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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:24:36 GMT -5
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:26:43 GMT -5
JSA: Legends of the Golden Age
Issue 0: The Society, Prelude
Written by David Charlton
Co-plotted with Scott Kruger
Cover by Ramon Villalobos
Edited by David Charlton |
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:27:24 GMT -5
Istanbul, Turkey
June, 1939…
The shining black sedan with diplomatic plates navigated the narrow streets of the ancient city and people hurried to scramble out of its way. The swastikas of Nazi Germany snapped proudly from the fenders, and the driver gazed scornfully ahead, not slowing even as veiled women pulled their children out of its path.
Behind the darkly–tinted glass, the passenger in the back seat was anxious to reach his destination. It had been a year since the last meeting of their Society and events were hurtling towards their inevitable conclusion. All was going according to plan…
A hard, humorless smile spread across his face. He, more so even than any of the others, had worked tirelessly to bring the coming crisis to its head: it was he who had, in 1923, found the tinder to light the powder keg in the passionate little Austrian demagogue, he who had marshaled the resources to make the man a force to be reckoned with in Weimar Germany, and he who had orchestrated the man’s rise to power as first the Chancellor, and then as the Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler. And it was he still that, alone, had the Fuhrer’s ear, and whispered poison in it to fuel the fires of war.
He was a shadow in the corridors of power in Berlin. Half man, half myth, there were more rumors about him than truths. No one, not even the Fuhrer, knew his real name, but when they talked about him, they called him by the nickname the Wehrmacht General Staff had given him in their strategy sessions: Baron Blitzkrieg!
The Rolls Royce pulled up in front of its destination, and the driver got out to open the door for his passenger, snarling at the children gawking nearby, the sun glinting off his SS insignia. The Baron climbed out of the car, squinting up at the two thousand year old structure in front of him. The Hagia Sophia, once the greatest church in Christendom, a mosque these last four hundred years--- and for far longer than that, the meeting place for their Secret Society.
The Baron removed his cap, tucked it under his arm, and went in, ignoring the stares he was getting from the locals. He sneered inwardly. Let them gape. They had probably never seen his like before: at nearly seven feet tall, the blonde hair and blue eyes and chiseled features were those of a perfectly sculpted ubermensch. He wore his gold epaulettes and the prominent swastika on his chest proudly, exalting in the rush of serum-enhanced blood through his veins!
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:28:02 GMT -5
He bypassed the wonders of Byzantine and Islamic art that the cathedral was known for and went straight to a cleverly concealed stair that led down to the catacombs below. He finally emerged into a cavernous chamber, lit by torchlight, where waited the rest of his Order.
He clicked his heels and saluted, arm outstretched, in the ages-old manner of the Society, which he had seen fit to allow the Third Reich to adopt as well.
“Welcome, mein freund.” Rumbled a deep voice. The speaker was a swarthy man with a broad, beetling brow and thick Neanderthal’s hands. “We eagerly await your report.”
The Baron faced the circle of men, most of who stood in the darkness, outside the torchlight. All the important ones were here, the men who secretly determined the fate of the world, who manipulated history from the shadows, with a timely whisper or a nudge, though some resorted to heavier handed tactics as well…
Vandal Savage, the man who had addressed the Baron, the first among equals in their Society; a man who had claimed to remember the dawn of time, and was intimately connected with every circle of power on the planet…
The silk-clad Dragon King, with his calm gaze and long drooping moustaches, and a mind as cunning and vicious as his namesake…
The militaristic Baltic fanatic known only as General Immortus, with his sharp uniform and monocle; the Baron knew General Immortus had been in the Society for centuries…
The English mystic Roderick Burgess, with his haunted and cruel stare…
The urbane Russian sorcerer/aristocrat Ian Karkull, who smoked a cigarette as he starred at the Baron through hooded eyes…
… And the newest of their number, an American scientist named Ulysses Hughes, who was as hungry for power as he was unscrupulous about obtaining it.
There was no gathering of villains more complete when the Secret Society met.
Baron Blitzkrieg cleared his throat and made his report.
“The Reich is poised and ready: it awaits only my word to let slip the dogs of war. Hitler has his agents scouring the globe for the Three Holy Artifacts, but we think the Claw of Horus surfaced last year in Egypt. It is in America now, in a museum. And we have a lead on the Spear of Destiny that I am looking into. As for the Ring of Rasputin, there is so far no trace.”
Vandal Savage grunted and turned his gaze on Karkull, who lazily blew out a stream of cigarette smoke before he responded.
“The Ring is beyond my ken, Savage. But I have some ideas.”
Next to him, Roderick Burgess said: “You’d better, boy. I cannot work the ritual without all three artifacts.”
The American Ulysses Hughes let out a snort of contempt.
“All this talk of artifacts and rituals…! All the smoke in mirrors in the world won’t give us the power we need when the time comes! We should concentrate our efforts on my designs! Science alone will---!”
The eerily high-pitched voice of the Dragon King interrupted the rant: “Patience, my American friend. The fruits of your genius have not been neglected. Even now, we are gathering the material and resources to make even your wildest dreams a reality.” The Asian mandarin purred, his hands held before him, fingertips together. “You shall have your DynaGun, woe betide the world.”
This seemed to placate the ambitious scientist, who returned to scowling silence.
“Oh, for the day when the fields of the world are sown with blood of our enemies…!” Spoke the martial tyrant of Zandia, General Immortus. “We are so close, my brothers. Who will stand against us now…?”
Vandal Savage felt a smug smile spread across his bearded face.
“Who, indeed!” He rumbled, well pleased. “Now, let us make our final plans…”
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:28:27 GMT -5
Manhattan,
July, 1939…
“Hey, carrot-top, yer late!” Growled a cook emerging from the back door of the kitchen into the alley with a bag of garbage, as the diminutive Al Pratt rushed by him inside, tying his bow-tie, and throwing on his jacket.
Al hoped the cranky cook was the only one who’d noticed. He had a great job here as a waiter at the Ritz, which was perfect for his college schedule, and he could not afford to lose it, as he had to support not only himself, but his Ma and Sister as well. The small two room apartment in Brooklyn wasn’t much, but it was more than what some had, especially during this depression--- but Al Pratt dreamed big, and knew that someday he’d have more.
“Where ya been, Freckles?” Trixie, the cigarette-girl asked him out of the corner of her rouged mouth, while Al retrieved his tray and prepared to enter the ballroom.
“At the Garden! Ted Grant was fighting tonight. Man-o-man, Trix, ya shudda seen ‘em!” His features animated, Al mimed a boxing stance, throwing a few mock punches, much to Trixie’s amusement. “Dancin’ and jabbin’! He was like a wild cat! Someday, I’m gonna be in his league you just wait and see!”
Trixie laughed and breezed by Al. “Sure kiddo, keep dreamin’.”
Nothing daunted, Al Pratt indulged in his fantasy for a moment longer. He would be as good a fighter as Ted Grant one day--- for the last year, he’d been taking boxing lessons from the legendary “professor of the sweet science”, Joe Morgan, and already he was holding his own in the ring with sparring partners that towered over his own five foot frame! He only despaired that his waiter’s uniform covered up his newly developed physique. Trixie wouldn’t scoff at him then!
But a man had to pay the bills! Squaring his shoulders, he ducked out the swinging double doors into the glamorous gathering of lights and music and dancing couples.
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:29:44 GMT -5
It was a gala affair at the Ritz Carlton, a veritable social who’s who of Knickerbocker aristocracy. An orchestra played while the famed chanteuse, Dinah Drake warbled on the stage in a slinky little black dress. The fundraiser was to benefit the 1939 New York World’s Fair, the gleaming World of Tomorrow exhibition that was drawing thousands of people a day to the city with its glimpses at a future utopian society. Rumors of a coming war in Europe had investors pulling out at an alarming rate, and the Fair was in danger of shutting down.
But even here, all the talk was of the looming threat of Nazi Germany.
“Surely, it won’t come to war.” Said soft spoken astrophysicist Ted Knight, pipe comfortingly in hand. “I mean, after all, can Germany stand alone against Britain and France…?”
His companion, the bluff chemist Rex Tyler from Bannermain Industries grunted and shrugged.
“They tried it before in the last war, and took on Russia, too!” He reminded Ted in his loud, penetrating voice. “Besides, Hitler’s been spoiling for a fight. This is just the beginning, mark my words.”
“The lights are going out all across Europe,” A foreboding voice intoned, and the three men turned. “I do not think we will see them lit again in our lifetimes. Sir Edward Grey, British Foreign Minister in 1914.”
“Evening, Wesley!” Rex enthusiastically greeted the short, unassuming man in round spectacles. “Thought I might see you here tonight. Ted, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Wesley Dodds, whom, I’m sure, has already donated very generously to the cause.”
“Anything to hear Ms. Drake sing.” Wesley smiled modestly, glancing up at the stage where the singer was expressively belting out a toe-tapping tune.
“Ted is my old roommate from M.I.T. and the most brilliant scientist from Opal City. Rubs elbows with Einstein and that lot from time to time.” Rex went on. “He’s in the city for the science symposium at the World’s Fair.”
“Rex is dragging me along.” Ted smiled deprecatingly.
“How’s Dian, Wes?” The big chemist asked politely.
“Fine. She’s mingling. Turns out she went to Vassar with Ms. Drake. She promised to get me an autograph…”
Wesley looked around, seeing no one but the red-haired waiter lingering nearby, dispensing drinks, and said in a more serious tone: “On a different note, what do you fellows make of the rash of disappearances in the scientific community? I heard that fellow from Fawcett City, Dr. Sivana, went missing last week, too.”
A grim shadow passed over Ted Knight’s face. “Yes. That makes five in the last six months. Very disturbing…”
Rex gave Wesley a calculating look.
“Still doing a bit of the amateur sleuthing, eh, Wes? I suppose you think all these disappearances are related.”
“One would be foolish to not see a pattern.” Wesley retorted good-naturedly, adjusting his spectacles.
Ted Knight agreed. “At least the government’s taking it pretty seriously. Roosevelt’s got the O.S.S. in town for protection tomorrow. I hear he’s even sending in that war-hero, General Joseph Jones, to keep an eye on things.”
“Old ‘General Glory’ himself, huh?” Rex raised an eyebrow, remembering how he used to thrill to the exploits of America’s greatest adventurer of the Great War.
“Well, I just hope you two gentleman will take the necessary precautions. That science symposium tomorrow will be the largest gathering of scientific minds in the world, and the perfect place for our alleged ‘kidnapper’ to strike.”
Rex laughed that away with typical bravado.
“Don’t worry, Wes. It would be a sad hour, indeed, when I let some common thugs manhandle me!”
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:30:37 GMT -5
Gosh! Al Pratt thought, lingering as unobtrusively as he could by the trio of men. He had not meant to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t help but overhear most of their conversation. The New York World’s Fair, kidnapped scientists, and General Glory himself! Sounds like a lot of excitement!
He had been meaning to get to the Fair for weeks, now, and he only had one class scheduled for tomorrow…
His mind spinning with dreams of adventure and intrigue, he did not notice that he also was being watched. At a nearby table sat a couple, both blonde, and both in elegant evening ware. They shared a look of intense concentration, his cold blue eyes communicating with her fathomless brown ones.
“Kent, all the signs are in place. The time is upon us.” Whispered the woman in a low, faraway voice.
The man took her cold hand in his to warm it, nodding his agreement.
“Yes, Inza. Fate has brought me at last to my destiny.”
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:31:12 GMT -5
Keystone City…
Joan Williams stood in her doorway, tapping her foot impatiently and glancing at her wristwatch as Jay Garrick rushed sheepishly up the walkway towards her, a bouquet of flowers in his hand.
“Jason Peter Garrick, you are late again!” She scolded, only half-feigning annoyance. “I will never understand how someone as fast as you can ever be late!”
Jay held out the flowers to her with a pained look on his face.
“Well, Joan, you see this weirdo calling himself the Fiddler---.”
“The Fiddler?” Joan arched one exquisitely trimmed eyebrow, making Jay’s heart flutter.
“The Fiddler.” Jay affirmed, with a rueful smile, holding out the bouquet again for her to take.
Unable to keep from laughing, she took the flowers, and kissed him on his offered cheek.
“Well, we may as well stay in tonight. We’ll never make it to the museum before it closes. Drat! I so wanted to see that new exhibit…!”
His eyes glittering, Jay swept her up into his arms with a dazzling grin.
“Then it’s a good thing your boyfriend is the fastest man alive!”
In a blur, they were gone, only Joan’s startled cry lingering behind…
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:31:51 GMT -5
The traveling exhibit of the ‘Treasures of Khufu’ had finally come to Keystone City, and was at the Midway Museum for a limited engagement. Jay and Joan wandered the dimly lit halls, she still clutching her (somewhat windswept) bouquet, marveling at the wonders of Ancient Egypt.
So close to closing-time, there were not many people left around, but the couple enjoyed the privacy, speaking in hushed tones, their faces close together.
Near the end of the exhibit, they came to an enclosure where a single artifact sat. It was an intricately detailed metal glove, made of some metal that looked like gold, only it had a slightly reddish cast to it. The engraved plate on the wall below it identified it as ‘The Claw of Horus’, and there were two people standing before it, arguing in hushed tones.
“Come now, Hall.” Said the impeccably dressed thinner man in a thick Russian accent, as he scrupulously buffed his fingernails against his jacket’s lapel. “The donation my Society can make for the Claw could keep the lights on in this museum and your own in Manhattan for years! Be reasonable.”
It looked like the other man was losing patience. He was taller than the first, broad-shouldered and blonde, with his hair swept back.
“I will say this one last time, Mr. Karkull.” He said in a voice obviously constrained. “The Claw is not part of the regular exhibit, it is a piece from my personal collection and it is not for sale, not at any price.”
The thin Russian with the heavy-lidded eyes made a sour expression and turned without another word, nearly bumping into Jay and Joan on his way past them.
“How rude!” Joan exclaimed, though Jay just brushed it off.
“Sorry folks.” The blonde fellow greeted them with his hand outstretched, which Jay pumped enthusiastically.
“Say, aren’t you Carter Hall, that archaeologist? I saw your picture in the paper! This is your exhibit, right?”
“Well, I just catalogued it. The discovery belongs to a colleague of mine, but if you have any questions, I am the custodian of the artifacts…” He smiled blandly, still simmering over the temerity of the man he had called Karkull.
Jay looked interestedly at the object the two men had been arguing about.
“What’s the story with this one?”
Carter Hall crossed his arms and said with an air of pride: “It’s called the Claw of Horus. It was crafted by Pharaoh Khufu himself, and said to be blessed by Divine Horus. It is supposed to give the wearer great power.”
“And this belongs to you, not the Treasures of Khufu exhibit?” Joan asked.
Carter nodded. “You might say I inherited it. Old family heirloom.”
“You know,” Jay furrowed his brow. “I think I remember reading something about this piece back in college, in my Medieval Lit class. Some mumbo-jumbo about Holy Artifacts.”
Carter looked impressed. “Actually, the Claw is mentioned in a medieval tract by the legendary alchemist Paracelsus, along with the Spear of Destiny, as one of the most potent magical artifacts in history. But like you say, mumbo-jumbo. I am impressed at your knowledge of obscure literature, though. What do you do for a living, Mister…?”
“Garrick, Jay Garrick. Oh, I’m a research engineer and all-around grease monkey, but I read a lot.”
“Jay’s a voracious reader.” Joan linked her arm with his. “You might say he’s a speed reader.”
Carter Hall smiled somewhat quizzically as the two chuckled, sharing a private joke.
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:32:39 GMT -5
The outskirts of Keystone City, Slaughter Swamp… Ian Karkull whistled as he picked his way carefully through the mossy undergrowth, navigating by the light of the setting sun. Pungent odors arose from the fetid water, thick with scum, but he waded ankle deep to find the place he sought. He was almost glad that pompous curator had rebuffed him. While Ian certainly considered himself a civilized man, sometimes he did enjoy getting his hands dirty. And what he had in mind was a particularly nasty bit of magic he’d been meaning to try out for some time, now. But the Society was getting the bill for his Italian leather shoes. He halted in a place where noxious vapors steamed from the emerald-green waters, and creepers hung from the willows all around. He swatted away mosquitoes, peering intently into the deep part of the pool. Yes, there it was. Lying on the bottom, waiting. The sorcerer began weaving his hands in an intricate pattern, drawing sigils in the air which burned momentary traces on the material plane. And while he did so, he absently hummed an old children’s doggerel, which he twisted to his wicked end: Solomon Grundy,
Born on a Monday,
Christened on a stark and stormy Tuesday,
Married on a grey and grisly Wednesday,
Ill on a mild and mellow Thursday,
Worse on a bright and breezy Friday,
Died on a gay and glorious Saturday,
Buried on a baking, blistering Sunday.
Rise again, rise again,
Solomon Grundy! The water roiled and splashed, and something slowly emerged from it, dripping and covered in dead leaves. It had once been a living man, a tall, bulky figure, clad all in black, but for a simple white collared shirt. But he had been murdered long ago, and forgotten. Its skin was pasty and its hair was blanched white as bone; and the eyes that sheltered beneath a thick overhanging brow were restless, anguished wells of darkness. With an inarticulate cry, it raised thick hands in supplication to the fascinated Karkull, who merely sniffed and stepped aside, pointing through the swamp, back towards town. “To the museum, my grundy. And miles to go before we sleep…” The creature seemed to understand, and began trudging slowly in the direction Karkull indicated, swatting aside branches and vines. “Grunnnnndy…” It rumbled ponderously, in a voice like boulders rolling together. “Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday…” |
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:34:02 GMT -5
Office of Strategic Services,
Manhattan offices…
The night watchman paced the long corridor, the beam of his flashlight extending down side-halls and into the frosted glass of locked doors. It was close to midnight, and the OSS offices were long since deserted for the day. The watchman had hoped to catch a glimpse of General Glory’s secretary earlier--- she usually stayed late into the night catching up on work--- but the legendary beauty that was Corporal Polly Prince had taken an early day.
The night watchman heard a shuffle of feet from behind and whirled, his hand already falling to his pistol. He was met by a macabre sight: a man in a trenchcoat and a fedora stepped out of the shadows, pointing a strange gun. And the man wore a gas mask.
Before the night watchman could take any action, a jet of green vapor issued from the strange gun, enveloping him in a billowing cloud, blurring his vision and clogging his throat.
{Sleep, faithful guardian of these halls.} He heard the eerie voice issue from the gas mask as he slid to the floor. {Dream without guilt, and let the Sandman pursue the mystery he seeks…}
The Sandman propped the snoring body of the watchman against the wall, and tucked his gas gun away inside his coat. It was a short walk to General Jones’ office, and he had the lock picked in seconds.
The outer office was for the secretary, so the masked vigilante continued on to the inner office, a more spacious affair with a window looking out upon the Manhattan skyline.
A quick search of the desk revealed a key to the stand-up filing cabinet, which the Sandman rifled until he came upon a file labeled: TOP SECRET! EYES ONLY!: Scientist Kidnapping Conspiracy Investigation.
He pulled it out and began reading its contents.
It was worse than either he Rex or Ted Knight imagined.
Not five, but eight world renowned scientists had been reported missing, all experts in their respective developing fields. And thus far, the only lead in the investigation was a tenuous connection that all of them seemed to have with an American scientist named Ulysses Hughes--- who was also missing. Worse yet, the OSS report connected certain crimes to the investigation, thefts of uranium in Africa and the Middle East, in locations where Ulysses Hughes was known to have dealings.
Of what possible use could someone make of an uncommon, but valueless ore?
The bombshell came at the end. Apparently, there had already been an attempt on a ninth scientist, one who would be at the symposium tomorrow, an inventor who was on the cutting edge of harnessing the cosmic radiation of the stars for the benefit of all mankind: Theodore Knight.
His observatory outside Opal City had been ransacked a month ago, but luckily Knight had been out of town. And the OSS feared that another attempt was imminent.
A noise from the corridor outside startled the Sandman.
“Hello? George, it’s Polly. I forgot some papers I’m going to need for tomorrow, I’ll just be a minute…”
In a moment, she would see the slumbering form of the night watchman. The Sandman stared at the shadows seen through the closed office door, then looked to the window, with its view of the rooftops of New York…
“Great Hera, George, what’s wrong with you? Is there someone here?”
The office door burst open revealing a tall dark-haired woman with piercing blue eyes and a fierce expression…
But all she saw was an empty office and an open window.
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:34:29 GMT -5
Keystone City…
The monster stalked the busy streets of the lamp-lit town, intoning his fearful refrain: “Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday… rise again, rise again, Solomon Grundy…”
He lumbered by a crowd of people outside a restaurant, causing a woman to scream and faint. One man took it upon himself to block the monster’s path, shaking his fist angrily.
“Now see here, mack, you can’t just be shoving people about--- Arghhh!”
Grundy seized the man, who he towered over, by the face and tossed him aside like a rag doll, sending him crashing through a storefront window display. People screamed but no one tried to block his way again.
“Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday…”
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:34:51 GMT -5
The APB went out on all police frequencies soon after: “All units be on the lookout for a large albino man, approximately seven feet tall, 350 lbs in ragged clothes, wreaking havoc downtown. He appears to be abnormally strong and impervious to all efforts to stop him! Repeat, all units be on the lookout…”
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:35:21 GMT -5
“Jay!”
Jay Garrick snapped awake, having dozed on the couch while listening to the radio. Joan, who’d been mending a tear in his costume, was turning up the volume knob.
“… police reports describe the man as unstoppable and relentless, and warn all citizens to not approach him… If you are just joining us on KSON, we interrupt this broadcast of ‘Falls the Night!’ to bring you news of a developing situation downtown… So far, the rampage of this seven foot, 400 lbs monstrosity has resulted in dozens of injuries, including…”
“I gotta go!” Jay proclaimed, jumping up, wide awake now.
“I know, here’s your shirt---.”
Before she could even finish saying it, the shirt was snatched out of her hand, and she had the briefest image of the glinting silver helmet as a blur of red streaked across her vision and out the suddenly open door.
It took her a second after that to register the moistness on her cheek where he had stolen a kiss on the way out.
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:35:54 GMT -5
The cordon of police cars blocked the gates of the Midway Museum, their whirling lights coloring the night blue and red. The officers took up position as the monster came into view, shambling directly toward the front gate, his rancid mouth gaping in a feral snarl.
“Stop! Stop, or we will shoot!” A sergeant announced on a megaphone.
But Grundy gave no indication that he understood anything but an imperative to reach his objective. He came on.
There was no second warning. The Keystone police opened fire. Thunder and flashes split the night. Grundy jerked and rebounded… a little, but the gunfire had little other effect upon him. He absorbed the shots, many of them ricocheting off his dense hide, but most becoming embedded uselessly within him. The cops stared in amazement as the monster resumed his advance.
A second, equally useless, volley followed, but by this time, Grundy was nearly upon them. The glazed horror in his eyes struck fear into their hearts, and most of them scattered. The rest were dumbfounded, rooted to the spot, as Grundy batted the two-ton police cruisers aside, sending twisted metal hurling away, as he attacked the gates to the museum.
“Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday…”
With one mighty heave, the monster yanked the iron wrought gates off their hinges. He now had an open path the museum doors.
From atop the museum itself, rang a challenging voice: “That’s as far as you’ll go, monster. Your trail of destruction ends here!”
Police searchlights panned up to illuminate a winged man, perched on the edge of the roof, in a fierce-looking hawk mask, clutching a prodigious mace.
“Hawkman!” Someone cried.
But Hawkman was not still for long. Taking advantage of the monster’s momentary confusion, the Winged Avenger leaped into the air and swooped down, straight at Grundy, the mace cocked for a blow!
The ball of the mace caught the monster in the gut. The force of Hawkman’s momentum and the strength of the swing actually sent the monster sailing backward. The hero landed on the flagstones, advancing swiftly to follow up his advantage, but Grundy was quicker than he looked. He met Hawkman, toe to toe, and this time, snatched the swinging mace out of the air, hurling it, and Hawkman with it, across the courtyard!
Dazed, the Winged Avenger struggled to pull himself up, but an enormous shadow blotted out all light.
“Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!”
The monster’s hands were raised to strike in a pile-driver that would ground the hero into dust, and there was no way Hawkman would be able to move in time…!
There was a streak of red and blue, and when the pulverizing blow fell, it smashed only stone and earth.
“Welcome to Keystone City!” Beamed the man in the silver helmet who ran with a stunned Hawkman in his arms. “I’ve been meaning to go to Manhattan and look you up. I’m the Flash!”
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:36:22 GMT -5
New York,
The World’s Fair…
It was supposed to represent the hope of the future. The shining World of Tomorrow exhibition spoke to a dream of a utopian society that was getting farther and farther away each day. But it was not yet out of grasp.
While the tourists visited the architecturally stunning Trylon and Perisphere, marveling at glimpses of the wonders to come, a historic summit was taking place just across the Lagoon of Nations at the Hall of Science. Dozens of the greatest technological and scientific minds from across the globe met to share ideas and promote their breakthroughs.
And none of them could have imagined the diabolical menace that lurked just outside the Hall of Science, in the form of a cold-eyed Baron Blitzkrieg, and the towering cadre of gleaming robots, all branded with the swastikas of the Third Reich.
Innocent bystanders gaped and backed away, some screaming in terror, but most struck dumb at the sight.
“Remember,” He commanded the silent steel sentinels. “We want Terry Curtis, Charles Grayson and Theodore Knight alive. I care nothing for any others.”
Poised at the doors of the Hall, the giant Nazi robots clacked and beeped in acknowledgement.
Satisfied, the Baron allowed a cruel smile to twist his lips.
“Then, for the glory of the Reich, and in the name of the Secret Society of Super Villains,” He drew an ornate Prussian sword, and a lungful of breath, “Attack!”
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Post by Admin on Oct 25, 2005 22:37:26 GMT -5
TO BE CONTINUED IN ISSUE 1 OF
JSA: LEGENDS OF THE GOLDEN AGE!
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Post by mockingbird on Aug 2, 2011 16:53:08 GMT -5
To let us know what you think of this issue, please visit the letters page here!
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