JSA #14: Breath of the Dragon, Pt 1

“She must have been an incredible woman.”

Carter Hall turned from the memorial to his wife, shading his eyes against the setting sun, watching as Karen Starr trudged up the path to the garden they called Valhalla, wearing sweats and a tight JSA Academy t-shirt, her hair still wet from the showers.

“She was.” He answered simply, giving Karen a wistful smile. He reached out to take his winged helm from where he’d set it on the headstone; he was in costume, his wings tucked in close to his back. “I come here whenever I visit the Academy. We never spent much time here, when we were married, though. Shiera was a city girl. But I think she would have liked this.” He looked around. It was a late, winter’s day, but many of the trees still had leaves; in the distance was a lake and in the spring, flowers grew along the hillsides. The sky was a brilliant mélange of purple, orange and pink.

Karen Starr regarded the tall, solemn man; his face betrayed no emotion but he seemed alone with a profound grief. Exiled from her home dimension and any family that she still had, Karen knew a little of what he must have been feeling.

“She’d understand, you know,” Karen jammed her hands into the pockets of her hooded sweatshirt, and took the plunge. “I mean, you don’t have to always be lonely.”

Carter raised his eyebrows and acknowledged the offer implicit in her eyes and stance.

“You’re half my age…”

“Don’t give me that crap,” Karen challenged, walking slowly toward him. “We’re both adults. And I’m not talking about playing house, Carter. We both face danger and death on a daily basis,” she was close to him now, looking up at him. “Sometimes we just have to celebrate being alive, you know? Remember what it is we fight for.”

With a deliberate slowness, she reached out, gripped the cross-straps of his harness and pulled him in for a kiss. At first, Carter was taken aback at her boldness, but a suppressed longing quickly responded. His hands on her hips, he pulled her in tight and kissed her back. His helmet fell, unnoticed, to the ground.

When they paused for breath, Karen gave him a crooked smile. “I knew you had it in you.”

Carter had to smile despite himself. He kissed her again, more urgently now. Karen pressed herself against him, her hands running over his wing harness, searching for the release. His fingers were in her hair…

“Wait…!” He raised his head, looking back towards the estate.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” Karen gave him a look, then noticed what had caught his attention: a line of black cars making their way up Rimble Road, towards the house. “Oh. Damn it. I forgot. The emergency meeting.”

“That’ll be General Harrigan, from Homeland Security. Alan invited him.” Carter told her, arranging a stray strand of her hair back into place. “The others are probably already there. We should go.”

“Damn it.” Karen said again, giving him another lopsided smile, but releasing him. “Just don’t think this means you’re off the hook, Carter.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He bent and picked up his helmet, carrying it in the crook of his arm as they walked side-by-side down the hill, to the house.

“So what do you think it is? Those Fourth Reich jokers or that stuff in Bahdnesia?” Karen asked.

“Both, probably,” Carter grimaced. For a few minutes, he had actually forgotten about the escalating situations in Europe and Asia. “But judging by our new houseguest, I’d say Bahdnesia is the priority of the moment.”

Karen snorted. “You mean Prince Vikram Prettyboy bootylicious Shan---.”

There was no warning. The explosion shook the ground like an earthquake, and a blast of heat and light enveloped them. The concussive force hurled them back like toys in a hurricane, and debris flew through the air in fiery chunks all around.

Stunned, but relatively unharmed thanks to her Kryptonian physiognomy, Karen shielded her eyes from the fireball that was rising from what was--- only seconds before--- the JSA Academy.

“My god, what just---!”

An inarticulate sound of pain and anguish came from behind her. She whirled to find Carter struggling to his feet, his skin blistered and cracked in places, and his costume mostly on fire. Before she could act, a secondary explosion rocked the grounds--- it must have been one of the back-up generators, or the gas tank of any one of a dozen vehicles. She managed to keep her footing, but her clothes were blown to tatters.

There came a piercing, high-pitched call. As Karen watched, a lone, winged figure shot up from the conflagration, like an archangel escaping the inferno, trailing drops of fire.

“Norda,” Carter rasped, pointing. It was indeed the young Feitheran, fleeing the explosion. But he was completely aflame, screaming in an otherworldly voice, and flying erratically.

“I got him!” Karen launched herself into the air, aiming for her injured teammate. She was faster than Carter would have been, reaching his godson in seconds. Maddened by the pain and fear, he fought her, but was no match for Power Girl. She wrestled him out of the sky, the two of them plunging into the nearby lake.

Hawkman could spare no time to check on them. His flesh torn and burnt, he spread his own flaming wings and flew towards the burning house. His friends were in there--- what was left of them.







All she could hear was the roar of the flames.

Jo Pratt had been descending a staircase, just behind Ray Terrill and Alan’s aide, Dolly Dickles, when all hell broke loose in the mansion. They had been making their way downstairs, to the great room where they were all gathering for the meeting later. Even the active-duty JSAers were coming, and she--- like the rest of the Young All-Stars--- felt a visceral thrill at being included.

Then there was a noise so deafeningly loud her eardrums burst--- but she hardly noticed, because a second later the air itself was on fire and an overwhelming blast of heat picked her up and sent her body crashing through walls, furniture and flames. Breath was knocked out of her on impact with some surface--- the flames all around made it impossible for her to see--- and something big hit her, slamming into her arm, wrenching it out of its socket. The scream torn from her was drowned out by the chaos of the explosion, but the air it required was quickly stolen by the hungry flames.

She was choking, flailing about blindly. Was she on fire? She could take a punch from Solomon Grundy and remain standing, and her body was capable of producing and releasing a nuclear charge, but she had no reason to believe she could survive complete immolation.

Another explosion made the whole world tilt and shake. She lost her balance and staggered, falling--- she must have been blown clear to an upper storey by the initial blast. Through sheets of flame, the ground rushed to meet her, hitting her hard, like a sudden slap to the face. She cried out, rolling through sharp, jagged particles. Every bit of her cried out in pain, every breath a competition with the fire for its fuel.

Through slitted eyelids, all she could see were flames. Everything was burning out of control, wildly, furiously. Objects were crashing down all around her; a flaming timber shattered into kindling not a foot from her, showering her with sparks and fiery splinters of wood.

Get on yer feet, girl, she heard Wildcat’s voice cajoling her. There ain’t no ten-count in our line of work. If you lay down, yer dead, and so is everyone who’s countin’ on you…

It took her a moment to realize it, so disoriented was she by the blast, but she was, herself, on fire. She lurched to her feet and without giving it any thought, rammed her dislocated arm into the closest surface. Excruciating pain lanced up her side, but her arm settled back into place. With her regained utility, she beat out the flames on her body, relieved to find it was only her costume that was burning; her skin, where it poked through, was red and angry, but not blistered or charred. The blood on her face was from her burst eardrums, but she couldn’t worry about that now.

Please don’t let me be the only one, she thought, flinging her arm up to shield her eyes and face. Please let there be survivors. Visibility was terrible through the flames and heat haze. Smoke stung her eyes, but she would not give up. She cast about desperately, searching for any signs of life--- or the bodies of her friends.

Amidst the inferno, a thin spark of hope flared. Through a flickering curtain of fire, she saw an arm, sticking out from beneath a pile of shattered and flaming debris. She made the mistake of trying to call out, but her voice could not be heard over the crackling flames and she inhaled a lungful of smoke, which doubled her over, coughing and gasping for breath.

It took her precious seconds to recover. A loud rending sound alerted her to a new danger, and she ducked to the side just as tons of falling masonry rained down, effectively blocking her way with a chest-high pile. Not hesitating or compensating for her injured arm, she clasped her hands together and brought them down as one on the pile, releasing her atomic strength into the obstruction. The debris cracked and scattered, much of it pulverized by the force of her blow. Tingling with the nuclear reaction infusing her cells, Jo Pratt barreled through the obstruction and rushed headlong across the room, to the spot where she’d seen the arm.

A part of her brain registered that this was the North Gallery. Ma Hunkel kept the good china in bureaus along one wall. All of it was smashed and burning now.

She began hauling burning debris off the body. Unrecognizable detritus was hurled away as fast as she could work, and it wasn’t long before she could make out the body was Ray Terrill’s… She had hoped he’d been able to trigger his transformation into a being a pure photonic energy, but that hope was dashed. It looked like in the split second after the explosion, he had elected instead to try to shield his companion, for Dolly Dickles was there, too, buried beneath him. Both of them were covered in burns and blood--- Jo could only hope the debris had afforded them some cover.

Unable to afford a more gentle approach, Jo lifted them bodily from the wreckage, hoping not to exacerbate any injuries, but knowing she couldn’t waste any time.

She had to get them out of the house, out of the blazing hellhole that had--- only minutes ago--- been their home and refuge…



In a lovely, two storey house in a gentrified neighborhood of Keystone City, old friends had gathered for dinner. Joan Garrick, her husband Jay boasted, made the best pot roast in the Midwest, a fact to which Johnny and Libby Chambers could now well attest.

“Just looking at that dinner made me remember what it tasted like,” Robotman sighed wistfully. It had taken some convincing, but once he agreed to join them, he had committed himself to enjoying the evening. Now that the plates were cleared, the five of them had retired to the living room to relax a bit before Jay had to leave for his meeting at the Academy.

“Well, you never ate a masterpiece like we had tonight, Bob,” Johnny Chambers patted his expanding waistline. Thanks to a misguided chronal attack by an old enemy of the JSA’s back in 1951, Johnny--- like so many other Mystery Men and Women of the Golden Age--- aged at an exceeding slow rate, the only concession to his nearly-ninety years being the graying of the blonde hair at his temples and a few extra notches in his belt. “Joan, as usual, you outdid yourself, I only wish my Libby had your culinary skills.”

His wife, Libby Lawrence-Chambers, perched on the arm of the couch next to Johnny, gave him a playful swipe on the shoulder. “Watch it, mister. Or you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. Again.” Her mock glare was so fierce that it made all of them laugh and Johnny shiver. Libby was still a stunner, though she had long ago changed her Veronica Lake, peek-a-boo hairstyle for a shorter, more contemporary cut. It suited her, in her capacity as managing director of American News Network, the gold standard of 24-hour cable and internet news.

“I’m just kidding, darling,” Johnny rubbed his shoulder and blew his wife a kiss--- then promptly changed the subject. “So, Jay, tell us how Jesse’s doing? We haven’t seen her in ages. She still spending all her time with Rex’s kid?”

Jay accepted a cup of coffee from the tray Joan was passing around. She had even prepared a cup for Robotman, who had to decline; they were working so hard to ensure he fit in, that Bob Crane could not help but feel gratitude.

“She’s an amazing kid, Johnny,” Jay shook his head in admiration. “Smart and confident, with a good command of her powers. The others really look up to her. Must take after Libby,” he gave Libby a wink, which was rewarded with a smirk from Libby to her husband. “And yes,” Jay went on, “She and Rick Tyler really have hit it off. But he’s a good kid, so…”

The rest of Jay’s words were lost to Bob Crane, as he picked up a Priority One instant message from JSA HQ. It was Beth Chapel, on monitor duty, sounding tense, professional and very, very concerned…

If Robotman had blood rather than liquid coolant and hydraulic lubricant running through the venal channels of his construct, it would have chilled at Beth Chapel’s words.

“Turn on the TV--- the news. Now.”

His inflectionless voice dropped into the room like a heavy stone into a pool, instantly seizing their attention. They all stared at his sudden iciness, but Joan grabbed the remote control.

“--- interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you this special news bulletin. This is Stephanie Stanford with WNYX, New York. There has been a massive explosion in Westchester County, just outside Bedford Corners, at an undisclosed location. Emergency crews have been dispatched but eyewitnesses on the scene report a fire raging out of control through at least one large building, possibly a private residence. At this time, there is no explanation for the explosion. Stay tuned as we bring you details on this developing story...”

Blood drained from their faces. Into the sudden stillness, Robotman told them, “HQ confirms. That’s the Academy. They are getting no signals from the house, and estate sensors are picking up only static---.”

There was a rush of wind that fluttered hair and clothes and Jay Garrick vanished. Johnny Chambers shot up from the couch, darting a look at his wife.

“Go.” Libby’s voice cracked. “Go!”

Johnny Chambers started running as he yelled out the calculation to his Speed Formula, then blurred away.

Libby stared at the TV screen, and took the hand Joan reached out to her. The two women held each other as Robotman sent out a signal and summoned his ride back home.



Amidst the blaze, Alan Scott was limned in his own Green Flame.

All around him was a burning, smoke-filled vision of hell. He had barely had time to register Harrigan’s actions--- as if his mind had refused to process the evidence of his eyes. It just didn’t make any sense. General Harrigan, Harry Harrigan, ol’ Hop Harrigan’s boy, who Alan had known all his life, and after the events of 1951 the only man he’d trusted as the official government liaison to the JSA--- a traitor? A suicide bomber? No, it didn’t make any damn sense…

The Dragon King sends his regards…

The words had been dragged through gritted teeth. The look in Harry’s eyes had been dead, empty. Had he been drugged? Under some kind of mind control?

He would never know for sure. Harry had been wearing enough C4 to blow the house to kingdom come. Within the protection his ring afforded, Alan Scott saw Harry Harrigan vaporized in the first instant of the blast. It had all happened so fast, Alan had not had time for conscious thought; but he had wielded the green ring for so long that it had become an extension of his subconsciousness: an emerald aura of protection expanded from his fist, seeking to contain the explosion.

In horror, Alan Scott saw now that even that had been too late. His hesitation at Harry’s betrayal had cost him precious milliseconds--- the firestorm had been unleashed. People were going to die. People he cared about.

It raged all around him, though he could barely see through the whorls of fire. He cast about, yellow flames mingling with the green flames of his aura, probing with his ring. A blackened skeleton, the flesh seared completely away rose in a green bubble and Alan swore. The only other people in the room besides himself and Harry had been Michael Holt, Mathilda Hunkel and Prince Vikram, the object of the Dragon King’s regards.

“Alan!”

Impossibly, he heard his name over the chaos of destruction. But there was Michael Holt, alive and whole, behind an invisible forcefeild, projected by a trio of floating metallic spheres; and within the forcefeild with him was Ma Hunkel, unconscious in Michael’s arms. Alan would find out later that his own ring-generated aura had protected them both, at least long enough for Michael to activate his shield tech around them both.

So the corpse was Prince Vikram.

“Hold on, I’ll get you out of there!” Alan yelled to Michael over the cacophony. But just then, the secondary explosion erupted, and Alan was showered with a blast of flaming debris, much of it splintered wood, filled with the cellulose material that was the only known substance on Earth able to defeat his ring. He cried out, slashed and burned. A big piece caught him across the side of his head and he went down in a spray of blood.

“Alan!” Michael Holt yelled, steadying his grip on Ma Hunkel.

Alan Scott crumpled to the floor.



“… for more on that fire in Westchester, we go back to Stephanie Stanford and our affiliate at WNYX. Stephanie, we have unconfirmed reports that the scene of the disaster is actually the Hall Estate on Rimble Road, a property that our sources say belongs to the JSA Trust. Could this location be the site of the so-called JSA Academy, the secret retreat of the famed American superhero team, and where they are said to be training their younger members? And if so, was the explosion the result of an attack against them?”



Hawkman smashed his way past the flaming conflagration of a ground floor wall, most of his costume on fire. The devastation was nearly complete: walls and support struts were caved-in from the intensity of the blast, so upper levels of the house had collapsed into the lower, and all of it burned with a jealous fury. But there had to be survivors; Norda had gotten out, and would hopefully be okay, but he couldn’t be the only one…

It could not end like this. The long, storied history of the JSA would not end tonight. Hawkman would not let it.

Flames from his burning wings crept up his shoulders. He wrenched off his harness, hurling them away; the healing factor provided by his decades-long exposure to Nth Metal was becoming quickly overloaded by his accumulating injuries, but he didn’t care. He had spotted something.

Amidst the brightness, a shadow flitted where none should exist.

“Obsidian!” Hawkman roared.

The shadow emerged close by him, two incandescent eyes glowing in the depths.

“Where are they all? Help me get them out!”

Todd Rice briefly became corporeal, and in his hands was the body of David Knight. It was an unusual friendship: from his first day on the team, when Obsidian had saved Starman’s life, the bluff, athletic son of Theo Knight had developed a connection with Alan Scott’s troubled, introverted son that no one else shared. But the body in Todd’s hands was covered in blood and burns and not moving; a huge chunk of his right leg was missing, flesh blasted away to reveal the splinters of shattered bone.

“Jennie is upstairs; she’s not hurt but she’s in shock!” Obsidian had to yell to be heard over the flames. He coughed, swore, and melted into shadow again.

Hawkman nodded. “Get him out of here!” He plunged deeper into the house, staggering to dodge leaping flames, as Obsidian bore his burden away. Of course Jennie-Lynn--- Alan Scott’s daughter, Jade, a living personification of the Starheart--- would survive the blast. He needed her help to find the others.

But he found another, even more incongruous sight next: he crashed shoulder-first into a more open space, and was splashed with water. The room all around, while mostly still on fire, seemed also to be steaming with clouds of moisture. He soon found the reason: Icicle stood over the fallen forms of three bodies, emitting whirling torrents of ice and snow, two-handed, creating a protective blizzard in the heart of the firestorm that was almost instantly melted as it coated the area, making the room like a sauna. Cameron Mahkent, the Icicle, was fighting a losing battle keeping the flames back, and he was losing it quickly: the fierce strain showed on his face, but hope flickered as he glimpsed Hawkman through the curtains of fire.

“Hurry!” Icicle called out between clenched teeth, his voice all but swallowed by the blaze. “I can’t hold out much longer.” Hawkman could see Icicle’s skin, which was normally a frigid blue, almost looked a natural color; the young man was marshalling every reserve he had, using up the very fuel of his vitality.

The bodies Icicle protected were Artemis Crock, Rick Tyler and Jesse Chambers--- they must have been together when the explosion occurred. All of them were unconscious, and in various degrees of hurt, but Hawkman could not worry about that; Icicle had kept them alive, now he needed to get them out. He hefted Rick over one shoulder, then Artemis over the other.

“Can you carry Jesse?” Hawkman called out.

Icicle nodded, wild-eyed. “Yes! But I don’t think I could keep up with my powers, then!”

“I’ll clear the way, just stay behind me!” Hawkman waited a moment as Cameron Mahkent dropped his icy assault on the encroaching fire and bent to pick-up Jesse Chambers. Heat rushed into the small pocket of chilled air. Without any more hesitation, Hawkman took off at a run, plunging through wavering flames, smashing aside burning obstacles, making a path for them. Taking a deep breath and bearing his fallen teammate in his arms, Cam followed.



The scene outside was just as chaotic. Men in dark suits from General Harrigan’s retinue ran in all directions; some were on fire, some were helping to save others, and some were going for help. Cars had been overturned by the blast, sent rolling across the green; one had caught fire and exploded, killing the driver inside instantly.

No one knew what had happened or who was in charge when a soaking wet Power Girl landed amidst a group of them, a body over her shoulder. Northwind was burned and bedraggled, but moaning and alive as she laid him on the grass.

“Keep an eye on him!” she ordered the shell-shocked men, then turned toward the burning house in time to see Jo Pratt stagger towards them, gasping for breath, bodies slung over her shoulders. She called to Jo, wasting no time, flying straight to her and taking from her the weight of Ray Terrill’s and Dolly Dickles’ bodies.

“Hospital,” Jo choked, her chest heaving. “They need oxygen. And blood.”

“You could use some yourself, kiddo. C’mon!” Power Girl took all their weight on. She deposited the group of wounded teammates back near the government men. “Where’s the nearest hospital?” she demanded of one man, who was yelling into a phone.

“Bedfordton,” he told her. “But it’s eight miles away. The ambulances will be---.”

“I’ll be back soon for the rest of the wounded,” Power Girl cut him off as she rose again into the air, Ray, Dolly and Norda bundled in her arms; Jo waved her off, indicating she’d be fine. Then Power Girl streaked off into the distance.



One moment she was talking with Norda, watching Todd and David playing chess and arguing about politics, and in the next moment Jennie-Lynn Hayden had been transported into hell, complete with fire, brimstone and the screams of the dying.

The blast swept everything away in a fiery rush: the room was cleansed in a hot wind that lit up everything in its path--- but not Jennie. She was a child of the Starheart, a primordial energy source that infused every cell in her body; no mere fire, no matter how fierce, could harm her. Her brother Todd was the dark flip-side of her light, the negaton to her positon, and he was also unharmed, his shadowself instinctively enveloping and protecting him. Neither Norda nor David Knight was as fortunate. The Feitheran went up like a candle, his body blown out the window in a jet of flame, his awful screech of agony pitched above the drone of doomsday. But David Knight had been partially shielded by the twins, and so spared a quick, painless death. The force of the blast had sent all of them sprawling, careening across the room, bouncing like pinballs off whatever they’d hit.

Something hot had splashed Jennie’s face, stinging her eyes and tasting like copper in her mouth. David’s screams filled her ears; he was so close that his screams downed out the roar of the furnace the room had become. Through the glare of the flames she saw him writhing on the floor, one leg a bloody, mangled mess, half of him on fire. His blood drenched her. He was screaming. He was going to die.

Then Todd was there, a cool, dark shadow, sucking light and heat. He blanketed David Knight and the screaming stopped--- but Jennie still heard the echo in her head.

“Jennie, snap out of it, damnit!”

The voice was her brother’s, but it barely pierced the fug in her brain, the horror in her heart. One minute she was among family and friends and all was right in the world, and in the next, everything was coming crashing down. Those people were going to die, now. Everything was coming to an end. The blood on her face, chest and hands burned hotter than the flames licking hungrily all around her.

She had no idea how long she just stood there, the soft green glow of the Starheart protecting her from the firestorm. Surely only moments? Her brother was gone, along with the wounded David Knight. A secondary explosion rocked the house, causing her to stumble. She fell to her knees, and pain blossomed from her side. Charred splinters of wood had pierced her aura, shredded her sweatshirt and scored the flesh of her abdomen. Blood welled up from the wound. She put a hand to the wound, pressing on it to staunch the bleeding. It wasn’t serious, but the pain dragged her mind into focus: the power of the Starheart was vulnerable to the cellulose in the wood, so she was in the middle of a burning deathtrap.

But it wasn’t for herself she was afraid: her father’s ring would be all but useless in the burning house!

She could make out little else but flames. Extending her arm, she emitted a green beam from her Power Pulse, the star-shaped birthmark on her palm. It acted as a homing beacon, showing her where to go. She flew through the inferno, cutting through the flames, but dodging the deadly timber.

On the lower floors, she spotted Hawkman and Icicle, both of them carrying bodies, trying to find an exit that was not fully engulfed. The fire encircled them, cutting off their route to the doors.

“Wait!” Jennie yelled to them. She flung out her arm and from the kitchen nearby seized the blackened and twisted stainless steel refrigerator with her green beam and sent it hurtling against a wall, smashing through to the outside. The she grabbed the stove, the marble-top counters, part of the sink, and sent everything that was not wood crashing against the wall, battering it down, widening the hole and creating an escape route. The night air rushed in, giving the fire more fuel, but Hawkman and Icicle were able to get out.

She found her father in the headmaster’s office. It had been ground zero for the explosion, and was beyond recognition. A blackened skeleton was scattered on the floor, and in a corner--- much to her amazement!--- was Micheal Holt, behind a forcefeild, with an unconscious Ma Hunkel. But her heart sank again when she spotted Alan Scott, on the floor, still in the protective aura of his ring, but bleeding profusely from a head wound. He wasn’t moving.

“Hang on,” she called to Michael. “I’m getting everybody out of here now!”

The antique iron safe in the corner was caught up in a green clamp and hurled at a wall that was little more than a flaming sheet. Jennie used it as a battering ram, clearing a large enough space, then scooped up her father, Holt and Hunkel and flew them out of the room just as the ceiling fell in.



“… we are coming to you live from 99 Rimble Road, the site of a terrible explosion and a massive fire that has completely engulfed the Colonial-era house we can now confirm was indeed the so-called JSA Academy, retreat of the world’s oldest--- and perhaps most beloved--- superhero team. As of right now, we cannot report the cause of the explosion, but speculation is that this was an attack on the Justice Society by a thus-far unknown enemy. Sanderson Hawkins, executor of the JSA Trust and official spokesman of the team, has not yet been reached for comment.

“Emergency teams and first responders are on the scene, but the blaze was put out, only moments ago, with the arrival of the Flash and a second speedster we can now confirm was Johnny Quick, a former ally of the World War Two-era JSA, and father of the Young All-Star known as Cyclone. The two fleet-footed heroes doused the flames by creating a speed-vortex, or vacuum, around the house, suffocating the blaze almost instantly.

“But incalculably damage has already been done. Casualties are estimated to be in the dozens. We already have three confirmed dead, including Major-General Harry Harrigan of Homeland Security, himself the son of a Golden Age superhero. More are sure to follow. The wounded are being transported to Westchester Medical Center…”

“Turn it off,” Wildcat growled, wearing a track in the carpet of the hospital’s waiting room. Wordlessly, Commander Steel, who was closest to the TV, put it on mute.

Gathered in the too-bright, and anti-septic room were the survivors of the Westchester event: Hawkman, Power Girl, Icicle, Atomika, Obsidian and Jade and Michael Holt. They had been soon joined by the others from the city, Wildcat, Sandman and Commander Steel from HQ. Flash and Johnny Quick had arrived minutes later, after helping the emergency teams get control of the fire.

Most of them weren’t even in costume, and those that were, like Wildcat, didn’t even bother wearing their masks, so the concern in their faces were etched for all to see.

“I can’t deal with this waiting. I need to hit somethin’,” said Wildcat, punctuating the remark with a jab to his open palm.

The wounded had nearly overwhelmed the small-town hospital. The JSAers could do little but wait as the doctors and nurses struggled to save their friends. No one’s fate was certain. Northwind, Starman, Ray, Tigress, Cyclone, Hourman, Green Lantern, Dolly Dickles, Ma Hunkel all hovered at death’s door. Two members of the Homeland Security detail had been declared dead at the scene. Luckily, Doctors Pieter Cross and Beth Chapel had come in on the Steel Eagle with Wildcat and the others, and Charles McNider’s two brilliant protégés were in there now, giving their friend’s the best chance they had to survive.

An hour passed. And then another. Desperate but controlled activity could be heard from down the corridor. Personnel in scrubs and masks came in and out; all of them had too much blood on them.

Then the family members began to arrive. Rex and Wendi Tyler came in first, pushing passed the police cordon outside.

“My boy,” Rex demanded, his throat thick with emotion. “Where’s my boy, Wes?”

But Wesley Dodds had no answer other than a meaningful glance at the door to the O.R.

More time passed. Some of them clung together, like Jade and Obsidian, while others brooded, pondering the unimaginable. Maxine Hunkel, who had also come in on the Steel Eagle, cried softly in a corner, Commander Steel trying, but providing little comfort.

Molly Scott was soon there, and so was Joan Garrick and Libby Lawrence, each of them rushing into the arms of their worried husbands. Joan and Libby each held one of Molly’s hands and waited.

The first word came soon after that. It was Pieter Cross who emerged from behind those foreboding double doors that divided the living from the dying. His handsome face was solemn, his scrubs soiled with blood and sweat. Every face in the room turned at his entrance.

“I… I’m not sure where to begin,” he released a heavy sigh and rubbed his eyes to clear the weariness from them. “It’s not good. We do have most of them stabilized, but all of them have serious injuries, some of them very serious. David’s lost a lot of blood, and he may lose his right leg. Ray has first degree burns over 70% of his body--- his powers are fluctuating, constantly trying to engage, making it… difficult… to treat him. We have him in a medically-induced coma until I can figure out how to proceed. Norda…” Pieter gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve been studying Feitheran physiognomy, and I’m definitely no expert, but other than treating his burns and setting broken bones, I’m not sure what else to do for him. His wings are… beyond my ability to repair. I’d call for a consult, but…” Another shrug. “They’re hurt pretty badly, but Rick, Artemis and Jesse don’t have life-threatening injuries. Rick is in the worst shape, with a broken collar-bone and some nasty lacerations. But they will make it…”

There was something about the way he said “they” that made all of them hold their breath.

“Alan…!” The word dropped heavily from Molly, one shaking hand going to her mouth to forestall the question she could not bring herself to ask. Joan and Jay took up places on either side of her, put she could only see the despair in the face of Pieter Cross.

“Molly, Alan sustained severe head trauma. We’ve done all we can to relieve the swelling of his brain, but only time will tell the extent of the damage. I’ve seen injuries like this before, though. We should prepare for the worst.”

Molly Scott lowered her head, the tears falling silently.

“He’ll get through this, Mol,” Jay Garrick told her in a thick voice. “I’ve never known a man with a greater will to live. Alan will get through this.”

But Pieter Cross was not finished with his bad news. He took a shuddering breath and plowed ahead. “I’m afraid we couldn’t save Ms. Dickles. Her injuries were extensive and catastrophic. She died on the operating table a few minutes ago. I--- I don’t know what…” he finished feebly.

Molly Scott raised a tear-streaked face, aghast. “No,” she shook her head, as if denying it could change the truth. “She can’t be… Dolly? Oh my god, how do I tell her parents? Alan is going to be devastated…” She broke out into full-blown sobbing now. Joan Garrick comforted her, but she was crying, as well.

In fact, no eye in that waiting room was dry, all of them thinking of the vibrant young life, viciously and untimely snuffed out.

Michael Holt asked in a firm voice even as he dashed away tears, “Pieter, how is Ma? Is she awake yet? Can Maxine see her at least?”

Ma Hunkel had emerged relatively unscathed from the destruction of the Academy, protected by Holt’s force field. But Pieter’s face grew, if possibly, more grim.

“I thought,” he began shakily, glancing between Michael and the expectant face of Ma Hunkel’s granddaughter Maxine. “I thought the trauma nurse told you already… While she had no injuries from the blast, Ma was in shock at the scene. She suffered a massive cardiac infarction sometime very soon afterward, possibly in route. She was dead on arrival. I’m so sorry.”

Maxine buried her face in Commander Steel’s shoulder and wept. He held her and stared out across the sea of astonished faces. Not Ma Hunkel, they all seemed to be thinking. As long as there had been a Justice Society, Mathilda Hunkel had been there, there for them, protecting the protectors. Every one of them felt like they had lost a mother.

Pieter Cross stood before them, looking like a man who had wrestled the devil and lost. Michael Holt crossed the short distance to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. His gratitude spoke for them all.

“Look,” rasped Wildcat, pointing at the muted television set. Someone restored the volume.

On the screen was a newscaster, but what had gotten Wildcat’s attention was the inset photograph of a man in elaborate robes his features hidden by a hood with the slits cut out, through which was visible wide, maniacal eyes of deep red.

The newscaster was saying, “… have recently obtained this video transmission from a group claiming to be the Black Dragon Society, a terrorist organization that was rumored to have operated out of the Far East, but has recently returned to the world stage with the recent overthrow of the Bahdnesian government. Please be warned that you may find this transmission to be disturbing,”

“Turn it up,” Hawkman stood, his hand falling reflexively to the mace strapped to his belt.

On the screen, the picture of the Dragon King came alive. “People of the West, be warned. The Black Dragon Society has returned. We have already claimed this island of Bahdnesia for our own, and will eliminate all threats to our sovereignty here. The old king is dead, long live the Dragon King!” He raised a clenched fist; the skin was mottled and gnarled, the fingernails long and yellowed. “And today we have struck another blow against our enemies, at the very heart of the Justice Society of America. Tonight, their secret retreat is ashes and those not dead are surely dying. Betrayed from within, the JSA has fallen. And my agents have infiltrated the halls of power across the globe, from Washington to Moscow to Beijing! With a word, I can unleash the breath of the dragon across the world!” He opened his clenched fist and cupped a small flame, which raged like a miniature fireball in his palm. “In the end, all will bend their knees to me!” He threw the fireball at the camera, engulfing the screen with a split second of fire before it went to static and then blackness. The newscaster returned, visibly shaken. “That was the purported Dragon King of the Black Dragon Society, claiming responsibility for tonight’s attack on the JSA. As of right now, we have no confirmation of casualties, but we go to Stephanie Stanford on the scene in Westchester---.”

The screen went blank. Three new figures had entered the room, the lead, most familiar one having shut off the TV.

“My friends,” the steely gaze of Captain Marvel, chairman of the Justice Society swept across them, with compassion and pride. His hands were on his hips and he commanded the room, his confidence giving them strength. “There are no words,” he began, emotion clogging his throat. He swallowed and started again. “There are no words to describe what we have been through tonight. What our dearest friends and allies have endured. What our families will endure in the coming days,” his gaze lingered for a moment on Jade and Obsidian, on Molly and Maxine. “And we’ll deal with that. But we have a more urgent task at hand first.”

“Damn straight,” said Wildcat.

Hawkman nodded tightly.

Sandman checked the charge in his wirepoon gun and reholstered, nodding his preparedness.

“Who’re you’re friends, Cap?” asked the Flash, indicating the two new figures standing behind their chairman.

Both of them were dressed much like Captain Marvel, but both seemed younger. One was a young woman, her costume white and gold, the other a young man, clad in blue and red. Both wore the crest of the thunderbolt on their chest.

“This is Miss Marvel and Kid Marvel,” Cap introduced them with a gesture. “Consider them JSA Reserves for the mission to Bahdnesia.” Wearing an uncharacteristically grim expression, Captain Marvel put one fist in the palm of his other hand and cracked his knuckles. “The Dragon King may have declared us down and out, but the Justice Society of America doesn’t fall. Let’s go show that monster just how wrong he is…!”