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Post by chris on Nov 28, 2006 18:09:09 GMT -5
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Post by chris on Nov 28, 2006 18:13:38 GMT -5
Titans:Resistance
Written by: Arcalian
Cover by:Arteach
Edited by:Tony Clifton
The great war...
How inadequate that simple phrase is to describe the chaos that has engulfed the World.
The most painful part of it is, of course, that my country was not even involved to begin with. The tiny nation state of Markovia was caught in the middle as the Central powers and the Allied powers clashed.
In those days, the Markovian royals only wanted peace. Our nation only wanted peace and prosperity. But to the armies of both the Allied and Central powers, we were merely territory to be fought over.
Austro-Hungarian troops invaded Markovia on April 15, 1915. Allied troops, predominantly British, arrived and challenged them two weeks later. At first, the Royal family hoped to keep their heads down and let the two sides battle it out. But when it became clear that the land itself was being ravaged, they called their own troops and citizens to battle and prepared to unleash their own secret power. For the Markovian Royal family had long known the secrets of Elemental Mastery. Earth, air, fire and water were all ours to control, but most especially Earth.
King Biroc Markov led his people into battle on that fateful day in May 1915, and the character of the war changed in that moment. With the Markov family using their powers to shape the earth itself and conjure flame from nothing, Markovian forces made short work of the Austro-Hungarian troops.
Perhaps things might have ended there, but the British troops, seeing the strange powers of the Markovians, opened fire, killing King Biroc instantly. His son Prince Ivan, infuriated and vengeful, directed the attack against the British troops. Between his pyrokinetic powers and the fury of his troops, the British had no chance. They were decimated.
Crowned king two days later, Ivan declared that Europe must be made safe from the warmongering madness of both factions. In truth, pride and hate were mastering him. The death of his father had blinded him to all else. The people eagerly followed him into battle, and by 1917 both the Allied and Central powers had surrendered. But Ivan was not satisfied. He led his troops with his powers—aided and abetted by mercenaries bought with gold—and conquered the whole of Europe, officially absorbing the last independent nation, Ireland, on October 3, 1919. Ivan declared himself Emperor and the Markovian Empire continued its conquest and expansion throughout the 1920s. They paused in the 1930s, but only to solidify their borders and spend more time on weapons research and production. Of course, this also allowed time to retain the services of more mercenaries and allow another generation of Markovians to grow up and begin training to become soldiers. By 1944 they were ready to continue where they had left off, and by 1948 their war of conquest was back in full swing.
Today, the Markovian Empire controls more than half the landmass of the world, and our ships prowl the ocean. America and most of the New World is still free, but it is only a matter of time.
My name is Tara Markov. I am the Crown Princess and heir of the Markovian Empire. And I am horrified and ashamed of what my people have become. Though it breaks my heart, I must flee, give up the throne that would otherwise one day be mine, and help the rest of the world fight my family, and redeem the Markov name.
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Post by chris on Nov 28, 2006 18:14:46 GMT -5
Tara looked around the room for the last time. It was the room of "Princess Terra," the heir to the imperial throne, not of her true self. Yet she felt she must keep the name Terra, and redeem that as well.
The room was well furnished and ornate, the poster bed with its lush mattress and pillows. Everything was in order, everything in its place. It certainly did not look much like a teenager's room, not even a teenager born to the highest privilege. Certainly it did not reflect her inner thoughts and feelings at all. She had been careful not to write anything down; all of her planes and hopes were in her head. She sighed softly and left the room—and the life it represented—behind, closing the door behind her.
Tearfully, Tara snuck past her mother's main audience chamber and made for the main foyer. Her feet were soundless on the black carpet. The polished bronze walls reflected her somber countenance holding back tears. The gaudy style the Empire favored always seemed to heartless to her. And of course, the orange and black colors of the country would immediately identify her as an enemy to those she would call friends, so she had put aside her royal tresses—they were impractical anyway. She wore a simple brown bodysuit with matching short jacket, and gold necklace. It seemed to suit her, somehow.
She had been planning this for months. Oh, her mother had some idea that she was less than happy with Imperial policy, but over the last eight months or so she had carefully cultivated the air of resigning herself to the reality of the situation and "growing up". Her mother trusted her about as much as she was ever going to. Now was the time to run.
"Sister?" Her younger brother Brion stood uncertainly in the hallway, eyeing her strange garb. "Where are you going?"
"Little walk," she said. "Clear my head." It wasn't entirely a lie.
He frowned, uncertainly, but let her go. She prayed he wouldn't tell mother. If anything, he should thank her. After this was over, he'd be heir to the throne. She smiled bitterly to herself.
She stepped out the front door and the heavily armored and armed guards bowed before her, clanking. Two of them almost fell over from the weight of the warmongery they wore. She made a dismissive, imperious gesture. Calling on her powers, a chunk of rock came to her; she jumped onto it and flew up into the sky.
She knew her mother would try to stop her; of that there was no question. The only uncertainty was when exactly the Empress would figure it out, and what measures she would take.
She did not have to wonder about it long. The nearest coast was the Mediterranean, but she had not even got halfway there before she heard the deep, gonging alarms. A huge helicopter came over the horizon and shot towards her.
"Princess Terra, the Empress has directed you to return immediately!" the voice of a Markovian officer resonated from a loudspeaker.
She did not answer.
"I have been told..." the amplified voice faltered.” I am sorry, Princess, but I have been told that if you do not comply, we are to consider you a traitor and open fire!"
"I know," she shouted back.
"I'm....I'm sorry," the pilot's voice boomed back. She had always been popular with the Markovian people, she knew.
"So am I," she answered.
They fired a missile at her. Her first rock blocked it. Her second one ripped through the back half of the helicopter, and it plunged, out of control, towards the ground. She held back tears, hoping they bailed out safely and all had parachutes.
But then, her mother would likely execute them for their failure anyway.
Next was a rumble of tanks along the ground. There was no discourse, they simply lifted their turrets and opened fire. Blocking the shots was relatively easy; fermenting an earthquake under them was even easier.
She sped on towards the coast.
The howl of fighter jets came next. This was it. No more messing around. She had briefly considered flying high into the clouds, but by sending the jets the Empress had anticipated this move. They could fly to higher altitudes than she could breathe in.
And they were faster than her. Much faster than her.
Nevertheless she made a run for it, shooting for the coast as fast as she could. She began calling rocks to her.
The whine of the first missile caught her attention. She threw a rock into its path, but knew there would be more.
She knew there would be no choice. She would have to kill them.
They came in closer, to be sure of their aim. They came within her visual range.
As her rocks smashed into each one, a last desperate missile shot from each as they exploded into fireballs. She blocked one with a rock and it exploded, but the other was close, closer, and too close!
Unable to block it in time, she stepped off the rock she was standing on and threw that one instead, allowing herself to begin to fall.
The rocket exploded, and she desperately called another rock to her before she reached terminal velocity. She felt the wind in her hair, and saw the ground coming up...the rock arrived in time, but it still gave her a bone bruise on her left leg. Clinging to it, gritting her teeth, and weeping for the loss of everything she had ever known, she shot out over the sea.
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Post by chris on Nov 28, 2006 18:15:20 GMT -5
Bruce Wayne was old. He was tired. He was broken.
He sat in the wheelchair he knew he would ride for the rest of his life. His old body had finally failed him, in a battle against the Harlequin. He had fallen to his knees, almost paralyzed, unable to fight, and Dick had swung in to finish the battle. He knew it was over. Oh, he could have put himself into a suit of powered armor; he had even considered it. But even a powered armor suit could not make up for the slower reaction times of an old man. It galled him to admit it, but it was over.
He was emotionally devastated by this development, but not surprised. This moment had been prepared for; the contingency plans had been laid long before Dick Grayson entered his life. And now, Dick was more than ready to succeed him. And young Tim Drake was more than ready to become Robin.
Nevertheless he would remain actively involved, as advisor and strategist. He bent over his desk even now, Dick standing before it at parade rest, ever the faithful soldier.
"It is your misfortune to inherit the coming invasion, Dick," Bruce said softly. "It's during your time as Batman that they will come. Come they will, don't doubt it. You may well have to lead the citizens of Gotham in rebellion against them."
"What of the other heroes?" Dick's face was grim. "Do we have any help at all?"
Bruce shrugged his hunched shoulders. "I'm told that Green Lantern is training his own apprentice, with the help of that alien Corps he serves. Doctor Mid-Nite, Wildcat, and Sandman are somewhere in Europe, fermenting unrest against the Markovian regime. Flash still races his way through Keystone City, but the police there view him as criminal and hunt him. Wonder Woman fights the Markovians even now, keeping Themyscira same from invasion. But she can only hold them at bay, not push them back. I hear rumors of a group in powered armor in Japan in a similar situation, fighting the Markovian invaders there. The Martian Manhunter lurks in Africa and sometimes Australia. But none of them can help us, at least not now. We're on our own."
"I would guess six months to two years until the Markovians invade," Dick said thoughtfully.
Bruce nodded; his apprentice had learned his lessons well and so had Tim. "In any event, the time has now come for you to become Batman. Tim is likewise ready to be Robin, but he must undergo his trial first, just as you did. Call him."
Dick did so, reaching over the desk to press the appropriate button. Bruce could've done it, but Dick understood the symbolism in allowing him to make the call.
Tim Drake came into the room three minutes later. "You sent for me?" he asked uncertainly, eyes shifting from Dick to Bruce and back again.
"You are ready for your final trial, Timothy," Dick said softly. "Go and get the costume from its case, it's yours now. You have only one test left; the same one I once faced. But for that you will wear the costume, in the field."
Tim's eyes shone brightly and he bolted from the room.
"Boy has enthusiasm," Bruce remarked. "He lacks the agility you gained from the circus, but...."
"…but he learned your detective lessons far better than I ever did," Dick finished. "Besides, we've made him a capable martial artist."
"I've the feeling his skills as a grappler will make up for his lack of agility," Bruce mused. "But in any event he is worthy."
They spent a few moments in reflective silence. Dick's joy in finally becoming Batman was tempered both by the fact that it came because of Bruce's incapacity and the Markovian shadow looming over the world that was his to face. Bruce, his mind as sharp as ever, was thinking in purely tactical terms about how Gotham as a city, America as a country, and the free world as a whole would be hard pressed to deal with the Markovian invasion when it came.
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Post by chris on Nov 28, 2006 18:17:38 GMT -5
Tim entered the Batcave. As with Dick before him, it had been the only real home he had known for years. Wayne Manor above was a shell, a facade. Often he didn't even sleep there; he had a bunk down here and preferred it to the large, luxurious mattress that was officially "his" upstairs.
The cave was vast and echoing. For years, Bruce had focused on the northeast corner of the cave, and had placed his computer systems there. Over the years as he had more cars and other vehicles built, he had expanded, chiefly downwards to lower levels. The arrival of his apprentices had caused him to spread out as well as down, but even now, more than two thirds of the cave space was unused.
He knew of Bruce's injury and Dick's promotion, and both things affected him, but they were crowded out, at least for the moment, by the sense of wonder he felt in finally becoming Robin. As for the Markovian threat, Tim had spent his entire life under that shadow, even as Bruce and Dick had, but to him the idea of a time without that menace was a historical concept so abstract as to have no real meaning. Bruce and Dick could visualize the world that came before. Tim couldn't.
With a real sense of reverence, He opened the case in which Dick had kept the primary Robin suit for so long. There were other suits, back-ups for this one and others that were tailored for specific situations, such as camouflage and limited flight, but this remained the main suit. Slowly he put it on for the first time; the advanced fabric adjusted almost instantly to his somewhat smaller size. It had grown with Dick as he matured; now it would grow, in turn, with him. He sealed the vest, tightened the belt and various straps and buckles, and secured the quarterstaff, shiruken, and short blades. Of all the weapons, he felt he would use the quarterstaff most, but less so than Dick had. Like their mentor, Tim and Dick both disliked killing, doing so only when absolutely necessary. But where Dick was a natural acrobat and Bruce was a more traditional martial artist and brawler, Tim was a wrestler and a grappler. This meant he was more of a hands-on fighter than either of them, and would not use the quarterstaff much. Still, he acknowledged there were times when it would be useful, and preferred it to the other weapons. Even so, he felt that he would wind up using the concussion grenades and flash pellets more often than he would like.
Finally, he secured the cloak around him. Its bullet-resistant Teflon was aided and abetted by ballistic armorweave, but he knew that anyone could kill him with a gun if they shot him enough times. It was a lesson Bruce had drilled home again and again.
He took a long look in the mirror. The red bodysuit led to dark green arms and legs, and black gloves and boots. The utility belt was a deep bronze, and contained many compartments. The "R" logo was simple and unstylish. It was the uniform of a faithful soldier in Batman's war on crime. Robin’s uniform.
The new Robin drew a deep breath, and ascended the stairs. Normally wearing the costume upstairs was forbidden, but this was a special occasion, and he knew they wanted to brief him on his mission up there in what he had always thought of as Bruce's "War Room."
For Bruce Wayne had always been at war with crime. The war with Markovia, when it came, would simply be a logical extension of that. As the careers of Dick and now Tim were logical extensions of Bruce's own lifelong ambition. Tim accepted this without hesitation or regret.
It had been his life's dream too, after all.
****
“You will spend a month on your own, with no help or contact with us," Bruce told him. "Pick a city. I don't care which one, so long as it's within the United States and has a population of at least thirty thousand people. Make that your base. Deal with crime there to begin with, but don't be afraid to travel beyond its borders to pursue any lead."
"We would rather you did not challenge the Markovians directly, at least not yet," said Dick.
"Not without help, anyway," Bruce interjected.
Dick nodded. "But if you were to, say, discover a Markovian spy ring within our borders, or some similar incursion, feel free to take it out. We have trained you to be part of a team; but also to be able to handle yourself on your own. This you must do, for a month. You have access to a credit line under the alias 'Alvin Draper', use it for cost of living expenses and so forth. But you do not have any access to your own personal credit as Tim Drake, nor the Wayne fortune."
Tim nodded, understanding the necessity of it for the test. "Any particular objective I should pursue?"
"Besides not getting killed?" Bruce grunted.
Dick smiled thinly. "We understand you may have to adapt to the situation as it develops. But again, the most important thing is that you cannot contact us for help. Now, if you should discover, for instance, that the Markovians are going to invade during the month, then you could break silence with us for that. Anything similar of that severity would likewise be acceptable reason for making contact. But otherwise, keep silent. I cannot stress this enough; you are on your own."
Dick put a hand on Tim's shoulder. "I did this test. Bruce did something like it when he began his career. I have faith in you."
"This is your test, Timothy," said Bruce. "Your time is now. You are ready. Make us proud."
Tim stood straight and saluted. "I will sir, that's a solemn oath."
Bruce nodded. "Dismissed."
"Good luck," Dick said softly.
Tim turned and marched out.
"And now," said Bruce after a short pause, "It's your turn to don my mantle, Dick."
They shook hands across the table and Dick went down to the cave in his turn, to become Batman.
Bruce sighed. He felt very old. But no less determined.
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Post by chris on Nov 28, 2006 18:18:26 GMT -5
After some consideration, Robin chose Philadelphia as his base city. He was certain he would not stay there, but it would serve as his headquarters.
It took him about two days to arrive, and quietly establish himself as "Alvin Draper," a boy from Chicago considering several Universities in the area. That cover story would serve for the month. He chose a small, unremarkable hotel as his residence, and paid for the entire month's stay up front.
His third night in the city, he quietly stepped out of the Hotel with a briefcase in hand, and slipped into the subway. He rode the train for some twenty minutes, stepped off at a relatively quiet station, and waited for the train to pull away. Alone and unobserved, he slipped into the darkness of the subway tunnel and changed into his Robin uniform.
Robin soared over the Philadelphia skyline that night, swinging from rooftop to rooftop, skyscraper to skyscraper. It wasn't long until he found a group of three toughs trying to break into a jewelry store. The police might come, or they might not.
He wasted no time with catch phrases as Dick would, or even a looming intimidating shadow as Bruce would have done. Instead he was all business; he simply swooped in and slammed one thug into the ground, knocking him unconscious. As the others registered his presence, one of them raised a crowbar and the other pulled a gun. He went after the gunman first, seeing him as the greater threat. He closed with the gunman before he could fire and grabbed his arm, twisting it until the thug let go. He heard the crowbar wielding thug coming up behind him, so he blocked the other thug's first punch easily, picked him up and flipped him overhead, so that he collided with the other tough and both went down. As each of them got groggily to their feet he slammed their heads together. That was enough for the second thug, who collapsed into unconsciousness. But the first stumbled to his feet once more and aimed a disoriented kick at Robin's face. He caught the swinging leg and flipped him over, slamming him into the ground once more.
At this point, the original tough, the one Robin had taken out when he arrived, got to his feet, bleeding from the nose. He had been using a flashlight so the others could break in, and now he swung it at Robin's head, cursing furiously. Robin ducked, but barely in time; the thug was quick, and the wind of the flashlight’s passage ruffled Robin’s hair. He grabbed the tough's arm and slammed his knee into it, breaking the arm in two places. The tough howled in pain and went down, rolling in agony on the ground, unable to do anything in his pain.
"Well done," a young, female voice said softly.
Robin whirled and saw Terra looming over him, standing on a floating chunk of rock.
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Post by chris on Nov 28, 2006 18:18:59 GMT -5
TO be continued...
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