#2: The Undeground Pt. 2: "Assignments"

<I always enjoy your company, Rudy.> The Voice’s face was flickering across the wall of Parasite’s wall thanks to a shabby old cinema projector that was shuttering away in the back of the room.

“Thanks, pal,” whispered the Parasite, as he scratched at his scarred flesh. Purple skin peeled underneath dulled fingers, but he didn’t feel the pain any more. Nerve endings had been irrevocably ruined. If there had ever been any chance for him to be returned to his previous state… it had long since passed. “You always give me the best snacks.”

<I have someone else for you to feed upon. Someone you’ll surely find delicious…>

Rudy couldn’t help but feel hungry at the thought. The Voice really did provide him with the tastiest in human treats. “I’m listening.”



The scrawny little man poked his head into the dark apartment, sweating profusely, his glasses kept slipping down his damp nose, and he kept pushing them back up. "H-Hello?" He blinked, thud and a knife was suddenly embedded into the wall next to him, right next to his eye. "Ah, ah, Mr B-Blake?"

"Who the Hell are you?" Catman was sitting on his sofa, in full costume, his mask pulled down around his neck. He held his other knife between thumb and forefinger, and impressive sight considering the size of the blade. "And what are you doing in here?"

"I... I'm a representative of... of... The Voice. He... he has a message for you."

Catman didn't lower his knife. But he didn't move, either. "What's your name?"

"He, umm, calls me Mr Blink. I, I'm good with reading people, I don't know why he..." he breathed in and then out. "I have a message for you."

"What, I'm not good enough for ol' blabbermouth to talk to me directly?" Catman purred slowly. "What's the message?"

Blink took a black bag from his back and opened it up on top of the coffee table in front of Catman. He unzipped it, and pulled out a laptop, and with the click of a button, The Voice's face formed from pixels onto the pitch black screen. <Mr Blake. Catman. Your potential has been wasted in this world.>

Blake jammed his bowie knife into the table. "Is this a recording? You're couriering recorded messages to me and expect me to respect this sonofabitch?"

<This is not a recording, Catman. Mr Blink, you may leave now.> Mr Blink nodded frantically and then left the apartment that Blake was residing in. <I apologize if I have insulted you, I did not intend to.>

"S'fine. I appreciate you putting me up in this place, 'Voice', it's a damn nice set up. And the quarter thou on the bed stand was a nice treat as well. You've got a Hell of a lot of rogues wandering the city and the cops aren't batting an eyelid. You've got some pull, I'm guessing."

<This is not a pure city. We walk upon tainted land, Catman, and as such, it is easy to manipulate those that build there homes here.>

Catman stood up, and walked over to the kitchenette, pouring a glass of water when he reached the sink. "Spooky."

<I have your assignment for you, Catman, if you are willing. I see you as the predator you are by nature. You are a hunter, the hunter, and I think it’s time you showed the world.>

“You want me to play dress up? Make me go on safari? I don’t think so.” Catman knew he was playing with fire. He knew that he was messing with powers he didn’t understand. But The Voice… whilst impressive, he wasn’t the kind of leader he wanted to follow. The fact that he was a leader was the part that stuck. And any man that refused to show his face to Thomas Blake was immediately someone he didn't trust.

<I know you don’t want to be here. That you feel forced into this organisation. But you’ll soon see this is the best place for you and your particular talents.>

“Great…”



Slade Wilson had his assignment memorised. Deathstroke didn't need a knock on his door to to tell him that he was needed. The Terminator didn't need a holy mission sworn upon him by The Voice. Slade Wilson knew why he was here. And those around him didn't know that the whys he had told them weren't the whys he had told himself. This wasn't about The Voice. This was about someone else entirely. And now, with this 'Ravager' in the mix?

He sharpened his katana.



<You are an enigma to me, Ravager. I do not know if I appreciate enigmas yet.>

"Why would that be? I've never met you, you're working your magic through emissaries and computer screens. Makes me wonder who the wild card in this organisation actually is..."

Ravager never removed his armour. Slade Wilson walked amongst the rank and file of this new Secret Society with his mask removed, his eye patch exposed, because he didn't care what they thought, and when they began to think of the reasons... they got scared. Ravager didn't remove his armour. Hard-light projectors, super-strong metal exterior and interior, tracking systems, and now the Guardian's shield on his arm? They couldn't see him underneath his mask. They didn't know if he was staring at them intently, quietly picking apart their defences and getting ready to murder them in their sleep, they didn't know if he was smiling like a clown on a constant adrenaline rush... and so, while the Rogues were terrified of Deathstroke because he didn't care if they saw him in or out of costume... Ravager was a different beast all together.

His electric voice bristled for a moment. "You want me to do something, don't you? And here I thought the Rogue business was all about free-enterprise."

<This is not about the single man, Ravager. You killed the Guardian. You wear his shield like a badge of honour. I have already done things for you that you could not imagine. This is about unity amongst our peers.>

"So, what's the operation?"

<The removal of the competition.>

[/i]
Part Two (of Six): Assignments
Written by House Of Mystery
Cover by Jamie Rimmer
Edited by Kevin Feeney[/center]

Gateway City:

"Who is The Voice?" Ira Quimby, the criminal genius known as I.Q. by certain men and women, was sat side by side with his colleagues, the inner circle of the organisation known as Injustice, Unlimited. "And what's going on? Recruitment is slowing. He's taking on anyone who wants to be taken on, no rhyme nor reason to it. He hasn't even put across a manifesto of any kind- I don't know why this is happening."

"Membership maybe down, but we're still making a profit, though it's not as hefty a profit as it once was," said Clock King. "After Angle Man betrayed us, I was expecting us to lose much more than we did- plus when we assisted the Justice League..."

"It had to be done," Quimby stated staunchly. "We weren't connected to the mayhem Bend concocted. I would rather take a hit like that than be pulled down along with him."

"I think I know what's going wrong though," Clock King said, "maybe our membership is a bit too... rigid. Have you seen the people going over to The Voice's side? Sociopaths, murderers... maybe the fact that we have standards is off-putting to our comrades."

Ira shook his head. "What? That's ridiculous... if we had members like Adam Bomb or Psimon running around causing trouble, blowing up our meeting places, picking secrets from our minds and using them against us, then what?"

"Toyman and Merlyn have both betrayed us. The head of Richard Hertz, an enforcer for The 100 known in the business as 'Blackguard' was found in Metropolis, on the Daily Planet roof, with Black Spider's mask over his face. I assume both our organisations will take this as a warning shot against our bow. Mr Needham, our very own Black Spider, didn't like the impression it sent out to his comrades, he's itching for retribution." The Crimesmith laid out folders in front of him. "I brought in a consultant on how best to hurt the Society. To hurt their moral and gain a victory for ourselves. I'm sure you've all heard of Doctor Moon?"

I.Q. bristled uncomfortably. "Not someone I would have expected you to fraternise with, Crimesmith, but yes, we are all aware of Doctor Moon and his... specialities."

"Yes, well, Winslow Schott not only abandoned our cause, but he also stole our property. A Mother Box has gone missing from our inventory. I believe he's taken this artefact over to the other side. Doctor Moon thinks it best to make an example of him. Big and bloody."

"An example of him, eh?" I.Q. sighed. "Such a shame. Crimesmith, if you would inform Black Spider, Dreadbolt and Volcana? We have some business they need to take care of. Bring us the comatose body of Toyman, currently sleeping his life away in Metropolis. And put him in the hands of Doctor Moon. Put him in the farthest wing of the compound. I don't want to see or hear him. Oh, and bring me Adam Cray's dossier, if you would? I have a plan. Twelve plans, to be precise, all running simultaneously, each reliant on the previous plan's failure for success. Hmm."

Hub City:

[/center]

"It... it hurrrrrrrtsssss..." John Corben's chest was clamped open. His cybernetic skeleton was powered down, he couldn't move, but for some reason he could still feel. Pain had not been a luxury for a damn long time. As the cold calculating hands inserted themselves inside his exposed cavity, he screamed once more. "Why are you doing this to me?!"

The Voice's face appeared on a screen in front of him, behind the back of the diligent worker who was rebuilding Corben. <You came to me, Mr Corben. You wanted to be better. You wanted to be able to kill Superman, instead of being defeated time and time again. So I am making you better. You will be a deadly weapon, capable of the ultimate destruction you so viciously require. You ask me why I do this? Because it's what you want.>

"Wh... wh..." Corben's eyes faltered from the image of The Voice, instead landing on the face of the man working away at installing new technology inside him. "Wh... what? Wh... why are you... what?" he finally passed out, and the man continued to install the glowing shards of mineral he'd recovered over the course of his professional career. Different coloured rocks in perfect spherical shape were slowly inserted inside Metallo's chest.

<Metallo: Plus.>



"I'm afraid my life may be in danger," The Toyman said, "The Voice told me he needed something from me, and in turn he could give me something. The bargain was very reasonable. And he held up his side of the bargain so I did mine."

"My God, what have you done to yourself, man?" Catman was shocked by the Toyman, his body now resembling a larger than life puppet. His flesh appeared to be wood, his costume was changed appropriately and all-in-all his new appearance was shocking to behold.

"He gave me the truth of my being. Winslow Schott is still sleeping soundly in Metropolis, and I am the animarrionette. But, Mr Catman, here is the pickle... I like being alive, as oxymoronic as it sounds for a living puppet to declare. I am a member of this Secret Society, am I not? I do my fair share of work and so I am as much deserving as protection as anyone else in this organisation. But then again... I do-do-do do double the work that you may think, and as such The Voice has agreed to help me in another way."

"We're going to cripple Injustice, Unlimited," said Deathstroke as he entered the meeting room. Hub City had a labyrinthine underground, winding passages and whole buried buildings that no one knew about. If you knew the right sewer routes to travel down, you could journey down here, and journey here they did. This was the secret base of a secret society, and it suited them just fine. "And we're using Winslow Schott's body as the bait."

"I work to cover my master and me, that I do," said Toyman, his face carved into a perpetual grin, "I want to show my father one day what I can be, what I can achieve with a little free will and sentience. Isn't it wonderful?"

"Wonderful," replied Catman, as he pulled on his cowl, "you could say that."



Mr Punch sat in darkness. He was alone, not surrounded by his brothers and sisters, the ninety-nine others that made up the core of The 100. He didn't need them. He could feel them, tickling on the outer fringes of his brain, and if he needed them, or their council, he would call upon them, but right now, he sat pondering. The Voice, and the Secret Society he had formed, had shown their hand. They'd torn Blackguard's head from his shoulders, quite literally, with bare hands. Mammoth's finger prints were positvely ID'd from the gouges made into the dead man's flesh. They'd still not located the body. It was probably dog food somewhere. Mr Punch smiled. He'd been here for so long, he'd forgotten what it was like to have a true challenge on his hands. He'd travelled so long and so far for something that would truly make his life, and his family's life worth while, and maybe he'd found it.

"They want war..." he said, quite calmly. He remembered an old quote he'd once heard when he had strangled a scholar to death years ago.

The most persistent sound which reverberates through men's history is the beating of war drums.

This old saying stayed with him. It reminded him of his own life. And the sound that followed.

"Then it is war they shall have." Mr Punch grinned. "Glorious, beautiful war."



Winslow Schott was breathing with the assistance of a respirator. This was required to keep him alive, the villain no longer able to breathe under his own steam. If he were aware, he would love the intricacies of the machinery he was hooked up, but loathe their bare ugliness. This was his inclination. But as he was in no place to judge or care, all he did was sleep, no one knowing what the villain they called The Toyman was dreaming of...

"He's dreaming of his wife," said Toyman, as Catman and Deathstroke both appeared inside the hospital private room. "Mary. He's dreaming about her because that's all he ever thinks of. If I were to dream, I think it would be dreams of her."

Catman glanced outside the window. "The Voice has taken care of the Superman factor?"

"So he claims. I don't question his ability," Toyman sighed, stroking the hair from his creator's face.

"Because he showed you who you were?"

"He saw my true face, Catman."

Deathstroke grunted, and then leant against the wall, checking his shotgun. "He told you what you already knew but were trying not to admit. Get real, Toyman. A sub-routine somewhere woudl have kicked in and informed you of your true identity. You just didn't want to admit that you lived a life believing you were human, and then had it stripped away piece by piece by your own doubt. I'm assuming that's why you've turned your body into a giant puppet."

"How truly Freudian," replied Toyman. "Intel informs us that Injustice, Unlimited are sending their enforcers here to spite me and kill my creator in his slumber."

"Intel?" said Deathstroke.

"From the mole inside that organisation. They're riddled with them. Though this mole... is much higher placed than any others. Reliable."

"Hrm." Deathstroke checked his gun-sight, and then breathed in. "Injustice, Unlimited's enforcers are Dreadbolt, Volcana and their head-honcho is Black Spider. There may be others."

Catman smiled. "Is Ravager not joining us? Scared to come back to Metropolis?"

"No, he's on another assignment for The Voice. I don't tend to ask. I'm getting paid, I'm doing what I do best."

"And what would that be?" Dreadbolt appeared before The Terminator, and grabbed the assassin by his face. "Dying?"

Electricity exploded into Deathstroke's skull, but he merely kicked up at his attacker, driving the villain's testicles into his spleen. "Insulated mask, idiot."

Volcana and Black Spider burst into the room, and Catman and Toyman leapt at them. Volcana burst into flame as the Toyman tackled her to the ground, and then she started laughing hysterically. "Are you made of wood? And you're hitting me?! You're a freakin' idiot!"

"Ah, but my dear, didn't you know I was fire-proof?" Toyman suddenly swivelled off of the villainess, his wooden frame smoking. He jangled as his limbs clattered against his frame, and then his head clicked to the side. "Do you like toys?"

"I like melting them into piles, Toyman, just like I'm gonna' do you!"

Catman clashed heavily with Black Spider, the two of them slamming into a wall as blows were exchanged and blocked. Catman growled as Black Spider fought back equally ferociously, each punch that connected with Spider being dealt back just as hard. "No... witty banter... Spider?" The answer came in the form of a jab to a nerve cluster, and Blake roared in pain, only to slam his head straight into Black Spider's face. Spider didn't falter, instead pushing his fingers into Catman's side, and then suddenly twisting, taking a rib with him. "HHHhhhrRRRRR!"

Deathstroke grabbed Dreadbolt by the arm and slammed his palm into his elbow joint, causing the electromancer to howl in pain. He said nothing, but then kicked him in the chest and flung him at the far wall-- and out the window, screaming.

Volcana span around and Toyman pointed at the front of her costume, where a small toy plane was lodged. Toyman's head clicked to the side, and a small concussive explosion sent Volcana flying into a partition wall and halfway through it, before she came to an unconscious stop.

Black Spider was destroying Catman. Blake had to admit, he was rusty. After leaving the Suicide Squad, he'd packed his costume up, he'd sheathed his bowie knives, but this... he wasn't prepared for this. His blows were connecting less and less, and he was taking more and more. He was tough, he trained himself to be tough, but this was taking it's toll. He was getting slower. He was going to fall. Black Spider glanced over to Deathstroke, who was slowly unzipping his mask and taking a cigarette out, lighting it up as it met his lips. Toyman was tucking in Winslow Schott delicately, leaving the two fighters at each other. Catman didn't bother questioning the actions of his colleagues. Instead, he took a knife from his hip and slashed it against Black Spider's chest, a bloody gash taking the Injustice, Unlimited enforcer by surprise. "You... would be smart... to leave now..."

"We're not idiots, Catman-- not like you-- we haven't come unprepared for this--" Black Spider clicked his fingers, and Deathstroke reeled forward in agony. "This battle is already won. You're already dead."

"Whhh..." Deathstroke fell to his knees, his fingers clutching at his mask. "Ggodd..."

Catman took a step back, his knives still raised, ready and poised to strike. "What have you done?"

"Let's just say," Blake could tell Black Spider was smiling underneath his mask, "that if you don't back down right now-- if you continue to strike against Injustice, Unlimited, we'll kill Slade Wilson. Slowly. Painfully."

Slade pulled himself up to his feet. "I... don't... negg..." He growled underneath his breath. "Ggrhhhhh...!"

"Apologies, ladies and gentlemen of Injustice, Unlimited. This was a misjudgement on my part." All present turned to the comatose body of Toyman, still lying in a coma, but his mouth moving, a voice-- not his own-- speaking out to them. "The Secret Society offers it's utmost apologies to you. You will not be harmed by my organisation."

"Ah, so the Voice is a puppeteer? Using bodies for mouthpieces and not showing his true face?" Black Spider backed away from Toyman, Catman, and the pained Deathstroke, "we'll give your regards to our higher-ups, Voice. Do not mess with us. Because we'll kill you all, if we have to."

"Wait... you... bastard..." Wilson drew his sword, and levelled it at Black Spider. "Schott is untouchable... he dies, we'll tear you all apart. That's a perk of being a member of our Society. Retribution clause. Don't care if I die for it, but you gotta... gotta... respect... the rules..."

"Acceptable. We're done here." Black Spider clicked his fingers again, and Volcana backed toward him. Deathstroke suddenly gasped in relief as blood dribbled from his nose, and Dreadbolt climbed back into the room, dazed, but alive. "Be seeing you, boys," smiled Volcana, as they vanished in a swirl of light.

Catman turned to Deathstroke. "Why didn't you stop him? Goddamn, he broke my ribs..."

Slade shook his head and walked over to Blake, felt the former-Taskforce X member's side and then shifted his palm tightly, causing Catman to scream. "Now they're back in place. They'll need bandaging. And you... you will need a few rounds in the ring with me. Black Spider is deadly, but we need to be deadlier."

"Easier... hhrrn... said..." growled Blake, before collapsing in a seat next to Schott's hospital bed. "What now? And what the hell did they do to you?"

"Felt like... someone was jumping up and down... in my skull..." said Wilson, as he pulled his mask back on. "But I feel fine now. I'll be fine."

Toyman cocked his head to the side as he continued to look down at his creator. "He's so peaceful." Toyman pulled a pillow out from underneath Winslow's head and then looked to the others, holding it in both hands. "I think I would like to be alone right now."

Catman's attention was suddenly grabbed completely. "...What?"

Deathstroke put his hand on Catman's shoulder. "Come on, Blake."

Wilson and Blake walked out of the private room, and looked around. They were dressed in full costume, yet the doctors and the nurses went past them like there was nothing abberant about it at all. "Wilson, he's going to kill Toyman--"

"He is Toyman."

"What?"

"He is Toyman. We don't owe Schott any allegiance. Toyman is the ally that came over from Injustice, Unlimited and gave The Voice the equipment he needed for his grand plan. Toyman is the man who fought beside us today. Man, robot, puppet, whatever, he's on our side, and we respect that. I don't give a flying £$%^ if he's killing Schott in there. Who does, really?"



"They knew," said Ira Quimby, "they knew we were going to attack Schott. We didn't lose any numbers, and Black Spider informs me that my contingency worked, that our own Atom did his part in Slade Wilson's skull-- but who knew? Who knew outside this room?"

Crimesmith shook his head. "Only one man, barring our inner circle, knew of the plan of attack."

Clock King rushed into the room. "Doctor Moon is gone. All his information, and his data port has been open this entire time. We've been hacked."

"Clear this complex, re-route information feeds to auxillary base three, we'll reconvene then. Doctor Moon betrayed us. I don't care what happens," said Ira Quimby sternly, "but I will kill whoever this 'Voice' is. I'll make him pay."

"Until tomorrow, gentlemen," bowed Clock King, as he vanished out of the meetings room and to parts unknown to the others. Crimesmith headed in another direction, I.Q. pressed another button on his belt and shimmered out of sight.



Ira Quimby breathed a sigh of relief. They'd lost the battle, but the war was far from over. He was safe here, in this place, his home away from home, and as such reclined on a large leather seat, and clicked on the television set.

<...Hello, Ira.>

"What?" Ira jerked forward. "Who are you?"

<Do you not recognise your apparent nemesis? I am The Voice. Your operative informed you of our cease-fire, did he not? My Secret Society laid down arms for your Injustice, Unlimited. Though, know this: I do not appreciate competition. You attack my people, I attack yours. But whilst you have qualms over killing, I do not. I will send a man to slaughter a hundred children if I deem it necessary. You, on the other hand, are so reluctant to send your enforcers to remove one traitor, that you lose any superiority you could claim.>

"You're all talk," said Quimby, as he reached under his seat for his plasma pistol, "show your face."

<I know about your abilities. Super-intelligence as a side effect of experimental Zeta-radiation exposure. Super-intelligence is dependent on your intake of sunlight. Fascinating.>

"And? Your point?"

"His point is, Ira, I absorb all kinds of energy. Life energy. Kinetic energy..." Ira span around and unleashed a salvo of plasma into the body of his unseen home invader, "... plasma energy. What's a bit of solar energy to someone like me?" The Parasite would smile, if his face muscles worked like that anymore.

"Whuh?" Ira clutched his head. "No! Nuhhh..."

<What would happen, I ask you, if my compatriot Rudy here not only absorbed the solar energy stored inside your body, but also the trace amounts of Zeta radiation that are the source of your power? What would happen then?>

"Nuh... no... nuhhrr..." IQ stumbled out of his seat and onto his hands and knees.

<Would your IQ revert to it's previous low score? Or would it continue to fade... fade... fade...>

Quimby collapsed to the floor, sobbing. "No... nugghh... am... guhhh..."

<Any theories there, Ira? Any idea... at all?>

"Buhhh... bhhh..."

<I didn't think so.>