Post by HoM on Dec 15, 2009 20:21:10 GMT -5
Catman was covered in the grime of the city, hiding in an abandoned factory, pulling out the bullets that had lodged themselves in his body with his fingertips and a grizzly nonchalance. His costume was in tatters, ripped everywhere, bullet holes gouging out chunks of the fabric and body armour.
Blood stained most of it, some of it his, but most of it not.
He pulled off strips of his shredded cape and tied them around the wounds, knowing full well that in a few hours they'd start sealing up by themselves thanks to his body working in ways he didn't fully understand. He was glad he kept his special cape in storage in an undisclosed location. It made him lazy, having a cape that gave him nine lives. But right now, his life was on the edge of ending, and he wanted that safety net.
"Nuh," he grumbled to himself, pulling himself off the floor, and looking to the street outside. With the sun rise soon, he'd have to lay low. Was this place a safe haven? Or would the murder-gangs of Santa Prisca hunt him down like a dog? "...No."
Secret Society of Super Villains
Issue Seven: Run, Ragged, Run
Written by House Of Mystery
Cover by Mark Saxton
Edited by Alex Vasquez
"I need a doctor," the man said, his hands matted tight to his chest, caked in blood and bile. "I need a doctor."
The doorstep was damp with crimson, and Doctor Andrew DeLentt was wide eyed as he saw the man crumple onto the Welcome mat inside his house. His suit, black and red, was now more red than black, but the Doctor doubted this was the wearer's intention. He was about to check the wound, seeing the extent of the injuries, when the wounded man grabbed him by the side of the head.
"This blood is not mine. I said I needed a doctor, I did not clarify for what." The Doctor was driven head first to the floor. The man slammed the door shut behind them, then took his attache case, which had been by his side mere moments before, and clicked it open. "Your wife and child did not make it to soccer practice, Doctor. You will never see them again. And you will not care."
"Ghhh," hissed Andrew DeLentt, writhing in agony at the fingers being dug into his head. "W-who are you?"
"Mr. Punch," replied his attacker, grinning. "And you, I think, shall be Mr. Dear."
"They destroyed the evidence of their presence here," said The Question, his hand sifting through the dust and the ash of the Society's former headquarters. "But not well enough. Seems to me that this whole operation is third-class. This place should be vapour. A hole in the ground." He looked over to Commissioner Double, who was jotting down notes into his pad. "I get an inkling, after what happened at STAR, that their cash flow wasn't being funnelled into their base of operations. That it was about something bigger. And I see a map, a load of lines that lead me to a weird conclusion."
Double looked at the Question, and shrugged. "That being?"
"The Boom-Tube Projector that The Guardian reported on, all this trouble to map the universe and they stole it? I don't know, it's a lot of supposition right now. I'll need to talk to the Justice League... to... maybe... I don't know, to Hawkman?" The Question stood, and then headed back toward the city, hands deep in pockets, thoughts doing a merry dance in his head. "This is just the beginning of this."
"Well, you do me a favour and keep me in the loop!" Shouted Double, after the vigilante. "'Cause God knows we're going to end up with jurisdiction with this!" He shook his head slowly, and looked back at the wreck. "Jackass..."
In the twisted tunnels of metal that had once seen the hustle and bustle of villainy, a twisted, man sized cocoon went unnoticed for the time being. It resembled a giant scab, congealed blood and scar tissue woven tight like fibre round and round-- but split open in the middle, like something had clawed its way out. It went unseen for the time being.
For the time being...
Blake had found a corner, shadows looming over, that served well enough as a nest for the day's wait. He slept every now and then, but was awoken by the sharp pains that wracked his riddled body. His thoughts drifted back, to the morning before, when the Society and himself had arrived on this isle, and to what happened soon after...
"Where are we, anyway?" He had asked to Lex Luthor, the newly self-appointed leader of the Society, a welcome addition since the disastrous end of The Voice’s tenure.
"Questions, questions, Catman! Why, we're in Santa Prisca. The worst place on Earth. And from here, we're going to save the world from itself--!"
Luthor had spent the next hour speaking to the villains present. He spoke about the past, and how the old ways wouldn't work. He spoke about control, and how they deserved more of it, and that the old ways were counter-productive toward that goal. He spoke of the old guard of the Secret Society, of how they had nearly brought the Justice League to their knees, and were only defeated by rogue elements in their plans. He had a new vision now. He knew what they had to do, and the members of the Society lapped it up. He told them that to gain control, they'd have to unite like never before-- The Voice had used them for his own ends, and that wasn't how things should go.
"...Who are the villains here? The quote-unquote bad guys? Who hold the world back under the pretence of being saviours? Not I. Not you. But them," Luthor said, as he began to wind down. "And we need to take them to take for that. No one asked them to. They coerced their way into that position. Justice Societies. Justice Leagues. They warp the concept of 'justice' and allow it to serve their own ends. Here we'll make the first line in the sand. Here, we'll organise, and move out into the world. And we'll make our mark. Are you with me?"
Catman rubbed his temple. Memories were struggling to surface. His mind was aching, he hadn't drunk anything for hours, and his stomach rumbled with irritance. Luthor had calmed the cheers of the men and women present, and spoken to others in private. Then he finally returned to Catman, and he spoke slowly, a smile on his lips.
"We need to clear some stuff up with the man who runs this island. He's a dangerous bastard, Thomas. It's best we do it now, than incur his wrath. I'm not in a war-fighting mood right now."
Luthor's smile was like a thin cut on flesh, his gaunt visage creating a haunting view for those watching. Even then, he cut a striking figure, and when he found his moment, his words could insight nearly anything...
"The man who runs this island?" Catman said, curiosity getting the best of him. "A governor? A president? Who's El Presidente of Santa Prisca?"
Luthor's expression shifted. From barely contained happiness to a morbid sense of knowing. "The man they call Bane. You'll meet him soon enough. Come on, we need to get to the capital..."
Blake's eyes opened as he caught a smell on the air. He'd fallen asleep, and he couldn't tell if it was from blood loss or because he'd barely slept for the past three days. Even without being on the worst side of a predator/prey situation, the past week had been hectic as part of this Society, and he wondered when he'd start getting something out of it.
The cologne was thick, and if he was a weaker man, he'd have gagged at the scent of it. They were nearby, the men who had been hunting him. The murder-gangs of Santa Prisca. Bane had broken open the prison that had borne him into this world, and the inmates now worked for him. His personal guard. The police. Madness. He didn't understand their words. Bane had spoken perfect English, but his underlings hadn't. Blake cursed himself. If he survived this ordeal, he'd learn a dozen more languages. He'd keep his cape nearby. He'd never lose.
"Never."
The highways out of Hub City crossed nothing but deserted sands and the darkest skies. There were few cars on the roads-- you either came in the day, or left in the day. Those who left at night were letting themselves in for a hellish journey, monotony and bad radio stations.
There are unspoken rules for the regular Hub City folks who journey out of the boundaries. #1: Never leave at night. That had been broken and left twitching in the dust.
This driver was not a regular Hub City citizen. Terri Cash tapped her wheel along with the bad mix tape her boyfriend from Metropolis had given to her before she had started her road trip. It got her through the Evangelical stations that pierced the night silence. She was mainlining coffee, and as such, was hyper-aware of everything going on around her. The roads were empty. Hers were the only lights on. She expected nothing but sand and stale air, when--
"Oh," she whispered, as a man became illuminated by her high-beams. His thumb stuck out into the road, and she came to a stop a few metres away from him. He looked pleasant enough, she thought, and she should use the company. Sleep was tickling at the fringes of her consciousness, and conversation would perk her right up.
"Thank you for stopping," he said, climbing into the car. "Wasn't expecting anyone to. Thought I'd have to walk all the way across the desert." He let out a low chuckle, and Terri warmed to that.
"Where you headed?"
"Washington, I think," he replied, turning to her. He was young, a scraggly beard covering his lower jaw, but the most piercing blue eyes settled into his skull. He scratched his face, and then looked at his fingertips, and the laugh transformed into a silent smile. "I got an appointment with a very important fellow."
"How's that?" Terri asked.
"Well..." said the man, and he twiddled his thumbs for a few moments, searching for the words that lingered in his brain. "President Stuart. I want to talk to him. One-on-one."
Terri laughed awkwardly, not knowing the seriousness of the man's words. "I think you and a whole lot of people, friend. I'm Terri, by the way."
"Rudy Jones," replied the man, as he grabbed her by the face. "But you can call me the Parasite. And everything's changed, Terri, and things will continue to change," he continued, her skin now pale, and his full of life and blood. The car swerved off the road, and bumped off into a sandy dune.
"Because I can keep them now, Terri. Everything I take, I can keep." He tugged at his cheek, grinning. "I have my face back. But that's not all. I can have any face I want. And I will."
He kicked her mummified corpse out the car, and clambered out. He dug a shallow grave, and rolled her corpse into the hole. It was then that she coughed, bulging green eyes looking around the grave that Rudy Jones had dug for her.
"Even yours, Terri Cash. Mm." He began to shift sand over her twitching body, as she tried to scream but found herself unable. "I can taste your identity." His body rippled, his bone structure changed. "I can taste your boyfriend. I can feel how he made you feel as his clammy hands groped over your body." He laughed once more. "I think I'll pay him a visit. And then on my way to the White House, with a few more stops on the way."
The sand heaved up as he finished burying his latest victim. He imagined her struggling, the life drained from her limbs, and he imagined her simply giving up the ghost, and dying in the dark.
"Beautiful," said Rudy Jones, Parasite Plus, as he climbed back into the car, his body now that of Terri Cash. He searched for a station, and then smiled as a song roared on. "Yeah," he said again. "I'm on the highway to hell."
Weapons were cocked, old guns, automatics, holdovers from long forgotten wars. Flashlights flickered in the dark recesses of the warehouse, and Catman purred to himself. He found himself forgetting about the wounds that had been a burden on him mere minutes before. He found his focus, and he found his will. He pulled out his knives, and smiled. Things would change.
Orders were barked by the man whose cologne made Blake choke. He'd die first. His throat slit and the floor made red by his blood. His face smashed into a mess of meat. Catman stayed within the shadows, and waited for them to separate. They had numbers, but he had the simple fact that he was a killer, bad-to-the-bone, and he had training to match that fact. These were killers. Scum.
He climbed up the walls, fingers finding holds, and then pulled himself up into the rafters. They were below him, and like any common man, they didn't look up. Blake gripped his knife tightly, and took aim. The man that stank of a seventies porno was directly below him now. The knife flew down silently, and embedded itself in his skull, the tip protruding just below his chin. The man fell to the floor, and Catman moved on, before anyone noticed. It didn't take long. The man let out a scream on instinct-- dead before he knew it-- and torches were aimed up into the shadows and salvos of lead unleashed at where he had been mere seconds before, but now--
--Catman plummeted effortlessly toward the centre of the murder-gang, and grabbed the AK-47 his victim had dropped. "Alright, you bastards--" he started, with a snarl. They quickly aimed their weapons, but he'd already brought the rifle up. Blake heard one of them whisper a prayer, something transcending any given language, and he felt himself smile. He was enjoying his all too much.
"--Die."
Within seconds, the murder-gang lay dead at Thomas Blake's feet, their weapons not even smoking, but his spent, the bullet casings were lying inside a pool of blood. "You're gone. I'm here. Now I'm going to find your boss, and I'm going to kill him."
"I would very much like to see that," said a dark, bitter voice from the open doors of the warehouse. A man, on the edge of leaving six feet tall, with muscles wound tight and large over his limbs was flanked by a phalanx of murderers. He wore a black mask with large white shapes either side of where his nose would be, and in the centre of those sharp angles, two red holes that hid his eyes."I am Bane. You are Catman. Do not make me laugh."
The Question's base of operations was beneath the Steppes, the tallest building in the entire City. His apartment, his civilian life, was on the two top floors, where he tried to keep his vigilante activities separate from his life as a freelance reporter, but below, in the darkness, a secret basement served as his think tank. The walls were reinforced, earthquake and bomb-proof as any Wayne Enterprises-built complex would be. The base itself was akin to a satellite Bat Cave, but right now? The walls were plastered with paper. Incident reports, police reports, psych profiles. Slade Wilson's face was in the centre of one spiral of photos, one that involved Thomas Blake, Paul Booker, and the robotic face of Toyman. The Guardian's reports were sprawled out across a desk, and Charles Szasz lay on his back in a corner, lifting weights.
"There's a Secret Society out there," he said into his Dictaphone. "A Secret Society of Super Villains that operated out of this city. They're gone now, we think. We can't find a trace. That suggests Warp, or another teleport-capable Rogue, is on the pay roll. The Guardian's report, hhrrghh," he finished the set, and pulled himself up. "Gives a breakdown of the hierarchy, and his dealings with this so-called 'Voice' opens up a lot of avenues of investigation for me. They operated out of my city," he repeated, wiping his brow with a towel, and heading over to his wall of images, "and I let it happen. Am I rusty? Am I letting mysteries wash over me? Am I becoming ignorant to the conspiracies that intertwine and choke our own society?"
Charles smiled.
"No. Not now. Not ever. I'm coming for you."
Catman roared as he leaped for Bane's throat, the rifle still in his hand. Bane punched at where Blake would end up, and when Catman did, he was thrown backwards across the room, careening into a pile of wooden boxes that shattered and splintered on impact. Blake didn't stay down, but Bane was already barrelling down upon him, not letting him catch his breath.
"He's the first and only super soldier created by the Santa Priscan government for the US military. They didn't want to use soldiers, you see? The US military gave them the bare bones for the process that created the Guardian, that eventually created Deathstroke, and they went and made something awful. They created a super-steroid referred to in certain circles as 'Venom'." The words drifted into Catman's head as Bane's fist connected with it. Lex Luthor's voice was lecturing him. "He likes games, remember that, too. If you remember anything after this, remember that. He was a prisoner in Peña Duro, serving the sentence of his dead mother. Weird laws in this place, you understand? And he rose to the top, trained himself, and became something more than the sum of his parts... and that was before Venom. He conquered the prison, and then he conquered the island. He was pardoned by the government, and then he staged a coup. Not only is he an unstoppable force of power, Blake, he's also a strategic genius. Again, remember that."
"Gghhhh," dribbled Blake. Blood bubbled out of his lips as Bane crushed him with a titanic bear-hug. "Youuuu..."
"Me," said Bane, as he head butted the feline-themed villain in the face, cracking his nose open. "You remind me of the Batman, do you know that, Catman? A pitiful, empty reflection of a great warrior."
Catman thrashed about, but could not escape Bane's grip. His limbs felt heavy, useless, and as the blood pounded against his temples, he couldn't help but think he was going to die here. Where was his damn cape? Where were his nine-lives?
"You are nearly broken, Catman," whispered Bane. "Soon, I shall break you completely."
Catman's eyes burst open. "Nuhhh. No. No!" His fingers found new life, and grabbed his knife from its holster, and with a colossal effort, he thrust the blade into Bane's hip, causing the monster to loosen his grip. The life he found flooded throughout his body, and Blake pushed back against Bane's chest, and somersaulted back. He grabbed the empty AK and stormed toward Bane, ready to attack, when someone started to applaud.
"Enough is enough, yes?"
Bane and Catman looked at where the second murder-gang waited, and Lex Luthor moved through the parting crowd. "I told you they were unrelenting. Strong. Mr Blake doesn't know how to quit, Bane. I think you don't need to kill each other to win our wager?"
"W-wager?" muttered Catman, propping himself awkwardly with the rifle, ready to continue his onslaught within a moment's notice.
"Wager," nodded Bane, as he pulled the bowie knife from his side, and threw it back to Blake. Catman caught it without much effort, and holstered it in one fluid movement. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" snapped Catman, itching to kill.
"Ah, we drugged you Blake. Bane would agree to house our Society on his island if we proved ourselves better than his men. A mutually agreed upon protection racket, if you will. You agreed to it, Thomas. The drug should be wearing off by now-- you should know that it was your idea...?"
Images began to flood back to him, as if on cue.
Luthor and Blake made it to Bane's villa without much hassle. Catman made sure of that. Luthor asked for an audience, and Bane granted it. The man had heard about the once great son of Metropolis. Luthor asked, ever so politely, for shelter, and Bane smiled. Catman remembered at that moment that Bane was mask less at that moment, and that his eyes, black like a shark's, glinted at the idea of having a legion of super villains on his island.
"What can you offer me, Mister Lex Luthor that I cannot take? What is to stop me from killing you right now, and hanging your body out in the square of my city as a warning for anyone who would think to challenge me?"
"I am a very smart man, Bane," was Luthor's reply. "I am an inventor. A creator. And I have information to trade, as a peace offering."
"Well?" said Bane, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair he sat upon.
"The American government want your blood, Bane. Quite literally. You are a survivor of the US super soldier project. They have never been successful in replicating the process that created you. The Venom on the streets now? We all know that it is a diluted formula, and that the original formula lies within your mind. You made sure of that."
"And your point?"
"They will come for you in the night. Santa Prisca is wholly self-sufficient, you have no allies, no trade links. They will come for you in the night, they will steal your position from you, and they will place a puppet government in power. That is their way."
Bane simply shrugged. "So you offer me protection? I do not see the point of this conversation--"
"How about a game then?" said Blake, without thinking. "You like a wager, don't you?"
"A game?" said Bane, leaning forward. "What kind of game?"
"You want to see how viable we are as a commodity, right? You think you can withstand the might of the US military. Sure, that might be all well and good, but we can do things here. Place me against your best men. A simple bet, but one that'll surely show you how effective we can be. If you win, if your men kill me within an allotted period of time, then we leave. You can have Luthor's skin as a cape, or whatever--"
Luthor's expression didn't show the fact that he was made somewhat uncomfortable by that side of the wager. But he said nothing.
"--but if we win... and, Bane, come on, we're going to win, then we stay. We help you. You help us. A scratch each other's backs situation. What do you say?"
Bane's expression shifted slowly, from indifference to a sinister expression of excitement. "I do not want you to remember."
"Excuse me?"
"I want to see you at your base level... Catman. Are you the animal you pretend to be? Or is there something more to it?"
Catman shrugged. "How do you sugg--"
"I can come up with something," said Luthor. "And I will. He'll forget the meeting. His memories will come back, but for a day, two days at the most, he'll forget we've got a little bet going." Luthor nudged Blake. "I'm excited. How about you?"
"Absolutely thrilled," replied Catman, looking back at Bane. "Let's play a game."
"So you remember now?" asked Bane, as Luthor finished applauding, and looked around at the damage caused. "You remember the wager we set."
"I do indeed," said Catman, as he turned to Luthor. "So, I guess this means we're home now?"
"Yes," replied Luthor. "And Bane, you will not regret having a friend in the Society."
"I better not, Mister Lex Luthor," was all Bane said in reply. "Else I might still make a cape out of your skin, eh... Mister Blake?"
Catman smiled. "And nothing can go wrong from this point on."
Blood stained most of it, some of it his, but most of it not.
He pulled off strips of his shredded cape and tied them around the wounds, knowing full well that in a few hours they'd start sealing up by themselves thanks to his body working in ways he didn't fully understand. He was glad he kept his special cape in storage in an undisclosed location. It made him lazy, having a cape that gave him nine lives. But right now, his life was on the edge of ending, and he wanted that safety net.
"Nuh," he grumbled to himself, pulling himself off the floor, and looking to the street outside. With the sun rise soon, he'd have to lay low. Was this place a safe haven? Or would the murder-gangs of Santa Prisca hunt him down like a dog? "...No."
Secret Society of Super Villains
Issue Seven: Run, Ragged, Run
Written by House Of Mystery
Cover by Mark Saxton
Edited by Alex Vasquez
"I need a doctor," the man said, his hands matted tight to his chest, caked in blood and bile. "I need a doctor."
The doorstep was damp with crimson, and Doctor Andrew DeLentt was wide eyed as he saw the man crumple onto the Welcome mat inside his house. His suit, black and red, was now more red than black, but the Doctor doubted this was the wearer's intention. He was about to check the wound, seeing the extent of the injuries, when the wounded man grabbed him by the side of the head.
"This blood is not mine. I said I needed a doctor, I did not clarify for what." The Doctor was driven head first to the floor. The man slammed the door shut behind them, then took his attache case, which had been by his side mere moments before, and clicked it open. "Your wife and child did not make it to soccer practice, Doctor. You will never see them again. And you will not care."
"Ghhh," hissed Andrew DeLentt, writhing in agony at the fingers being dug into his head. "W-who are you?"
"Mr. Punch," replied his attacker, grinning. "And you, I think, shall be Mr. Dear."
Hub City:
"They destroyed the evidence of their presence here," said The Question, his hand sifting through the dust and the ash of the Society's former headquarters. "But not well enough. Seems to me that this whole operation is third-class. This place should be vapour. A hole in the ground." He looked over to Commissioner Double, who was jotting down notes into his pad. "I get an inkling, after what happened at STAR, that their cash flow wasn't being funnelled into their base of operations. That it was about something bigger. And I see a map, a load of lines that lead me to a weird conclusion."
Double looked at the Question, and shrugged. "That being?"
"The Boom-Tube Projector that The Guardian reported on, all this trouble to map the universe and they stole it? I don't know, it's a lot of supposition right now. I'll need to talk to the Justice League... to... maybe... I don't know, to Hawkman?" The Question stood, and then headed back toward the city, hands deep in pockets, thoughts doing a merry dance in his head. "This is just the beginning of this."
"Well, you do me a favour and keep me in the loop!" Shouted Double, after the vigilante. "'Cause God knows we're going to end up with jurisdiction with this!" He shook his head slowly, and looked back at the wreck. "Jackass..."
In the twisted tunnels of metal that had once seen the hustle and bustle of villainy, a twisted, man sized cocoon went unnoticed for the time being. It resembled a giant scab, congealed blood and scar tissue woven tight like fibre round and round-- but split open in the middle, like something had clawed its way out. It went unseen for the time being.
For the time being...
Santa Prisca:
[/b]Blake had found a corner, shadows looming over, that served well enough as a nest for the day's wait. He slept every now and then, but was awoken by the sharp pains that wracked his riddled body. His thoughts drifted back, to the morning before, when the Society and himself had arrived on this isle, and to what happened soon after...
"Where are we, anyway?" He had asked to Lex Luthor, the newly self-appointed leader of the Society, a welcome addition since the disastrous end of The Voice’s tenure.
"Questions, questions, Catman! Why, we're in Santa Prisca. The worst place on Earth. And from here, we're going to save the world from itself--!"
Luthor had spent the next hour speaking to the villains present. He spoke about the past, and how the old ways wouldn't work. He spoke about control, and how they deserved more of it, and that the old ways were counter-productive toward that goal. He spoke of the old guard of the Secret Society, of how they had nearly brought the Justice League to their knees, and were only defeated by rogue elements in their plans. He had a new vision now. He knew what they had to do, and the members of the Society lapped it up. He told them that to gain control, they'd have to unite like never before-- The Voice had used them for his own ends, and that wasn't how things should go.
"...Who are the villains here? The quote-unquote bad guys? Who hold the world back under the pretence of being saviours? Not I. Not you. But them," Luthor said, as he began to wind down. "And we need to take them to take for that. No one asked them to. They coerced their way into that position. Justice Societies. Justice Leagues. They warp the concept of 'justice' and allow it to serve their own ends. Here we'll make the first line in the sand. Here, we'll organise, and move out into the world. And we'll make our mark. Are you with me?"
Catman rubbed his temple. Memories were struggling to surface. His mind was aching, he hadn't drunk anything for hours, and his stomach rumbled with irritance. Luthor had calmed the cheers of the men and women present, and spoken to others in private. Then he finally returned to Catman, and he spoke slowly, a smile on his lips.
"We need to clear some stuff up with the man who runs this island. He's a dangerous bastard, Thomas. It's best we do it now, than incur his wrath. I'm not in a war-fighting mood right now."
Luthor's smile was like a thin cut on flesh, his gaunt visage creating a haunting view for those watching. Even then, he cut a striking figure, and when he found his moment, his words could insight nearly anything...
"The man who runs this island?" Catman said, curiosity getting the best of him. "A governor? A president? Who's El Presidente of Santa Prisca?"
Luthor's expression shifted. From barely contained happiness to a morbid sense of knowing. "The man they call Bane. You'll meet him soon enough. Come on, we need to get to the capital..."
Blake's eyes opened as he caught a smell on the air. He'd fallen asleep, and he couldn't tell if it was from blood loss or because he'd barely slept for the past three days. Even without being on the worst side of a predator/prey situation, the past week had been hectic as part of this Society, and he wondered when he'd start getting something out of it.
The cologne was thick, and if he was a weaker man, he'd have gagged at the scent of it. They were nearby, the men who had been hunting him. The murder-gangs of Santa Prisca. Bane had broken open the prison that had borne him into this world, and the inmates now worked for him. His personal guard. The police. Madness. He didn't understand their words. Bane had spoken perfect English, but his underlings hadn't. Blake cursed himself. If he survived this ordeal, he'd learn a dozen more languages. He'd keep his cape nearby. He'd never lose.
"Never."
Hub City:
The highways out of Hub City crossed nothing but deserted sands and the darkest skies. There were few cars on the roads-- you either came in the day, or left in the day. Those who left at night were letting themselves in for a hellish journey, monotony and bad radio stations.
There are unspoken rules for the regular Hub City folks who journey out of the boundaries. #1: Never leave at night. That had been broken and left twitching in the dust.
This driver was not a regular Hub City citizen. Terri Cash tapped her wheel along with the bad mix tape her boyfriend from Metropolis had given to her before she had started her road trip. It got her through the Evangelical stations that pierced the night silence. She was mainlining coffee, and as such, was hyper-aware of everything going on around her. The roads were empty. Hers were the only lights on. She expected nothing but sand and stale air, when--
"Oh," she whispered, as a man became illuminated by her high-beams. His thumb stuck out into the road, and she came to a stop a few metres away from him. He looked pleasant enough, she thought, and she should use the company. Sleep was tickling at the fringes of her consciousness, and conversation would perk her right up.
"Thank you for stopping," he said, climbing into the car. "Wasn't expecting anyone to. Thought I'd have to walk all the way across the desert." He let out a low chuckle, and Terri warmed to that.
"Where you headed?"
"Washington, I think," he replied, turning to her. He was young, a scraggly beard covering his lower jaw, but the most piercing blue eyes settled into his skull. He scratched his face, and then looked at his fingertips, and the laugh transformed into a silent smile. "I got an appointment with a very important fellow."
"How's that?" Terri asked.
"Well..." said the man, and he twiddled his thumbs for a few moments, searching for the words that lingered in his brain. "President Stuart. I want to talk to him. One-on-one."
Terri laughed awkwardly, not knowing the seriousness of the man's words. "I think you and a whole lot of people, friend. I'm Terri, by the way."
"Rudy Jones," replied the man, as he grabbed her by the face. "But you can call me the Parasite. And everything's changed, Terri, and things will continue to change," he continued, her skin now pale, and his full of life and blood. The car swerved off the road, and bumped off into a sandy dune.
"Because I can keep them now, Terri. Everything I take, I can keep." He tugged at his cheek, grinning. "I have my face back. But that's not all. I can have any face I want. And I will."
He kicked her mummified corpse out the car, and clambered out. He dug a shallow grave, and rolled her corpse into the hole. It was then that she coughed, bulging green eyes looking around the grave that Rudy Jones had dug for her.
"Even yours, Terri Cash. Mm." He began to shift sand over her twitching body, as she tried to scream but found herself unable. "I can taste your identity." His body rippled, his bone structure changed. "I can taste your boyfriend. I can feel how he made you feel as his clammy hands groped over your body." He laughed once more. "I think I'll pay him a visit. And then on my way to the White House, with a few more stops on the way."
The sand heaved up as he finished burying his latest victim. He imagined her struggling, the life drained from her limbs, and he imagined her simply giving up the ghost, and dying in the dark.
"Beautiful," said Rudy Jones, Parasite Plus, as he climbed back into the car, his body now that of Terri Cash. He searched for a station, and then smiled as a song roared on. "Yeah," he said again. "I'm on the highway to hell."
Santa Prisca:
Weapons were cocked, old guns, automatics, holdovers from long forgotten wars. Flashlights flickered in the dark recesses of the warehouse, and Catman purred to himself. He found himself forgetting about the wounds that had been a burden on him mere minutes before. He found his focus, and he found his will. He pulled out his knives, and smiled. Things would change.
Orders were barked by the man whose cologne made Blake choke. He'd die first. His throat slit and the floor made red by his blood. His face smashed into a mess of meat. Catman stayed within the shadows, and waited for them to separate. They had numbers, but he had the simple fact that he was a killer, bad-to-the-bone, and he had training to match that fact. These were killers. Scum.
He climbed up the walls, fingers finding holds, and then pulled himself up into the rafters. They were below him, and like any common man, they didn't look up. Blake gripped his knife tightly, and took aim. The man that stank of a seventies porno was directly below him now. The knife flew down silently, and embedded itself in his skull, the tip protruding just below his chin. The man fell to the floor, and Catman moved on, before anyone noticed. It didn't take long. The man let out a scream on instinct-- dead before he knew it-- and torches were aimed up into the shadows and salvos of lead unleashed at where he had been mere seconds before, but now--
--Catman plummeted effortlessly toward the centre of the murder-gang, and grabbed the AK-47 his victim had dropped. "Alright, you bastards--" he started, with a snarl. They quickly aimed their weapons, but he'd already brought the rifle up. Blake heard one of them whisper a prayer, something transcending any given language, and he felt himself smile. He was enjoying his all too much.
"--Die."
Within seconds, the murder-gang lay dead at Thomas Blake's feet, their weapons not even smoking, but his spent, the bullet casings were lying inside a pool of blood. "You're gone. I'm here. Now I'm going to find your boss, and I'm going to kill him."
"I would very much like to see that," said a dark, bitter voice from the open doors of the warehouse. A man, on the edge of leaving six feet tall, with muscles wound tight and large over his limbs was flanked by a phalanx of murderers. He wore a black mask with large white shapes either side of where his nose would be, and in the centre of those sharp angles, two red holes that hid his eyes."I am Bane. You are Catman. Do not make me laugh."
Hub City:
The Question's base of operations was beneath the Steppes, the tallest building in the entire City. His apartment, his civilian life, was on the two top floors, where he tried to keep his vigilante activities separate from his life as a freelance reporter, but below, in the darkness, a secret basement served as his think tank. The walls were reinforced, earthquake and bomb-proof as any Wayne Enterprises-built complex would be. The base itself was akin to a satellite Bat Cave, but right now? The walls were plastered with paper. Incident reports, police reports, psych profiles. Slade Wilson's face was in the centre of one spiral of photos, one that involved Thomas Blake, Paul Booker, and the robotic face of Toyman. The Guardian's reports were sprawled out across a desk, and Charles Szasz lay on his back in a corner, lifting weights.
"There's a Secret Society out there," he said into his Dictaphone. "A Secret Society of Super Villains that operated out of this city. They're gone now, we think. We can't find a trace. That suggests Warp, or another teleport-capable Rogue, is on the pay roll. The Guardian's report, hhrrghh," he finished the set, and pulled himself up. "Gives a breakdown of the hierarchy, and his dealings with this so-called 'Voice' opens up a lot of avenues of investigation for me. They operated out of my city," he repeated, wiping his brow with a towel, and heading over to his wall of images, "and I let it happen. Am I rusty? Am I letting mysteries wash over me? Am I becoming ignorant to the conspiracies that intertwine and choke our own society?"
Charles smiled.
"No. Not now. Not ever. I'm coming for you."
Santa Prisca:
Catman roared as he leaped for Bane's throat, the rifle still in his hand. Bane punched at where Blake would end up, and when Catman did, he was thrown backwards across the room, careening into a pile of wooden boxes that shattered and splintered on impact. Blake didn't stay down, but Bane was already barrelling down upon him, not letting him catch his breath.
"He's the first and only super soldier created by the Santa Priscan government for the US military. They didn't want to use soldiers, you see? The US military gave them the bare bones for the process that created the Guardian, that eventually created Deathstroke, and they went and made something awful. They created a super-steroid referred to in certain circles as 'Venom'." The words drifted into Catman's head as Bane's fist connected with it. Lex Luthor's voice was lecturing him. "He likes games, remember that, too. If you remember anything after this, remember that. He was a prisoner in Peña Duro, serving the sentence of his dead mother. Weird laws in this place, you understand? And he rose to the top, trained himself, and became something more than the sum of his parts... and that was before Venom. He conquered the prison, and then he conquered the island. He was pardoned by the government, and then he staged a coup. Not only is he an unstoppable force of power, Blake, he's also a strategic genius. Again, remember that."
"Gghhhh," dribbled Blake. Blood bubbled out of his lips as Bane crushed him with a titanic bear-hug. "Youuuu..."
"Me," said Bane, as he head butted the feline-themed villain in the face, cracking his nose open. "You remind me of the Batman, do you know that, Catman? A pitiful, empty reflection of a great warrior."
Catman thrashed about, but could not escape Bane's grip. His limbs felt heavy, useless, and as the blood pounded against his temples, he couldn't help but think he was going to die here. Where was his damn cape? Where were his nine-lives?
"You are nearly broken, Catman," whispered Bane. "Soon, I shall break you completely."
Catman's eyes burst open. "Nuhhh. No. No!" His fingers found new life, and grabbed his knife from its holster, and with a colossal effort, he thrust the blade into Bane's hip, causing the monster to loosen his grip. The life he found flooded throughout his body, and Blake pushed back against Bane's chest, and somersaulted back. He grabbed the empty AK and stormed toward Bane, ready to attack, when someone started to applaud.
"Enough is enough, yes?"
Bane and Catman looked at where the second murder-gang waited, and Lex Luthor moved through the parting crowd. "I told you they were unrelenting. Strong. Mr Blake doesn't know how to quit, Bane. I think you don't need to kill each other to win our wager?"
"W-wager?" muttered Catman, propping himself awkwardly with the rifle, ready to continue his onslaught within a moment's notice.
"Wager," nodded Bane, as he pulled the bowie knife from his side, and threw it back to Blake. Catman caught it without much effort, and holstered it in one fluid movement. "You don't remember?"
"Remember what?" snapped Catman, itching to kill.
"Ah, we drugged you Blake. Bane would agree to house our Society on his island if we proved ourselves better than his men. A mutually agreed upon protection racket, if you will. You agreed to it, Thomas. The drug should be wearing off by now-- you should know that it was your idea...?"
Images began to flood back to him, as if on cue.
Luthor and Blake made it to Bane's villa without much hassle. Catman made sure of that. Luthor asked for an audience, and Bane granted it. The man had heard about the once great son of Metropolis. Luthor asked, ever so politely, for shelter, and Bane smiled. Catman remembered at that moment that Bane was mask less at that moment, and that his eyes, black like a shark's, glinted at the idea of having a legion of super villains on his island.
"What can you offer me, Mister Lex Luthor that I cannot take? What is to stop me from killing you right now, and hanging your body out in the square of my city as a warning for anyone who would think to challenge me?"
"I am a very smart man, Bane," was Luthor's reply. "I am an inventor. A creator. And I have information to trade, as a peace offering."
"Well?" said Bane, tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair he sat upon.
"The American government want your blood, Bane. Quite literally. You are a survivor of the US super soldier project. They have never been successful in replicating the process that created you. The Venom on the streets now? We all know that it is a diluted formula, and that the original formula lies within your mind. You made sure of that."
"And your point?"
"They will come for you in the night. Santa Prisca is wholly self-sufficient, you have no allies, no trade links. They will come for you in the night, they will steal your position from you, and they will place a puppet government in power. That is their way."
Bane simply shrugged. "So you offer me protection? I do not see the point of this conversation--"
"How about a game then?" said Blake, without thinking. "You like a wager, don't you?"
"A game?" said Bane, leaning forward. "What kind of game?"
"You want to see how viable we are as a commodity, right? You think you can withstand the might of the US military. Sure, that might be all well and good, but we can do things here. Place me against your best men. A simple bet, but one that'll surely show you how effective we can be. If you win, if your men kill me within an allotted period of time, then we leave. You can have Luthor's skin as a cape, or whatever--"
Luthor's expression didn't show the fact that he was made somewhat uncomfortable by that side of the wager. But he said nothing.
"--but if we win... and, Bane, come on, we're going to win, then we stay. We help you. You help us. A scratch each other's backs situation. What do you say?"
Bane's expression shifted slowly, from indifference to a sinister expression of excitement. "I do not want you to remember."
"Excuse me?"
"I want to see you at your base level... Catman. Are you the animal you pretend to be? Or is there something more to it?"
Catman shrugged. "How do you sugg--"
"I can come up with something," said Luthor. "And I will. He'll forget the meeting. His memories will come back, but for a day, two days at the most, he'll forget we've got a little bet going." Luthor nudged Blake. "I'm excited. How about you?"
"Absolutely thrilled," replied Catman, looking back at Bane. "Let's play a game."
"So you remember now?" asked Bane, as Luthor finished applauding, and looked around at the damage caused. "You remember the wager we set."
"I do indeed," said Catman, as he turned to Luthor. "So, I guess this means we're home now?"
"Yes," replied Luthor. "And Bane, you will not regret having a friend in the Society."
"I better not, Mister Lex Luthor," was all Bane said in reply. "Else I might still make a cape out of your skin, eh... Mister Blake?"
Catman smiled. "And nothing can go wrong from this point on."