticed it was catching fire, the flickering sweeping over the surface and she dropped it, falling back as the heat continued to swirl into the shape, rushing over her like a tide.

“Guhh...Vuuhhh...” The sound was awful, tortured and crackling as the flames wrapped around the shape and the sail collapsed in on it now. An explosion of light filled the area, so brilliant it left her stunned, blackness swimming around her as she heard a roar of fury and pain. She struggled to open her eyes despite the pain, rolled onto one arm, and saw the blazing red figure stagger away, the metal fabric molding around it, fusing to it.

She did her best to follow, still calling to it. “Julian DeVante! Is that you? We have a copter, stay still, we can get you to medical attention!” She hit her radio switch and called for the helicopter as she continued to pursue the strange fiery figure. “Please stop, Julian!” She watched as it stopped and turned to look at her with a face of metal, glowing dull red like glowing embers. She watched as it lifted an arm at her, and then the roar of the Superhawk could be heard. Julian turned toward it, and a radiant beam of energy neatly sliced it in half, forced to crash and explode. Julian waved behind him, the flames from the ruined helicopter lashing out to create a wall separating him from Brenda and leaving her trapped, choking, hurt, and hearing the screams of pain and fear from the rest of her crew over the next few minutes while she waited for the flames to take her.

Dos Rios, Texas
“Heck yeah, things are goin' just fine, Pat,” Greg Saunders said in his lazy drawl while leaning back in his chair. He sat in his office, a folder spread out on the desk in front of him as he spoke to his team-mate and friend. “The girls are havin' a blast, and let me tell ya, pard, that girl of yours, she's a pistol. A real pistol.” He paused as he listened to Pat apologize for whatever Haley had said this time, and he chuckled in response. “Nah, it's fine. I 'preciate a little blunt honesty, from time to time. Oh, and can you tell me what a 'high-def' is?”

He leaned forward as Pat answered his question. He flipped a couple of papers in the folder, and read the notes, shaking his head. “Thanks. That makes sense. I guess. I'm fearin' I'm goin' to be buyin' one of them tee-vees soon enough now. How that girl does all that jiggery-pokery she does while watchin' one thing and listening to somethin' else just floors me. And how do they make so much of a racket with those teeny little white boxes?”

He nodded in response and nodded. “Yeah, guess that makes sense. She and Yolanda are thick as thieves. I'm still not sure if this is a good thing, of course.” He laughed as he turned the page of the report and winced at the information. “How's the Kid's project goin'?” He cringed now as he read more and then shook his head. “Really? That's good to hear. I agree, I think you should get Dann involved. Gal's always had a good head on her shoulders, and if she's really givin' up on the volcano-ologist thing she used ta do, then it seems like it's meant ta be.” He nodded again and then finished the report. “Okay, sounds good. I'll see ya in a couple of days then, Pat. Give the Kid my best, talk to you soon.”

He hung up the phone and then closed the report, glancing quickly at the “Bradley Investigations” logo stamped over the dull beige color as he digested what he'd read. “Ah, Ollie. Git yer act together, will ya?” Greg muttered as he stood up and filed the report away, already running through his head how to proceed next. Hot-head's gonna wind up next to Tom. Can't let that go down. He slammed the file drawer shut. Won't.

Fort Mitchell, Kentucky
The sprawling one-story building was tucked away behind well-trimmed hedges and under tall trees, very quiet, unassuming, a tourist stop for those with a particular interest in the subject matter. It was the Vent Haven Museum, the only (and by default, largest) museum of ventriloquism, and inside this building at this time, by appointment, a family toured the exhibits, intently listening to the guide discuss the history of this art, the development of these puppets, and the masters of the craft.

Not Billy though, who was tired and irritable after two hours in the family car, and now he was stuck in this place that should have have been a playground, he was even more stifled. Nothing could be touched, none of these cool toys could be played with, and he had to wonder why his parents would torture him like this.

He paused in front of one dummy in particular, letting his family move on as he stared at the well-dressed caricature of a man, and felt it stare back at him.

“I'm bored too,” came the muffled voice from the figure inside the secured glass box.

“You spoke?” Billy pressed forward, shocked.

“Of course I did,” the small man in the tuxedo chuckled. “How else would I make my wishes known to you?”

“But you're a dummy! Y-you need...need someone sticking a hand up in you to move...someone to talk for you,” Billy stammered.

“Hee-hee! You're a bright young boy, and so I need you to do something for me.”

“What is it? I'm not supposed to touch the exhibits.” Billy whispered conspiratorially, and glanced around nervously.

“I need you to unhook the latches holding my plexiglass prison.” The monocled face pressed up close to the barrier and that grotesque mouth widened into a mockery of a smile. “Can you do that for me?”

“But it says right here that the latches have to stay in place, and then my folks and the tour guy kept harping at me to not touch anything,” Billy replied in a frustrated voice.

“Why should you pay attention to a foolish sign that says a dummy mock-up of some silly Forties super-villain has to remain so secure?” He backed away and winked. “And you're a rebel, a tough kid, you play by your own rules? Right? Some foolish old man is going to keep you from enjoying yourself? When no one is watching? Don't you want to go back to your school when the summer is over and tell them what a bad boy you were?” He chuckled now as he settled back smugly on the chair in his transparent prison.

“Um...well, yeah, that'd be cool,” Billy said as he reached out for the latches. As he figured out how they released, he finally realized something. “Hey! If...if you're talking, how are you a mock...mock-up?” He found the first catch and released it, then flipped the next one, and looked up at the figure as bells started to sound.

“You're a smart kid,” the Dummy said as he jumped at the wall of his box and knocked it off the pedestal. “Just not quick enough.” He leaped away from his upended prison and hopped around excitedly.

“You're not a dummy!” Billy cried out as he scurried back from the dancing figure.

“Not a dummy at all, dear boy! I'm THE Dummy, and with my old enemy back at last, it is time to bring a finale to more than a century of hatred!” He stalked toward Billy with a wicked leer. “In fact, I think I should raise the curtain on my encore performance!”

Billy's scream mingled with the alarm briefly as it resounded through the old wooden building. Ten minutes later, as the police moved through the Vent Haven Museum, they found the evidence of the Dummy's escape: Billy stared out at the officers from within the Dummy's home for the last few decades.

Blue Valley, Nebraska
“Sounds good to me, Pat,” Danette Reilly-Arthur said as she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, her hands stirring a pot of sauce. “I'll head out as soon as I can. Oh no, thanks, but I can handle my own travel arrangements.” She smiled at her comment and then leaned over the steam to take a sniff of her cooking. She looked satisfied, though from the cooking or the plans with Pat and Syl was her secret. “Probably tomorrow. I need to make sure Justin's taken care of. Hm? Yeah, his leg's coming along okay, but he's going to be out of commission awhile longer.” She dipped a finger into the bubbling liquid and pressed it to her mouth and nodded. “Okay, dinner-time. I'll see you tomorrow, Pat. Both of you,” she quickly added, then hung up the phone.

She finished preparing dinner, laid it on the table and called out, “Dinner's ready, dear. Come on, get it while it's hot.” She stepped up to the archway into the living room and watched her husband glumly grab up his crutches, and hobble into the dining room. “Need any help?”

“I can do this, Danette,” Justin Arthur grumbled as he made it slowly into the dining room. “Mmm, dinner smells like a feast, my love,” he said with a smile.

“I hope so,” she said as she pulled his chair out for him. She watched Justin stiffen, then forced himself to chuckle wryly. “Quite the turning of tables for a chivalric knight. I am just grateful Sir Kay is not around to jest at this state of affairs.”

“Meatloaf and gravy, roasted potatoes, and I made you your favorite pudding for dessert,” Danette said, ignoring his comment, well aware that bringing up his days in Camelot was often his way of avoiding what he really wanted to say.

“To appease me before your journey?” he asked bluntly as he laid the crutches to one side.

“You heard, did you?” she asked sheepishly as she settled down next to him and started to serve herself.

“Aye. Patrick and Sylvester need your newly-acquired business acumen, I am to gather?”

“Uh, yeah. Syl's trying to start his family company again, and wants some modern twists, and they know I've been studying,” Danette explained. “It's great experience, helps with my studies, and let's face it, the money will be good.”

“I suppose so. Better than living off of Gregory's largess,” he replied, slowly eating. “What of your old profession though, Danette? You were a scientist. You would settle for this mercantile venture in its place?”

Danette stared in shock at Justin, speechless and poked at her plate. “Is...is that what's been bothering you all this time? I...I thought you didn't like me getting...out in the world. Having to be the breadwinner, getting...liberated, I guess is the word.”

“I am still uncomfortable with this notion of the wife working outside of the home, but let us face the reality of the situation, my love: there are no fields for you to be tending, nor for a knight's wife, is there an estate for you to manage.” Justin cracked a forced smile for her, to try and keep the conversation light. “But you were exploring the reasons for the inner workings of this world when we met. And now...to be a base merchant, winning this bread from the backs of honest laborers...”

She snorted and tossed her fork down. “Oh get down off your high...um, horse. Sorry, I know you miss Victory. But, there's nothing wrong with being a businessman -er woman, and you just said that women managed the estates of their lords, what was that but something similar? You're a hypocrite!”

Justin looked away and sighed heavily. “You had a noble aspiration, and now, I fear it is being diverted.”

“Do you know how much science has changed in sixty years? My degree's worthless. And it's not like I've never been exposed to business, my family did run Reilly Steel for forty years.” Danette stood up now and grabbed her plate. “And let's face it, you're really just frustrated that you can't even do the one thing that convinced me that maybe, just maybe, you shouldn't be working after all. I'm sorry your leg's broken, and I'm sorry it was because of me, but damn it, Justin, you are not making me feel bad about my decisions!” She stormed into the pantry and he heard the clatter of silverware and china against the porcelain of the sink.

He forced down more of the food, and slumped his shoulders. “You are correct, of course, love,” he called out to the other room. “There is injustice out there, and of late, my sword has been pushing me to engage in my crusade. You are incorrect, though, about that being the heart of my concerns. You are an explorer of the esoteric arts you call science, indeed the Science of Vulcan itself. You sell yourself short, but I will not try to hold you back from this trip to our comrades.”

She stepped back into the dining room, wiping at the corner of her eye. “Thanks. I know that takes a lot for you to say, Justin.” She rested a hand over his. “Would you like your pudding now?” She gave a wan smile as he turned his hand up and wrapped strong fingers around hers.

“Grant me one request, Dann,” he said softly. She gasped, he never called her that before, never used many derivatives, barely touched contractions even.

“Anything.”

“Take my sword with you. I know not why, but something within it stirs, is eager to fight injustice, and...I think...I think it will needed for something upcoming,” he said softly, sounding confused. “I...wish I understood better.”

“Your sword talks to you now?” Danette pulled her chair up close to him.

“Not talking, not in that sense. Just an urgency. I can not explain better. These mystical matters are outside my abilities, to understand or explain.”

“I'll pack the sword up. Probably keep you from hobbling into battle while I'm away,” she laughed and stroked his jaw. “Think the pudding can wait?”

“For what, my love?”

“I think I need to check your leg,” she said as she slipped from her chair. “Make sure everything else is...healthy, before I go.” She gave him a impish grin as she started to dip below the level of the table.

“Oh. Well...I...” Justin blushed, and made his wife giggle, as there was very little else that ever left the brave Knight of the Round Table flustered.

New York City
Wing Travis attempted to meditate in the small, spartan room, devoid of markings, devoid of anything that might be a distraction. The floor was covered in soft mats, and incense burned from small urns at each corner of the room. Aside from these few items, the only other thing in the room was the young man who struggled to be at peace.

“Not easy, is it?”

“No,” Wing said as he opened his eyes and stood up. He stretched himself out in frustration, the soft glow from candles reflected off the lean muscled torso and chest as he tried to shake off the irritations. “Thank you for coming, sir.”

“Why wouldn't I? I sunk a lot of money into your family's quest, I'm hardly going to back out of involving myself at this point,” Daniel Leong said with a grin on his lined, aged face. “What's troubling you, son?”

“I'm not even sure.” He walked out of the meditation room and paced down the hallway, followed by the retired sidekick once known as Stuff.

“Unsure if your family still has a mission now that there's proof the Crimson Avenger has returned?” Daniel asked.

“No. I understand that,” Wing answered. “We do. We are not here merely to find him, but to aid the Crimson Avenger in his mission. To redeem the family honor, to bring peace to Wing How's spirit.”

The pair passed another room, and each glanced inside to see Wing's major domo, the woman known as Maya, as she sat at a table talking with Sally Bonner, the most recent host of the Crimson Avenger. “Is it conflicting feelings for the two women? That would keep many men from being able to focus.”

“I don't believe so,” Wing answered as they continued to walk. They reached a balcony and glanced over the glittering lights of the city at night.

“Then it must be the realization that you do not know what the Crimson Avenger's mission is now that he has returned,” Daniel said as the pair leaned on the rail.

“What do you mean? The Avenger's mission remains the same as ever.”

“No, it does not. Not precisely, does it? And that makes your family's mission uncertain.”

Wing stared at the old man as the words helped him cut through the confusion. “Lee's spirit can't rest either. The haunted guns, the missions of vengeance leaping from person to person. The Crimson Avenger seeks something as well.”

Daniel nodded and placed a hand on Wing's shoulder. “Now you understand.”

“To redeem my family's honor, I must learn why Lee feels he needs redemption,” Wing muttered in amazement.

“Take it from me, son,” Daniel said as those aged eyes held Wing's own gaze steadfast. “Honor is a bitch.” He laughed, an old man's laugh at the joke the world told those with the wisdom of ages, and turned to walk away.

Las Cruces, New Mexico
Miguel DeVante was up later than he was supposed to be, but he'd worked so hard all evening to reach this point. He was finally going to clear this level, after all the effort of the past few days, and since his father was still up in space, there was no one around to catch him. Not since the housekeeper had left following dinner.

Miguel was enthralled by the battle he waged against the demonic forces on the screen. It was this concentration that kept him from noticing the way the dawn glowed through the parlor windows at first. Nor heard the other noises that accompanied this strangely-timed light.

“Oh, man, I didn't stay up all night, did I?” Miguel muttered as he paused the game and looked around. “Mrs. Nogales will wring my neck if I'm still asleep when she shows up.” He got up and glanced over to check the clock. The time was only an hour later than he expected, and only shortly after midnight. He saw a dark sky out the rear windows.

“Huh?” He snuck up to the front window and peered outside, and saw the glow came from a man in glowing red armor, stomping toward his house. “Holy --”

His words were cut off when the armored man knocked on the front door, and the young man watched it explode into fiery shards.

“Mikey?”

Miguel stared up in horror as the metal man called his name. He watched as the glowing heat started to darken the wood structure, sparks starting to appear. “Mikey? It's your old man, Mikey. I...I need help. There was an accident. Everything's extraño.”

“Stay away from me! Get out of here! Get out before you burn the house down!” Miguel cried out as he stumbled away from the towering figure, as flames started to flicker to life around the intruder. “Don't hurt me!”

The strange figure moved forward, and reached out to touch what he claimed was his son. Miguel jumped away from him, as he felt the radiant power scour his back. He grunted in pain and scrambled on all fours for the rear door. “No, Mikey, stay, help me!” the figure cried out as he stopped, then noticed the house was swept up in flames. He screamed out once more as he watched his home erupt, and further drive away Mikey. “NO!”

The metallic man staggered back out of the blazing house, as sirens sounded in the distance. He glared at the world through the helmet fused to his head, the heat building with the boiling emotional tempest inside of him. ”NO! He held his hands out and raging fire formed slowly into a vicious double-bladed ax. “Flee before Vulcan!” he screamed as he smashed the pavement with his new weapon, shattered the concrete, tore at the world itself as he railed against it.

A different roar split the crackling inferno, torn street and nearing sirens. An engine roar and the golden motorcycle squealed into view as La Garra twisted it to a stop, facing off with the armored madman. Gimmick leaped off the back of the back and adjusted her goggles as his glare bit at her eyes.

“Me oh my, but you're a big one, ain'tcha?” La Garra growled, and gunned her bike.

“Uh, maybe too big?” Gimmick suggested as she stared down Vulcan with her team-mate. “Maybe we could get some back-up first?”

“No need to wait, Skyman and Stripe are here to help!” Sylvester called out as he swooped down from above and carefully dropped his partner.

“False heroes! Fakes and delusions!” Vulcan screamed in fury and released a burst of dazzling power that swept the four Soldiers from his view, melted the street and set the block ablaze before he began his march anew. “Destroy you all!”

New York City,
Today
Sally Bonner looked at the elegantly dressed, exotic-looking woman that sat across the table from her. She felt like a frump in comparison, as she carefully lifted the spoon to her lips, bandaged hands shaking as she sipped at her soup. She sat in a baggy sweatshirt and thin pajama bottoms and stared at the tall woman in the tailored black blouse and skirt. The way her dark hair swept around the oval face, dark eyes glittering in the light as the two women chatted, they left Sally self-conscious about her own appearance, which she had to grudgingly admit, was not much above her usual look.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Maya,” Sally said as she took another spoonful of soup. She leaned back and flexed her taped fingers, wincing as she did but she needed to flex them, they ached from being curled around the spoon. “It must be a pain, you clearly have so much more important things to do. I mean, I'm not even sure why I'm still here. Not that I'm not grateful.”

“Relax, Sally,” Maya said with a voice like silk. “You've earned it. I've heard about your actions as the Crimson Avenger, and helping in your recovery is the least I can do for you. There is nothing more important than what Travis requires of me.”

“I don't get it,” Sally said as she shook her head, feeling her own black curls sway across her cheek. “You gotta be some kind of important person, dressed like that, looking like that.”

“Perhaps I am, but I'm just a part of the whole operation, and you, you're a part of it now.” She reached out and laid a hand over one of her companion's wounded ones, and watched as Sally recoiled out of instinct.

“Hey, it doesn't hurt,” she said in wonder.

“No. You are right, I am important. And, for now, your recovery is my most important task. And not just your recovery.”

“No? What else then?” She felt a flush of warmth through her hand and she flexed the fingers this time, with less pain.

“Your education. Travis feels that you should be let in on all the secrets, and it's pretty clear you want to know, I've seen you nearly ask several times now,” Maya replied with a musical laugh as she pulled her hand back now and swept fingers through her luxurious raven locks.

“Okay, that's kinda true. I don't understand any of this, starting with how someone like Wing, who's way traditional, has a name like Travis,” Sally said with her own laugh.

“Of course, Sally. It started seventy years ago,” Maya began as she looked at Sally's reaction and gave another soft laugh. “Yes. Seventy years ago, there was Lee Travis, and he became the...”



Near the Canadian border...
...Lee Travis felt amazing: liberated and free, as he raced through the night in the powerful sedan, peering out from behind his scarlet mask. He'd landed his aircraft in a private field and had little choice about how to reach the warehouse he'd read about in Manheimer's papers. So he borrowed the first fast car he found, and promised himself mentally that he'd return it as soon as he could.

He sped over the thin concrete ribbon that sliced through the upstate New York woods, and felt the charge running through his body, discovering a freedom as the Crimson he'd never have dreamed. Back in the city, the police were scouring for him and couldn't catch him as he moved unhindered, able to do whatever he needed. Now he sped through the countryside, watching the sky turn gray as dawn began to creep over the horizon, and couldn't get over how he didn't feel the least bit tired.

He saw his destination fast approaching and began to consider how to proceed. The building was large, and the Dark Cross Cult of anarchists had numbers on their side. He had to strike fast, and hard, and he clenched his teeth. Okay, so I'll owe this guy a new car, Lee amended his promise as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The car shook a little as it sped up and, with a tremendous crashing sound, smashed through the wooden cargo doors of the warehouse. The sedan lurched through the wreckage and into the cavernous interior. Lee threw himself out of the driver's side, the cloak bundled up under his left side to absorb as much of the impact as he could. He bounced and rolled and struggled to pull himself to his feet, guns drawn.

The vehicle crashed into a pile of barrels and then into the steel support. Oil splashed from drums, gasoline spilled from the car and an errant sparking from the crash began a blaze as shouts of alarm went up around the building. Lee wasted no time as he leveled his automatics on the cultists, firing away at those on the far side of the warehouse as he dashed toward several near him.

“Stop him!” cried out one man in particular, dressed in an all-black suit, a red band around his sleeve marked with the symbol of the Dark Cross. “Whoever he is! Whatever he is! Kill him!”

The Crimson ignored him, however, and rammed his shoulder into a charging cultist, satisfied with the answering grunt of pain, knocked him into a second agent behind him, and then spun to fire his guns at two more enemies, cutting them down. Of the few that remained standing after Lee's initial assault, several fought the spreading fire, and the rest raced for their lives.

“You! You're going to explain the rest of this to me!” the Crimson shouted at the cultist calling orders. He frowned as he watched his target start to run away as well. “Damn, why didn't I expect that?” With a huff, Lee began to pursue the leader out a side service door.

“You stop now!” Crimson Avenger felt the air blasted from his lungs as he crashed into an arm like a tree limb. A large man stood over him, dressed similar to his leader, but lacking the suit coat. “Leave the Grand Master alone!” Lee spun to the side and narrowly missed a vicious punch.

“Don't think so, I need to get answers from him!” Lee snapped back as he kicked the large man in the stomach, and gulped when it had no apparent effect.

“I do think so!” the thug replied with another swing. He continued to advance on the Crimson as the masked man swung gun-laden punches that continued to lack any impact.

“Okay then, you tell me, what's this king-killing thing you're doing?” Lee asked as he decided to rethink his strategy.

“Ha! That's easy, even I know that!” the large man gloated as he lunged at Lee and wrapped him in those muscled arms, squeezing tight. “The sacred king, killed on a cross, offered up as a sacrifice, to pave the way for the greater power that is coming.” He spoke as if reciting a classroom lesson, with a grin as he squeezed the vigilante tighter and tighter.

“But...there's no… kings here,” Lee grunted as he squirmed and struggled.

“I know, but the Grand Master says that Roosevelt works okay for the ceremony,” the huge man replied. “That America is threatening to become a world power, and that as Roosevelt gets more powerful, the country gets more powerful. It's all really deep thinking, so don't feel bad if you don't get it. But the new bridge crosses the country's border, and makes a cross and the truck we got blows the bridge up and kills him and then the Fatherland will become prosperous.”

Lee grunted as he felt his chest threatening to cave in. “All...I needed...to know...thanks!”

“You're welcome. Gotta kill you now though.”

“You've got big arms...I got guns...” Lee choked out and pulled the triggers, and prayed that he had aimed at the right set of feet. The large man cried out in pain and fell backward, dropping the Crimson to the ground. “And gas,” he added as he pulled his hat off and flicked one of the small vials tucked into the crimson hat band into his opponent's mouth, red smoke billowing forth now.

“Okay, no time for this Grand Master, have to get after that truck,” Lee muttered as he looked around, and dashed back to the warehouse. “Since the building was empty, have to guess the truck's on its way.” He grinned when he reached the front of the building and saw a motorcycle parked alongside several other cars. In moments, he was again roaring down the road, on a new pursuit as the gray began to break into bright oranges.



“Repent for your misdeeds, sinner!” The leather-clad woman in the black hood lashed out with the bullwhip, the tip smashing the radio as Wing How hopped to one side and contorted his torso out of the way.

“You're here to kill me?” Wing was surprised at the turn of events, and barely avoided the next strike of the rawhide lash. “I don't get it!”

“You make it possible for your employer to ruin lives, drive them into sin and filth, and bring pain to the good souls that Lee Travis would taint!” the woman called Scorpion by the newspapers accused as she nimbly ducked beneath a roundhouse kick from Wing. “With your death, Travis will be crippled!”

The furious woman was face-to-face with Wing now, and her left hand flicked out suddenly. Wing felt a heavy beaded chain wrap around his wrist, and she tugged him off-balance as she slammed the heavy handle of the whip into his face with her right hand. This was quickly followed by a powerful kick to his midsection that slammed him into the wall with a grunt as she coiled her whip and prepared to strike again. “Repent before your death, and you might still know Heaven, monster!”

“Not today, madwoman!” Wing retorted as he used the loose end of the strange length on his wrist to hook the arm of the swivel chair and tugged it into his opponent. With her off-balance for precious seconds, he leapt past her and into the more open area of the room. “You are a trained warrior, do not for a moment think being a woman will prevent me from striking you,” he warned her as he dropped into a defensive stance.

“Using my own beads against me now? You just make your heathen Oriental soul more stained,” she declared as she slashed the whip, and then again, and forced him back further.

“That is enough!” Wing announced as he steeled himself for her next strike. When the whip snaked out at him, he held up the beaded right arm and felt the rawhide wrap itself around the forearm. He watched as the beaded chain shattered into pieces, and winced at the pain, reduced by the unintended protection. He gripped the whip now as he saw the Scorpion's eyes widen in horror at what had happened.

“My rosary!” she screamed, and Wing used that moment to pull her in, and brought his forehead down onto the bridge of her nose. He heard a sickening crunch that caused her to stagger backward, but felt no mercy. Instead, his palm struck her jaw next, and brought her to the floor in a unmoving heap.

As Wing leaned against the wall and recovered his breath, he heard a crashing sound from the foyer. “This is the police!” Detective Art Rohmer burst in, followed quickly by his partner Denny Smith. Both had guns drawn, and Wing could see Claudia Barker trailing carefully behind them. “No one move!”

They both paused as they saw the unconscious woman on the floor and stared up at Wing. “It's over, gentlemen. I believe you came for my guest?”

Claudia pushed past the detectives and raced up to Wing, stopping suddenly a foot from him with a look of relief, then turned to the Scorpion. She dropped to her knees at the woman's side, and tugged the leather hood off, staring at her sister Charlotte's face, blood splashed over it from the broken nose and busted lip.

“I'm sorry, Miss Barker,” Wing said in a hoarse voice as he watched her hug her sister. “I...I had to...”

“It's okay, fella,” Denny said as he moved up and helped Claudia away while Art stood over the Scorpion. “We'll need an ambulance, I suppose. Miss Barker, please, you gotta keep back.”

“How did you know to come here?” Wing asked, just now realizing what had happened.

“When Miss Barker explained she had a sister who was a sister, we realized that all the victims had charity envelopes from the New York Foundling Hospital,” Rohmer explained. “From there, it was easy to work out how she'd know where each of them lived, and follow up on the dates of various charity events for the hospital, using that to figure out when they'd most likely be alone, and vulnerable.”

“It was because of me, Wing,” Claudia said softly, in shock as she stared at the two cops remove Charlotte’s weapons and move her to a nearby couch. “She...she hated what Lee was...how he treated me. She said. And...”

“It's over now, Miss Barker,” Wing said in a low voice as he moved to the phone and called for an ambulance. “When Mr. Travis returns, I'm sure he'll understand the implications.” He couldn't look at Claudia, and he couldn't quite figure out his emotions, and so he put on his most professional demeanor as he arranged for medical attention. After he hung up the phone, there remained an awkward silence, broken only by occasional sobs from Claudia.



The truck hurtled past the long lines of people who'd come to watch the opening of the Thousand Islands Bridge, connecting the United States with Canada, the ceremony to be presided over by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Prime Minister Mackenzie King. The gathered crowds were puzzled by the speeding truck, not understanding in their dulled mob mentality, how that shouldn’t fit with the ceremony due to begin shortly out on Wellesley Island, the site of the national border. The crowds felt greater confusion when a motorcycle raced by moments later, a figure with a billowing crimson cloak in hot pursuit of the truck.

Lee Travis hunched over the handlebars, and focused on the truck. He was sore, the race had been long and hard, and he knew he was running short on fuel as well as time. He was so close now though, and he pushed the cycle for all it had left.

As he slowly closed with his target, he watched the truck batter through a police checkpoint. Officers and the first few soldiers serving as guards scattered, narrowly avoiding serious injury, and the Crimson roared past them. They drew ever nearer to the grandstand at the center of the bridge system, and Lee narrowed his eyes and focused harder, time running short, options running out.

Again he gunned his cycle and closed the remaining distance. With a wordless prayer he hurled himself from the motorcycle onto the cab, his body slamming into the unyielding surface with a bone-jarring thud as his fingers desperately scrabbled for whatever he could hold onto. He heard shots fired and cringed, but then realized it was from the soldiers now trying to stop the truck as well.

As one hand clutched a strut with all his strength, the Crimson punched at the driver's side window as the wind howled in his ears and his fingers and toes ached. The glass finally gave way, slicing through his glove and flesh as he gripped the driver's collar.

The driver struggled back, and finally pushed the door open viciously, but Lee gave a grim laugh at that. “Oh no, not doing that again!” he yelled as he ducked back from the door and felt a stray bullet ricochet off the cab frame near his head. “You give it a try instead!” Crimson added as he swung his arm back in and used the driver's momentum to throw him from the vehicle.

Now the masked man slid into the cab and gripped the wheel as the soldiers dove aside, and a new position was set up further along the bridge. But Lee saw the last chance he had to stop the bombing.

“God, let this work, and I promise you, I'll--” His words were cut off as he drove the truck straight off the curving bridge. With a panicked cry, he leaped out, hands flailing and finding a snapped length of cable. It punched him hard, and then mercilessly snapped him toward to the ground below, as the truck sailed into the distance. He watched it crash into the ground and erupt into a ball of flame. Then the cable jerked to a stop and yanked back up briefly, the bucking tearing at the Crimson and he fell to the ground below, his last cloudy sight being the crowd gathering safely atop the bridge to see what had happened.



Wing How heard the teapot begin to whistle as he laid out the two cups, the bowl of sugar, and pot of cream on the platter. He picked the pot of boiling water up and added it to the service, and then the tea itself, before he headed out of the kitchen. Claudia had been sleeping all day after receiving a sedative from the hospital. Who could blame her, after the shock of her sister's madness, he mused to himself. She had just woken up, and he knew the tea would keep her soothed while he made them some supper next.

As he lifted the platter up and headed out of the kitchen, he wondered how he would tell Claudia about the headlines in the evening paper, the one that described the heroic sacrifice of a strange red-masked man at the Thousand Islands Bridge.

“Dinner ready, Wing?” Lee Travis asked in a ragged voice, as he slumped back against the front door to close it. The side of his face was a giant bruise, his lips were cracked and blood had dried at the corner of his mouth. Wing had no doubt there were other injuries on his employer to be found.

“In thirty minutes, Mr. Travis. Why don't you bring Miss Barker some tea while I turn my attention to it?” He handed the platter to Lee with a bow. “She's had a terrible turn, and your presence will be...” He paused as he looked over Lee's injuries. “I'll be sure to bring the first aid supplies and some aspirin up with dinner.” He turned and headed back for the kitchen.

“Glad to see you too, Wing,” Lee said with a chuckle and limped for the main staircase. He glanced upward quickly and smiled, and prepared to do what he'd begun to promise back on the bridge. Claudia waited for him, and this time, he didn't plan to mess it up.

Wing entered the kitchen and paused as relief swept over him. Lee was alive, and would recover, and if he learned anything, he would appreciate Claudia. That thought mingled uncomfortable feelings with his relief, and he began his march back to the stove and dinner.