Titans Resistance: Annual #1

Connor Hawke always had an appreciation for nature. Not just the flowers, the trees, the ocean and the fresh air, but the natures of people. He had a strong respect for anyone being honest, despite how it may offend people. That’s why he hated living with his dad; all those rich people, trying so hard not to rub anyone the wrong way. It sickened him.

And right now Connor hated himself, because he was acting against his nature. He was running away.

In no way at all was it like Connor to run. He had grown up fighting. He knew martial arts like the back of his hand; any physical confrontation was nothing to him. He even beat his old man a few times. But now, Connor met someone he couldn’t beat.

He sat in a yellow taxi, checking his watch and scratching his head frequently. It was a nervous habit he just realized he had. He checked his watch again. 5:44.

“How much longer?” Connor asked the driver.

“Chill, man.” The driver answered in a gruff voice. “We’re almost there.”

Connor checked the Rolex on his left wrist again. 5:46. It felt like longer.

“Could you hurry it up?” He asked impatiently. “I’m kind of in a rush.”

“Kid, you’ve asked me to speed up five times.” The driver explained. “I keep telling ya, we’ll get there when we get there.”

Finally, at 5:51 PM, Connor stepped out of the cab and gave the driver a hundred dollar bill, much to his delight. As the car sped away, Connor gazed out at all the boats in the Star City harbor, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking about all the hoops he had jumped through for the last week, trying to lose his pursuer’s trail. He had taken the Queen Enterprises jet to New York, bought a cheap car and driven south to Gotham, taken a bus down to North Carolina and hitchhiked back to Star City and he was still being followed. So he had to be even more complicated, “wily” as his pursuer called him. Connor was going to take his dad’s boat out into the Atlantic, board another and let the first one go to the Markovian Empire while the second would drop him off in Florida, where he would hide out for a while.

“Mr. Hawke!” A voice broke his train of thought. “Mr. Hawke! Over here, sir!”

Connor turned to see Mr. Puckett, the captain of his dad’s yacht. Connor stepped onto it and dropped his luggage near the door. “You know where to go.” He said to the captain. “I’m gonna go crash.”

While he would never actually phrase the term “sleep” like that, Connor was very tired. Running for your life can do that to a person. He walked into the bedroom at the stern of the yacht, took his shoes and jacket, lay on the extremely inviting bed and went quickly to sleep.

“…cut to the chest. It looks like the skin was broken, not cut. Still, we can probably sew him up. There’s also a major head injury, probably a concussion. We should ice it right away.”

These were the words Connor heard when his eyes opened. Everything was an intense white. Looking down at him was a gorgeous woman, whose hair and part of her face was the same bright white.

“…are…” He asked dazedly. “…are you an angel?”

“Far from it, blondie.” The woman answered as she began to work a needle and thread.

“Thank God.” Connor wheezed. “I hate angels.”

And then everything went dark.

At the table in the captain’s room, Connor and Rose sat across from each other. Rose had lived with a crew of mostly men, but never had she seen one of them eat as ravenously as Connor Hawke. He had inhaled the bread and was making his way through the cooked fish, drinking red wine greedily between bites.

“My god,” She said in disgust. “Are you trying to choke yourself? Because there are easier ways.”

Connor ignored this comment as he tore off another chunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth. Rose, hating to hear the sound of the young man stuff his face, said “So, what were you doing in the middle of the Atlantic anyway?”

“An assassin blew up my boat.” He responded nonchalantly.

Rose paused for a moment before saying “This is one of those times when I’ll need more information.”

“I can’t tell you that.” He responded, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin. It wasn’t something he actually did it to clean his mouth, he was just taught it was polite. “I need to go lie down.”

“What?” Rose was flabbergasted. “Listen blondie; I don’t know what things are like where you’re from, and frankly I don’t care, because when you’re on my ship you never disrespect me like that.”

“Rose, with all due respect,” Connor’s sarcasm was obvious as he stood up from the table. “You’re no older than me. I appreciate your services, but I’ve paid you. I don’t need to do anything else.”

The captain reached her right hand back and grabbed a katana from its sheath. Quickly, she pulled it out and landed it on Connor’s shoulder, a mere inch from his neck.

“You need to follow orders. Now tell me why someone tried to kill you.”

Connor batted the weapon away meaninglessly. He looked dead into her blue eye and said “No.” And with that, he walked towards the exit.

“You are one stubborn jackass, you know that?” Rose told him. Connor paused at the door, and then walked away, hiding a sly smirk in the corner of his mouth.

“You can’t be serious.”

Connor felt it was a reasonable thing to ask. After all, he was sitting behind the same man who met him upon his awakening. The difference was that the man was now nude, sitting in a large bucket of water. Connor was holding a wet yellow sponge and staring up to Rose Wilson in sheer disbelief.

“You said the deck smells bad because the crew smells bad.” She answered smartly. “I’m giving you a chance to do something about it, starting with Mr. Wolfman.”

As she turned to walk away, Connor yelled to her “You know I can’t tell you why I was in the ocean.”

“Then can you tell me why you were a smartass?” She stopped and asked him.

Connor didn’t respond.

“That’s what I thought.” Rose said. She then left Connor to grudgingly do his work.

“That’s…that’s a nice tattoo.” He commented, trying to break the extremely awkward silence.

“I don’t have a tattoo.” Mr. Wolfman responded.

And for the second time since he had come on the Sweet Lilli, Connor wretched into the nearest empty bucket.

Rose Wilson was a light sleeper. It wasn’t a part any sort of training she had, it was just how she was. So it was no surprise when an audible twang and thud awoke her from a less than sound sleep. After hastily dressing, she walked out of her bedroom and onto the main deck, where a young man was holding a wooden bow, firing arrows at the mast twenty feet away from him.

“What are you doing, blondie?” She asked, already knowing who the mysterious archer was.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Connor responded, drawing another arrow from the quiver on his back and firing.

“So you’re taking it out on my ship?”

“It’s how I relax.” Another arrow thudded exactly one inch above the previous one.

“You relax by shooting arrows?” Rose asked.

“It’s in my blood.” Connor answered. The statement confused Rose and she asked “What does that mean?”

“My dad’s Oliver Queen.” He said, almost regretting it.

Rose’s eyes widened as she wore an expression of pure shock. “Oliver Queen? Green Arrow Oliver Queen?”

Connor didn’t say a word. He simply pulled out an arrow, knocked it in his bow, aimed for the mast and fired it with expert proficiency.

“My dad hated you dad.” Rose said.

“I get that a lot… And not just from super villains.” Connor answered.

“So your father taught you to fire arrows?”

“Partially. Most of what I know is what I learned before I met him.”

“When did you meet him?”

“Four years ago.”

Again, Rose was surprised. “You went fifteen years without knowing your father?”

“My parents only met each other once and my dad never knew I existed.” Connor explained. “My mom didn’t tell me much about my father; she just told me he was Green Arrow. I grew up idolizing him. When my mom died, I was adopted by a group of monks, who taught me how to be a marksman, as well as gave me some martial arts training. When I was fifteen, Oliver Queen came to the temple and it turned out, surprise, surprise, he was my father. I went to live with him and he taught me everything he knew about being a superhero.”

“That must be nice.” Rose commented.

“Yeah, it was.” Connor said as another arrow whizzed through the air.

“Was?”

Connor sighed and said “When I was seventeen, my dad was elected mayor of Star City. It was really tough for the first few months; he had to balance hero stuff, political stuff and being a father. He couldn’t do all three, so he dropped the first one. Green Arrow told everyone who he was and went on being a mayor. He hated it. Even though he wouldn’t admit it, I knew he hated it.”

There was a pause before Rose said “I think it’s about time you told me that story of why you were in the ocean.”

“I told you: An assassin blew up my boat.” Another arrow landed in the mast.

“Why?” Rose asked, as if the question was so obvious she felt like an idiot for saying it.

“The assassin hasn’t been clear on this. Apparently, one of my dad’s old enemies sent this guy to kill me just to get to him.”

“And is that why you’re shooting arrows at my ship?”

“No. I’m shooting arrows because I’m worried about my dad.” Connor answered. “He’s got to be freaking out right now. He’s really overprotective. See, a year after I joined my brother Roy got a heroin addiction and he ran away from home. We haven’t seen him since. Dad blamed himself for it because he didn’t see this coming. Nobody did. So now he thinks if he looks away from me for two seconds I’ll become a junkie and disappear forever.”

Again, silence hung in the air, only broken by the repeated shooting of arrows. “You’ve got a lot of issues.” The captain finally said.

“Rose, I have been keeping quiet about this for two years.” Connor answered. “If I didn’t tell someone soon I’d kill someone.”

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?” Rose asked.

“Being on this ship is the happiest I’ve been in years, even if breathing hurts like hell.”

Rose stared at him with disbelief. “And I thought I had father issues.”

“I’m serious.” Connor said. “Rose, I grew up on rice and manual labor. It’s refreshing to finally work with my hands. And you…” He paused, obviously unsure of how to continue. “…you are the most honest person I’ve met.”

There was an awkward silence. And then Connor continued.

“I’ve spent the past four years surrounded by all these people who can’t say a thing to me because I’m the mayor’s kid. It’s weird, but when you insult me, it’s…it’s comforting. It makes me feel more human.”

“You are messed up.” Rose flatly stated.

“It’s two in the morning, I’m on a pirate ship shooting arrows and a week ago I nearly died in an explosion. Messed up does not even begin to cover my state of mind.”

Instinctively, Connor knew his quiver was empty. He didn’t feel a weight difference and he didn’t know how many arrows he had, but he had made a perfect image of a target on the mast with his arrows. He walked to it and began to pull out arrows one by one.

“For what it’s worth blondie, you’re a damn good crewman.”

These simple words elated Connor Hawke to no end. Rose Wilson had called him a damn good crewman. He wasn’t happy because she said it; he was happy because she meant it.

A speedboat stopped near the Sweet Lilli, hidden from the sight of the two passengers on the main deck. The driver pulled out a pair of binoculars and looked to see who was on the boat. The full moon provided a great deal of help in identifying the passengers, but not enough to pinpoint who exactly they were.

Then, the driver noticed something about one of the figures: namely a short bow and a handful of arrows at his side.

“Jackpot.” He said, grinning.

Having finally vented everything he hated about his ‘privileged’ life, Connor Hawke could finally have a drink with a friend. Rose had brought up a bottle of run from her private quarters, which was said to be the best in the world. Granted, this was said by the only person to ever drink it, but Connor wasn’t one to argue with a free drink.

Rose poured a glass and passed it to Connor, who was obviously still disheartened by his father’s position.

“C’mon blondie.” She passed him his drink and raised her own in the air. “One to the practice of being in the flow.”

“One to the tears of the things we let go.” Connor added, solemnly lifting his own glass.

“One to the moment we live in right now.”

“And one to the East, West, North and South.”

They both took a hearty gulp of the rum. Rose had no trouble at all, but Connor coughed and sputtered the liquid as soon as it entered his mouth.

“Easy there, blondie.” Rose said. “I went through a lot to get that stuff.”

“Can I get some food?” He barely managed to say through coughing.

Rose, chuckling at his discomfort, walked into her quarters to get something to eat.

When Connor finally caught his breath, he noticed a grappling hook on the side of the ship. His first thought was, How cliché is that? His second thought, however, was one of pure terror. Climbing onto the main deck was a familiar figure; he stood at a mere 4’ 11”, wearing a grey shirt and black pants under a black jacket, with short dark hair and a pair of black sunglasses. His bearded mouth opened to reveal a wicked grin.

“Miss me?” He asked as he settled the black sandals on his feet onto the wooden deck of the Sweet Lilli.

Connor didn’t say a word; instead, he grabbed his bow and quickly fired arrows at breakneck speed towards his enemy. The assassin, still grinning, caught each arrow fired at him with his index and middle finger, his hands a blur as the wooden bolts dropped to the deck harmlessly.

Rose walked out of her quarters to see that Connor had exhausted his supply of arrows, while there wasn’t a scratch on the dwarf stranger he was firing at.

“What’s going on?” She asked, dropping the loaf of bread in her hands and grabbing a sword on her shoulder.

“Constantine Drakon.” Connor answered. “He’s the one who tried to kill me.”

“You won’t be saying that again!” Drakon answered as he rushed towards the archer with blazing speed. Connor placed both hands on the bottom of his bow and began to wield it like a sword.

What Rose Wilson would then witness was something she’d never seen before and never would again. Connor and Drakon were locked in hand-to-hand combat. Both were experts in there craft and both had an undying commitment to the promise of victory. Connor’s blocks and counters were smooth and powerful, while Drakon’s style was sharp and quick, dodging and striker faster than Rose could visualize. It was eerily like the movements her father had trained her in.

“Listen kid,” Drakon said as he avoided yet another attack. “I understand why you’d want to run away from home. Hell, I did the same thing.”

Connor ignored these comments and continued his assault.

“I worked the Markovian Empire for a while.” The assassin continued. “It was way too hard killing dignitaries with elemental powers. So I left the Empire and started working ‘The Free World’. It was so much easier.”

Connor was still silently fighting. The only noises he made were the swishing of his bow through the air and the grunt of anger as he barely missed.

“To tell you the truth kid, I was a little worried when I thought you were going to Markovia. I could have followed you until you ran out of steam, but you were going back to my old home. I didn’t want to follow you. That’s why I planted the bomb on your boat.”

“Spare me your life story.”

Rose ran forward, a katana in each gloved fist, swinging at Drakon one hand over another. He still managed to avoid her attacks and those of Connor.

“You really don’t want to get involved in this, girlie.” The assassin ducked twin blades, followed by backing away from Connor’s swinging bow.

“Oh yeah, I really do.” She responded as she kicked upwards with her right foot.

“Suit yourself.” Drakon snatched a katana from Rose’s left hand as he flipped clear over her head and sliced backwards, cutting deep into her right leg. She shrieked in agony as she fell to the ground, bleeding profusely onto the deck.

“You’re still alive because I haven’t been paid to kill you.” Drakon said. “Consider it a blessing.”

In less than a second, the assassin’s hands had a tight grip on Connor Hawke’s bow as he attempted to bring it down on Drakon’s head.

“Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about you, junior.” He said, kicking the archer in the stomach so hard Connor dropped to his knees and lost his wind.

“I gotta admit kid, you’ve got skills. But you’re nowhere near as good as me.” The assassin said as he picked up Connor’s bow and cracked it clear in half over his knee. “Face it, I was born to kill.”

“So was I.”

A katana emerged from the right side of his chest. Rose’s face peeked out from over his left shoulder, anger flaring in her single blue eye.

“See, I don’t take too kindly to people who cut me.” Rose said, steering Drakon towards the starboard side of the ship. “I especially hate it when they use my own weapon. It’s just not good manners. Last person who did that took my eye; I made them suffer before I killed them. It is lucky, however, that I can heal faster than a normal person, and nobody realizes this until it’s far too late. But I’m getting distracted…” The pair was now at the edge of the boat, staring into the waters below. “…you’re about to go swimming.”

Much to the shock of Rose and Connor, Drakon kept wearing his wicked grin. “You couldn’t beat me without metahuman intervention. I’m better than you, junior.”

“And yet you lost.” The archer wheezed as he returned to his feet. “Funny how that works, isn’t it?”

“Time to go overboard, shorty.” Rose said, about to throw Drakon to the water.

“Rose, wait.” Connor walked up to his comrade. Drakon silently blessed his luck; heroes couldn’t let their antagonists die. It was part of their personal laws.

Instead, the archer snatched off the assassin’s dark sunglasses with his right hand as he sneered obnoxiously. “A souvenir,” He said simply, before cocking his head to the water, indicating it was time for him to go overboard.

Drakon, now revealing his beady eyes that were full of contempt and rage, said harshly “You’re dead junior. You too, girlie. You’re both dead, you just haven’t hit the ground yet.”

Connor donned the assassin’s glasses and said simply “#^&% you, Drakon.”

And with that, Constantine Drakon was thrown to the water, his angry curses and insults drowned out by Atlantic Ocean.

A woman walked briskly down the street. Today had been a good day. It was bright, the sun was shining and she didn’t have a care in the world. That is, until she was mugged.

The thief came from nowhere. He ran like the wind and snatched her purse with great speed. The woman called for help, but it was to no avail; she was alone on the streets…or so she thought.

On a nearby rooftop, a figure pulled a mask over his face. It was very simple, just an emerald sash with two eyeholes cut in it, but it served its purpose.

Green Arrow lifted his newly made bow, pulled back the weapon that gave him his name and pointed it towards the thief’s shoulder.

“Ready…aim…fire.”

From the Journal of Dr. Pieter Cross, M.D.

When we are children, we are taught the stories of myths and legends--- of gods and heroes who walked the earth and did such deeds as to be remembered unto the end of times. We honor them, we memorialize them, and we try to live up to their examples…

But we never dream to walk among them.

Once upon a time, there was a band of costumed mystery men that called themselves the Justice Society. They came to the conquered nations of Europe before I was born, and opposed the Imperial Markovian occupiers, fighting them in the cities, in the air, and in the hearts and minds of the enslaved peoples. They went by such fantastical names as “Green Lantern”, “Hawkman” and the mighty “Atom”, and they brought with them a dream of freedom and liberty, that all nations had the inalienable right to determine their own destiny.

It was a heady time, a Golden Age of idealism and hope. It was a time when it seemed possible that justice would overthrow oppression, and that at last the world would see the end of Markovian tyranny. My father spoke of those days with a catch in his throat and a far-off look in his eyes. He was young then, and had joined one of the dozen Justice Battalion resistance cells that had sprouted up all over Europe. He had actually met one of the mystery men, too, a “Mr. Terrific”, who was devoted to the concept of “fair play” for all, whether you were a Markovian aristocrat or a lowly Norwegian furniture-maker. My father often remarked how he would have followed that man into the jaws of hell.

It was a Golden Age indeed, for it could not last--- and when the end came, it came swiftly. The Justice Society was betrayed; it was said, by a Battalion leader whose family the Markovians held hostage. Ragnarok came on a cold, wintry day off the coast of Malta, where the JSA had a secret refuge. The Markovians had unleashed their newest, deadliest weapon; a handful of Imperial Rocket-Men, backed up by their best fighters and bombers, and soldiers wielding flamethrowers. They hit the hidden sanctuary on Christmas Eve, the one day of the year the heroes gathered together with their families, and a slaughter ensued. My father said they showed news footage of the sneak attack, of Hawkwoman, her wings aflame, falling out of the sky, of Hourman taking bullet after bullet, trying to give his young wife and son time to escape…

It was the end of an era. The Empire declared the resistance at an end that day, and it was so. The Justice Battalions across Europe disbanded and, leaderless, they went back to their former lives, the small spark of hope that had been kindled in their breasts, now extinguished.

The Justice Society lived now only in the stories my father told me at his knee, larger than life now that they belonged to legend. Of course, it was forbidden to mention them, but somehow the memory of their deeds survived the years. Nor did I forget them as I left for Oslo and medical school, but like all myths and legends, they became things left in childhood, abandoned to harsh, sober reality. After a while, I did not think of them much at all, and the stories of that Golden Age faded into a fondly-recalled mythology much like the sagas and songs of my forefathers.

But legends cannot die. Sometimes they lay quiet, working in the background of day-to-day life, gathering strength, waiting for the moment to rise up again and set fire to a new generation…

Sometimes legends walk again, and from the ashes even hope may be born anew.

This was--- though I had not yet realized it--- my inauspicious introduction to the Justice Society. Over the course of the next few days, going about the regular routine of my duties, I could not help but feel I was being watched. Because of my particular circumstance, I was assigned the night shift at the sanitarium; I would sleep until late afternoon, walk to one of the many sidewalk cafes in Old Town Square where I would break my fast, and thence to the Asylum of St. Sergius, where I would work until just before dawn, walking home just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Many times during the course of the next several days, on my late night walks back home, I would catch movement out of the corner of my eye, only to look and find no one there. Sometimes, I spied patrons at the cafes looking over at me, though never making eye contact--- and always melting away if I approached them.

Perhaps my conscience was playing with me. I was a doctor, but had not scrupled to ignore my Hippocratic Oath that fateful night on the Charles Bridge. In fact, I had never experienced such a thrill--- I had struck a blow! The iron grip of Markovian oppression seemed to loosen a bit that night. Of course I mourned the loss of life, the necessity of casualties, but one did not fight tyranny with a blunted edge.

But I was not imagining the scrutiny. A week after the Bridge, while I sat outside a café enjoying my coffee, the sun setting behind me, and the people hastening home before curfew, she walked up and sat at my table.

“You’re Pieter Cross,” she declared, transfixing me with an intense gaze. “Your father was Theoric Cross, who fought with Mr. Terrific in a Justice Battalion in Norway.”

I was at least as stunned by her words as by her beauty. How could she have known that? I glanced around, anxious that we were not being overheard, but she had been careful not to have approached me until the tables around me were empty, nor had she spoken much above a whisper.

In answer, I nodded. I trusted her implicitly, remembering her words that night on the Bridge.

We arranged for a rendezvous later that night, after my shift at St. Sergius--- and never had the hours passed so slowly! When at last I saw her again, waiting for me just before dawn in an alley near the Astronomical Clock Tower, my heart thrilled. In a spontaneous rush of mutual excitement, we kissed as if two lovers ending a long separation. There in the shadowy alley, in the dim light before dawn, we consummated our passion, stealing moments for ourselves in two lives ruled and dictated by weightier matters.

But as I had told Green Lantern, I was no mystery man. My value to the Society was in other ways. Because of my position in the Civil Service, I had access to people, places and resources ordinary citizens did not. I could travel without suspicion, carrying messages and materiel across national borders from one resistance cell to the next: from Hawkman’s cell in Prague, to Commander Steel’s in Budapest; from the Guardian’s cell in Warsaw to Starman’s in Sarajevo. I doubt anyone else (with the exception of Green Lantern, who coordinated overall from a secret base rumored to be in Vienna) knew the full extent of the Society’s membership, many of whom were not the first to wear their respective masks and capes.

Also, I acted as their chief medical advisor--- and due to the nature of their work, this in and of itself could have been a full-time job!

I continued to lead a double life, pursuing my career in the Civil Service as I was encouraged by no less than the High Commander himself, Green Lantern. My access was my greatest asset to them, and I avoided jeopardizing that at all costs. In fact, I worked too hard: after only a few years at St. Sergius, I had caught the eye of a visiting dignitary named Dr. Helga Jace. She was a stern, severe-looking woman, the kind whose veins flowed with ice. She had taken an interest in the medical therapy I had been doing with some of the more troubled patients, with which I had had some success. She told me I had great promise, and invited me to come work for her at the Science Ministry in Petrovnik.

“The Imperial Capitol!” Kendra marveled one afternoon as we lie abed together. “Pieter, you have to accept the offer. Alan has wanted to get a man inside the Markovian homelands for years. We may never get another chance like this…!”

Kendra and I had continued to see each other, though not nearly as much as I liked: she was one of her Uncle Carter’s top operatives, and her missions kept her away more often than not. The moments we were allowed to spend together were getting fewer and farther between--- and moving to the center of Markovian power would make any future moments extremely unlikely; Petrovnik would be a very dangerous place for the Justice Society.

In the end, my choice was clear: I would go to Petrovnik and work for Dr. Helga Jace at the Science Ministry--- and I would work to help bring down the Empire from within.

Long live the resistance.

Over the years, I was able to set up a number of safe-houses in Petrovnik, making it possible for the Justice Society to expand their operations in the capitol. Before long, a street gang rose up in the Old Quarter led by a charismatic young tough named Jakeem. He and his ‘Thunderers’ wreaked havoc after curfew, and always managed to melt away when the Rocket-Men appeared. I was particularly gratified to see the jagged lightning-bolt graffiti whenever it appeared on public buildings in the city. Jakeem was daring, I will give him that! In addition to Jakeem, a shadowy figure known in certain circles as ‘the Tarantula’ was spotted prowling the city, breaking into the Military Directorate and other government facilities, and generally embarrassing the hell out of the Secret Police!

Speed and I seldomly saw each other, but the hours we spent together made the weeks and months in between worth living. She was working an extended operation out of Zandia, where in recent years the Empire had crushed the ruling theocracy, and had deported most of the population out of the country. Now Zandia was infamous for a sprawling internment camp, where the Empire sent its malcontents and rabble-rousers--- those it did not shoot outright, that is. The few Justice Society operatives that had been captured alive were imprisoned there, including Pat Dugan, Hank Heywood III--- Commander Steel’s son--- and Rick Tyler--- Reg’s father.

We did good work in those years, but sometimes it felt like we weren’t doing enough. For every minor victory we celebrated (sabotaging production on a new weapons system, stealing the plans to a scheduled offensive in the Pacific), we had a major setback (Lee Travis, the Crimson Avenger was killed in London, the Indian subcontinent fell to the Rocket-Men). On one of the few occasions that I saw him, I actually asked Green Lantern why he didn’t use the vast powers of his ring to do more against the Markovians.

“I’m forbidden,” he had responded patiently, as if he had been asked this particular question many times before. “As Green Lantern, I’m the protector of a sector of the universe that includes the Earth, and can never wield my power for personal or political gain--- no matter how desirable or necessary. Only one before did so, and he is a renegade and an outcast, hunted by all who wear a power ring. No, the nations and peoples of all worlds must determine their own destinies, without help from the Corps. But that doesn’t mean Alan Scott can’t wage his own war against injustice and tyranny…”

And so we did what we could. We worked underground and behind the scenes. We saved lives and we nurtured the flame of freedom in the breasts of the people, though few suspected we existed, and fewer still connected our activities to the shining heroes of a bygone Golden Age.

But the name of the Justice Society would not be swept into the dustbin of history...

That night, under the cover of darkness, I buried my beloved Kendra in a secret place, and took the last train to the Zandian border town of Gottschalk, which Hawkman had made his new base of operations in preparation for the assault on the gulag. He was no less distraught than I was at the news I bore, and a fearful desire for vengeance seemed to possess him. It took much convincing from his lieutenant Wildcat not to unleash the full power of his cell there and then on the capitol city.

But events had forced us to move up our timetable: the next day, under the armed guard of a flight of Rocket-Men, Sanderson was being transported to the gulag in the supervision of Science Minister Helga Jace herself. We might never have a better opportunity to rescue him or to break open that camp of horrors.

So plans were revised, and a furious wave of activity ensued. For the first time, I had a direct hand in planning an operation, working with Carter and Ted long into the night on every detail of the assault.

“I want to come,” I announced as Carter was donning his mask and inspecting his weapons.

“Out of the question, kid,” Wildcat declared. “You’re no fighter, and it’s going to get very hairy out there.”

But I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“He’s with us,” Hawkman finally weighed-in. “He’s earned it.”

“It’s not that,” Wildcat insisted. “He’s too important to risk. He’s our top man on the inside, Carter. If he’s seen---.”

“I think we can find a way for him to avoid being recognized.”

The costume belonged to a man named Charles McNider. He had been killed at Malta, and thus far no one had risen to take up his legacy; I think they were saving it for me. It fit me perfectly, and the goggles assured that I should have no problems in even direct sunlight. As I checked my supply of blackout bombs, I wondered what Kendra would say if she had lived to see this…

I made it out of the train and out the other side of the tunnel to join Ted, Reg and Michael just as Michael’s explosives went off. While the three of us had been busy with the soldiers, Michael had rigged not only the hillside, but the train as well. The explosion ripped through the tunnel and collapsed the hill, causing a spectacle that was seen and heard for miles in every direction. I was later told that people in nearby villages cheered when they saw it, sensing that a blow had been struck in their name.

We made it into the nearby forest, and into the hidden tunnels before the Markovians could regroup, and were safely away, secure in the knowledge that the prison break had also been successful.

We suffered only one casualty that Christmas Day, but it was a big one. Of all of us, Carter had had the most impossible task, of fending off Rocket-Men, and their flamethrower-wielding, tank-riding backup.. He fought like a warrior-prince in the skies of Zandia that day, doing enough damage to them that they were forced to throw more and more reinforcements on him, and thus away from us. He engaged them single-handedly, drawing their fearsome firepower and indignant rage. The plan had been for him to disengage when the hillside blew, but there had simply been too many of them. The only witness to his fall had been Josef Prohaska: arriving on the scene too late to save Hawkman, the Blackhawk captain watched as Carter Hall saluted him from afar--- then detonated the Nth grenade he carried. The blast took most of his foes with him, and sparkled in the sky like a holiday pyrotechnic display. I’m not usually one given to ruminations of a mythical afterlife, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking about Shiera and Kendra as he pulled the pin.

Though we lost Hawkman, we had gained much. The Markovian Rocket Man program had been utterly decimated; the Empire literally had to rebuild their numbers from scratch. Commander Steel had set free the entire population of the gulag, leading them into the tunnels while the Blackhawks utterly demolished the camp. We freed important dissident leaders from across Europe, scientists and philosophers who we would integrate back into society, and who would continue their work of speaking out against the Empire. Also, we got back lost comrades of our own, reuniting families of our own Society. Back at headquarters, there were tears and rejoicing, and for the first time, on that momentous Christmas Day, I felt as if I belonged to this group of superheroes, these demigods.