Post by HoM on Mar 6, 2018 13:14:38 GMT -5
Previousy, in Secret Six..
One night in Gotham City, a sextet of criminals were abducted by the mysterious crime lord known only as 'the Voice' and blackmailed into acting as his agents in the field! The Six’s first mission was to rob Oswald Cobblepot, a.k.a. the Penguin, a mission they barely succeeded in, but not without injury. They have since earned the Penguin’s ire, and he’s dedicated his resources to hunting them down and bringing them in by any means necessary!
Mister Toad - Amphibious member of the Circus of the Strange. Drives cars. Eats flies. Croaks.
Double Down (Jeremy Tell) - Rogue gambler from Central City. Can turn his skin into razor-sharp playing cards. Still needs to grow a spine.
Mist III (Nash Nimbus) - Opal City criminal. Able to become a cloud of living vapor. Knows how to hold a grudge.
Sickle (Timur Abramovichi) - Hulking Siberian ex-pat. Criminal enforcer. Southpaw.
Copperhead (Larissa Diaz) - Assassin for the Penitente Cartel. Master contortionist. Expert in poisons. The only real professional here.
Oswald Cobblepot was dissatisfied. As he sat in his extremely damaged club-- with fractured walls, broken tables and chairs, dented doors, and yellow caution tape wrapped around all of it-- while an odious private investigator discussed the case he was being paid a king’s ransom to work on, the best word Oswald could use to describe his situation was “dissatisfied”.
It had been over a week since six criminals broke into the Iceberg Lounge, trashed it in a scrap with Oswald’s associates, stole an 86-carat diamond he’d been fencing then ran off into the night. Their actions had resulted in hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage, unwanted police attention, and worst of all, a sullied reputation for Gotham’s own Penguin.
Now, sat at a table, sipping a glass of red wine, he and his assistant listened to private investigator Jack Forbes. Backed up by a cork board decorated with photographs, mugshots, papers, and notes, he relayed the results of his investigation.
“Alright, here’s what we know,” said Forbes. He tapped a security photo from the incident at the club, one that showed a man with long blond hair, wearing a mask and a bulletproof vest covered in pouches. “Blondie over here is a complete unknown. Nobody’s seen him, nobody’s heard of him. As far as I can tell, he's a new player in the game.”
“Is this the hard-hitting, in-depth investigation I’m paying through the nose for?” asked Oswald. “If you short me on this, I take your fee back- with interest.”
“Easy, Ozzie, easy! I always come through for my clients. Let’s start with the biggest fish ‘kay?” He pointed to a mugshot of a Latina woman with messy, dyed hair. “Larissa Diaz, alias Copperhead; professional assassin for the Penitente Cartel in Central America. She’s wanted in connection to a whopping twenty-three murders by both the DEA and the Mexican Federales. Exactly what she’s doing this far north of the border with these chuckleheads is beyond me, but smart money says the Cartel has nothing to do with it, which is… curious.”
His attention shifted to an old photograph of a dark-haired man with a harsh expression on his face. “Pop quiz, boss-man: Who was ‘Kyle Nimbus’?”
“He was an old villain, wasn’t he?” Oswald answered. “He called himself ‘the Mist’, ran with the Injustice Society during the 40’s?”
“Top marks boss-- although now the geezer has a new lease on life and goes by ‘Zephyr’. Spends his copious free time running around with Neo-Nazis in Eastern Europe. But he did leave behind two brats in the States.”
Forbes looked at a picture of two people: a dark-haired man and woman who looked similar to each other. First, he tapped on the man. “Junior here made a splash a few months back-- got his hands on dad’s superpowers, started making a ruckus in Opal City. He got put away for it and, oddly, has been sitting pretty behind bars since. The girl, Nash,” he poked the photo of the woman, “hasn’t been heard from since her brother got arrested. Now isn’t that something?”
“What about the human frog?”
Forbes pointed at another mugshot. “That’s Mister Toad. He was part of the Circus of the Strange, those Eurotrash weirdos who screwed around Gotham until the Batman shut them down. They all went to different prisons, and Frogger here found a home in Blackgate. According to my source in the corrections office, he up and vanished a few days before you were robbed.”
Next, he tapped a police sketch of a man with short, blond hair. “This fine, upstanding citizen is one Jeremy Tell. He’s been busted for illicit gambling a few times, but recently stepped up to the big leagues: accomplice to grand larceny. He acted as getaway driver for some of the Central City Rogues; they got caught, he didn’t. You know how Kansas’ governor takes a personal interest in the goings on in that city? Well, good ol’ Governor Wolfe’s put the word out that he’s on his hitlist. That’s not to mention what Captain Cold would do to him if they ever crossed paths again.”
His attention shifted to one last mugshot of a bald man with a grim expression on his face. “Last, but by no means least is Lefty over here. Meet Timur Abramovichi: Russian expat, worked as an enforcer for mobs in Gotham City alongside his brother. They called themselves Hammer and Sickle.”
Forbes looked back at Oswald. “Funny thing: Hammer still lives in Gotham. He’s got a place on the East Side. Next step is to pay him a visit, ask him some questions about his brother’s whereabouts. I’ll just need one thing from you.”
Oswald scoffed. “If it’s more money, you can forget it.”
“No, nothing like that. I need you to put me in contact with Brutale and the twins. I’m guessing Brother Russia won’t be forthcoming with information about his dear brother. I’ll need an enhanced interrogator to keep him honest and some muscle to keep him still.”
“Fine Do whatever you need to do to get information out of this…”
“Abramovichi,” Forbes answered. “His name is Abramovichi.”
Seven hours ago, Andrei Abramovichi had received the call that his wife Sasha was going into labor. Their neighbor had called an ambulance and she was rushed to the hospital. Andrei was there soon after, having left his post at the factory to be there for his wife. When he got to the hospital, however, a doctor told him that he couldn’t see Sasha. He was told that she was having twins, but that there were complications, and she was being moved from the maternity ward to surgery.
And so, Andrei waited. All he could do was drink the cheap coffee that was available and worry about his wife. The farthest he dared stray from the waiting room was to use the toilet. He asked the receptionist if the doctors had any updates on Sasha’s condition, or if there was anything he could do to help. She gave the same answer every time he asked, and eventually threatened to have Andrei removed if he didn’t calm down. Andrei was often quick to anger-- Sasha scolded him about it often-- but now, more than ever, he knew he had to reign it in. He had to be there for his wife and for his children.
Eventually, the worry and the stress exhausted him to the point that he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and he drifted to sleep in his chair. It was less than an hour later that the doctor awoke him, and Andrei sprang back to life immediately.
<“How is she?”> he asked in his native Russian. <“How is my wife? And my children?”>
<“Mr. Abramovichi,”> said the doctor. <“Your children are… alive. Two successfully delivered boys.”> He seemed to be skirting around an uncomfortable subject. <“We had to perform a caesarean to deliver them safely. Unfortunately, your wife suffered a uterine rupture and we were unable to stop the bleeding in time. I’m so sorry, Comrade Abramovichi, but your wife is dead.”>
Andrei felt like someone had punched him; like the air had gone from his lungs and he had to struggle to get it back. He felt light-headed. He felt like the world was now incoherent and illogical. He needed something to latch onto, something that would bring some semblance of sense and normality back to him.
<“Let me see them,”> he said. <“Let me see my sons.”>
The doctor seemed to pause for a moment, not knowing how he should proceed, before nodding and saying, <“Follow me.”>
As he led Andrei through the hospital to a room in the maternity ward, the doctor said, <“I should warn you, there were some… abnormalities with your sons.”>
<“What abnormalities? Are they healthy?”>
<“We believe so, but…”> the doctor trailed off. <“Your sons… they appear to be conjoined.”>
They arrived at a room and the doctor opened the door. Inside was an empty bed where Sasha was once and a plastic crib. Inside it were two babies, swaddled in white cloths and wearing white caps, sleeping. The two seemed perfectly normal, save for that they were fused at the shoulder, with the one on the left missing his right arm and the one on the right missing his left.
Andrei Abramovichi looked down on his children, with tears in his eyes, and said to them, <“My sons… your beautiful mother gave her life so you two could have yours. She gave her life… for you monsters.”>
A private jet awaited the Secret Six at Gotham International Airport. The pilot, who refused to give his name, had assured them that security cameras at the airport wouldn’t record their presence, and that the flight to Mirahd would only take nineteen hours and forty-six minutes. He also said, despite Mister Toad’s insistence, that he would be the one to fly the plane, on the grounds that unlike the frog man, he actually knew how.
In the hours they spent over the Atlantic Ocean, the Six learned of Bialya and its infamous leader. The Harjavti family had been in power since the late sixties, when Colonel Hamza Harjavti led a military coup against the previous tyrannical leader. It wasn’t long before he revealed himself to be just as power-hungry and controlling as his predecessor, with his oldest son and heir Rumaan adding a volatile temper to boot.
Bialya and its neighboring country of Khandaq had been on the verge of war for decades, if not centuries. The feud had been attributed to conflicts over territory, religious differences, reprisals and strikes back-- there was no one singular reason behind it. The tensions nearly came to fruition months prior, when the war god Ares blanketed the world in a violent fury, punctuated by planting his weapon, the Annihilator armor, on the Bialyan / Khandaqi border*.
The Justice League had averted catastrophe and had left Colonel Harjavti humiliated by their intervention. Now it looked like he was ready to take out his frustrations on his old enemy and turn Bialya’s long-rumored to exist nuclear arsenal on Khandaq.
Little of this mattered to the Six. They were hired to protect Harjavti, to keep him breathing despite the threats against his life. That’s what they were being paid to do, and more importantly, being ordered to do so by the Voice.
Nineteen hours and forty-three minutes later, the plane landed on an airstrip in the Mirahd International Airport. Four humvees waited for them, alongside soldiers-- some in combat fatigues, some in black suits and sunglasses. after being thoroughly patted down and searched by the men in suits, as well as having their weapons confiscated, the Six were beckoned into the cars and driven through the streets of Mirahd until they came upon a grand palace surround by a wrought iron fence with a tall, impressive-looking gate.
The driver of the lead car said something into a walkie-talkie in the native tongue of Bialya and received a response in kind. After a few moments, the gate opened, and the convoy drove through it, up the driveway to the palace entrance.
The cars parked in a turnabout in front of the massive front doors, and the Secret Six exited their vehicles and were directed through the doors and into a foyer, where even more soldiers waited for them. The Six were patted down and searched again, before being directed to an elevator, which took them up to the top floor of the palace.
Inside a large, spacious room, with walls decorated in artwork-- many of them portraits of the first Colonel Harjavti-- they were met by an olive-skinned man with a thick black mustache, wearing a fine blue suit with a red tie. He smiled at them as they entered.
“My friends,” he said in accented english. “Welcome to Bialya. I am Colonel Rumaan Harjavti, and it is my distinct pleasure to personally welcome you to my country.”
He approached them and shook their hands individually. When he got to Mister Toad and Sickle, however, he seemed apprehensive to touch them.
“What’s wrong?” Toad asked. “Afraid you’ll get a wart?”
“No, no,” said Colonel Harjavti. “Your friend, Mister Vox, he said you were an odd group. He just didn’t say how odd.” He grabbed Toad’s hand, shook it vigorously, and laughed. “Forgive me, I don’t know where my manners go sometimes.”
“We should really discuss these threats on your life,” said Cluemaster. “We need to figure out where they’re coming from and come up with an evacuation plan in case things go south.”
Colonel Harjavti walked over to a try set up at the side of the room where there was, among other refreshments, a pitcher of ice water with slices of lemon floating in it. He poured himself a glass.
“My friends, I respect your efforts, but there is no need. People have been threatening my life since I was a child; when I die, they’ll leave threats on my gravestone. Whatever danger there is to my life, my security team can handle it.”
“Then why hire us?” asked Cluemaster.
“A show of strength,” he said. “To ensure the people that their leader has the power to put a team of superheroes under his employ.”
“We’re not heroes,” said Copperhead.
Harjavti shrugged. “What’s the American word? ‘Semantics,’ I believe?” He finished his glass. “You are Americans with powers who are working for me. The effect is the same.”
He put his glass down and clapped his hands together. “Enough business talk, my friends. Come, let me show you my palace! You’d like to know where you’ll be sleeping, yes?”
With that, Colonel Harjavti led the Six down the halls of his lavish home, with the group concerned about their ability to protect a man of such overconfidence.
It was a little over sixteen years to the day since Sasha Abramovichi had died, since the birth of the abominations Andrei had been forced to call his sons came into his life.
Andrei had tried to soothe his grief with drink, at first. He spent years at the bottom of a bottle, aware enough to take care of his children, but not enough to hold down his job. Money was scarce and times were difficult in the Abramovichi house until the boys got a job at the Ivanov Circus-- as part of the freak show. The boys had grown tall and strong, and spectators traveled across Siberia to see the incredible feats of the conjoined Abramovichi Twins.
The money they brought in put food on the table whenever Andrei was between odd jobs around the town. His work also kept him busy enough to not lash out at his sons; Andrei hated the boys for taking away his wife, for calling him ‘father’, but most of all, he hated that he depended on them so much to keep a roof over their heads. It wasn’t bad enough that these things had destroyed his life; he had to ‘appreciate them,’ too.
It was a cold Thursday afternoon, with Andrei off work and finishing off his last glass of vodka, when the twins came into their living room, carrying a suitcase.
<“Where are you going with that?”> Andrei asked.
Semyon didn’t answer. He was always the more reserved of the two. Timur, however, had no such compunction. <“We’re leaving,”> he said. <“Dmitri Pavlovich says he will get us to America, get us work, and we will never have to see you again.”>
Andrei took the last pull from his glass. <“This is the thanks I get, then?”> he asked them. <“I raise you, feed you, let you live in my house, and you just leave me behind?”>
<“Thank you, father,”> said Semyon. <“Thank you for calling us abominations. For beating us. For surviving off of our work while treating us like filth.”>
Andrei laughed. <“You think you can survive in America? That country isn’t as kind to monsters as I am.”>
Timur growled and rushed at him, but Semyon kept him from getting too far. <“You are the only monster here, old man!”> Timur shouted.
<“All we wanted,”> Semyon added. <“All we ever wanted, was for you to love us-- to make our father proud of us. But you couldn’t even do that. So we’re leaving, and you’ll be rid of us. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”>
Semyon headed for the door. Timur went with him, but kept staring daggers at Andrei. The old man snarled back at his son. <“You two won’t last a week outside of Karskatan. You’ll come crawling back to me, beg me to take you in, and I’ll leave you to die in the cold like animals!”>
Timur stopped, forcing his brother to stop with him. He was barely containing his anger. <“I…I feel sorry for you, father. No matter what happens to us, we will always have each other. But you? You will live alone and die alone. Goodbye, Andrei. We’re finally rid of you, you bitter old shit.”>
With that, the Abramovichi twins left their home, slamming the door behind them, shaking the whole house.
Andrei growled, and threw his empty glass at the door after them. It missed the door and shattered against the wall next to it. Andrei felt tears welling in his eyes, and unable to control himself, he cried for the loss of his sons.
In an apartment building in Gotham’s East End, in front of a door marked ‘210’, Jack Forbes stood, a silenced firearm in his right hand. Behind him were Tommy and Tuppence McTernan, also known as the Terror Twins; dressed identically in plain white shirts, black leather jackets, and blue jeans.
The twins were ready for whatever would come next, confident that they had strength enough to handle anything that waited on the other side of door number 210. Forbes was more anxious about his plan, but at least had faith in the twins to not let him die; Penguin would be furious about the money he'd wasted on a corpse.
With one last breath to steel himself, Forbes pulled a ski mask over his face and casually knocked on the door.
It opened and revealed a giant of a man, well over seven feet tall and powerfully built. He wore a tank top and loose-fitting sweats. His upper body was covered in tattoos; among those visible were a black star, words in a foreign language none of them understood, and a hammer and sickle. He was also missing his left arm, and in its place was a long scar starting at his shoulder and going down out of sight.
“What?” he asked, suspicion in his voice.
Forbes cleared his throat. “Semyon Abramovichi? We’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother.”
“I don’t talk about my brother,” Abramovichi spat. He slammed the door so hard the walls shook, and the trio heard something made of glass shatter in another apartment.
Forbes looked to his compatriots and said nonchalantly, “Well, I’ve done all I can. Terrors?”
The Terror Twins smirked at the sentiment. Tommy stepped in front of the door, readied himself, then kicked the door so hard that it broke off its hinges and fell inward. The twins stepped over it, with Forbes walking in behind them. Abramovichi was inside in a living room, eying them with a mixture of mild curiosity and severe annoyance.
“I understand that English isn’t your first language, so I’ll speak slowly to help you can understand:” Forbes said. “I have questions. You will answer them.”
Abramovichi let out a sigh. He crossed the room faster than any of them expected and picked up the sledgehammer that was leaning against the wall. As heavy as it was, he made it look like a prop with the ease of which he lifted it with one hand. “Here’s what will be happening: You will give me money to fix door, plus five-hundred dollar for inconvenience. Then you will leave, and I will not knock your brains out with my hammer.”
Tommy rushed at him without saying another word. With yet more quickness and speed that surprised them all, Avramovichi swung the hammer, catching Tommy on the side of the head and laying him out flat. While Tuppence and Forbes appeared surprised by the turn of events, Abramovichi looked at the fallen Terror Twin with disappointment.
“There’s usually more blood,” he said.
He didn’t have to look to know Tuppence Terror was following her brother’s suit; she bellowed in rage as she charged at him. Abramovichi swung the hammer again, but this time Tuppence ducked it and grabbed his arm, twisting it to gain leverage. As she stood over him, he grunted and shot out a leg, tripping Tuppence and causing her to lose her footing. Abramovichi pressed the advantage and shifted his weight, pinning her to the ground with his forearm on her chest.
“Hey!” Forbes shouted. Abramovichi saw him aiming the gun at his considerably large frame. “Back off or I’ll put a bullet in you. You don’t need to be in one piece to answer a few questions.”
Abramovichi looked like he could barely contain a laugh. “You think I have not been shot before? You do not scare me, little man.”
He hurled the hammer at Forbes. The throw was wild and impulsive, but nevertheless the head managed to hit Forbes in the shoulder, knocking him over and causing the gun to fly from his hand. Abramovichi smiled, but it was cut short when Tuppence landed a blow across his jaw. He looked at her with a perplexed expression before she hit him again, and again, and again.
Perturbed by this development, Abramovichi struck Tuppence across the face. He leaned back, preparing for a decisive blow to end the fight, but was stopped when an arm wrapped around his throat and refused to let go.
“You’re gonna pay for that, Ruskie,” Tommy grunted. With a mighty effort, he pulled and dragged Abramovichi off of his prone sister. Tuppence scrambled to her feet and immediately got to work hitting him, first in his midsection, then in his face. Each punch got faster and more intense than the last, until finally Abramovichi’s eyes closed, his blood-filled jaw slacked, and his entire body went limp.
“Great job, team,” Forbes wheezed as he got back to his feet. “We did good. Now let’s get his giant ass out of her before someone calls the cops.”
And so, sore and bleeding, the Terror Twins, lifted Abramovichi’s unconscious form by his arms and legs and carried him over the broken door and out into the hallway. Forbes picked up his gun and holstered it again, then decided to grab the sledgehammer that had struck him too, and, with much effort, lifted it and carried it out after the Twins.
A day after the team arrived in the capitol of Bialya, a helicopter waited on the roof of the country’s grandest hospital, three miles away from where Colonel Harjavti was set to address his subjects. There were only three people who knew why the helicopter was there: the pilot, the hospital administrator who had been paid a generous sum to keep the landing pad clear and their presence undetected, and the passenger.
As the pilot took the chopper up into the air, the passenger set down his briefcase and opened it. Inside were the components to a long-range, high-powered sniper rifle, which the passenger began assembling methodically; he’d done this before more times than he cared to count. In less than a minute, the rifle was ready, and the helicopter was hovering in place within sight of the royal palace.
A crowd had gathered on the lawn in front of the palace. Speakers were set up on the outside, as well as a long row of men in dark suits; the colonel’s security team. Above them was a balcony with a podium on it. On the podium was a microphone and surrounding it all was three sheets of bulletproof glass.
The door behind the balcony swung open. Two more armed guards stepped forward, surveyed the area, judged it to be clear. After them came Colonel Rumaan Harjavti, wearing the finest military uniform he had, none of the medals earned through actual military action. The passenger thought it a gaudy display; a front of pride and power for a man who should have neither.
As the Colonel stepped up to the podium, he began speaking in the Bialyan tongue. His voice echoed through the speakers to crowds that cheered in response. The passenger lowered the window next to him, propped up his rifle, and took aim at the colonel.
The glass was in his way.
“A little higher, Yusuf,” he said into his headset.
“Yes sir, Mister Cain,” answered Yusuf.
The helicopter raised up and steadied itself. With that, David Cain took careful, deliberate aim at the colonel, took a calming breath in and out to steady himself, and squeezed the trigger.
One night in Gotham City, a sextet of criminals were abducted by the mysterious crime lord known only as 'the Voice' and blackmailed into acting as his agents in the field! The Six’s first mission was to rob Oswald Cobblepot, a.k.a. the Penguin, a mission they barely succeeded in, but not without injury. They have since earned the Penguin’s ire, and he’s dedicated his resources to hunting them down and bringing them in by any means necessary!
WHO ARE THE...
? ? ? ? ? ?
Cluemaster (Arthur Brown) - Genius inventor. Expert at subterfuge. Not as smart as he thinks. ? ? ? ? ? ?
Mister Toad - Amphibious member of the Circus of the Strange. Drives cars. Eats flies. Croaks.
Double Down (Jeremy Tell) - Rogue gambler from Central City. Can turn his skin into razor-sharp playing cards. Still needs to grow a spine.
Mist III (Nash Nimbus) - Opal City criminal. Able to become a cloud of living vapor. Knows how to hold a grudge.
Sickle (Timur Abramovichi) - Hulking Siberian ex-pat. Criminal enforcer. Southpaw.
Copperhead (Larissa Diaz) - Assassin for the Penitente Cartel. Master contortionist. Expert in poisons. The only real professional here.
? ? ? ? ? ?
Issue Five: "How To Overcome Sibling Rivalry, Pt 1"
Written by Ultimate DCU
Cover by Joey Jarin
Edited by House Of Mystery
THE PRESENT; GOTHAM CITY
Oswald Cobblepot was dissatisfied. As he sat in his extremely damaged club-- with fractured walls, broken tables and chairs, dented doors, and yellow caution tape wrapped around all of it-- while an odious private investigator discussed the case he was being paid a king’s ransom to work on, the best word Oswald could use to describe his situation was “dissatisfied”.
It had been over a week since six criminals broke into the Iceberg Lounge, trashed it in a scrap with Oswald’s associates, stole an 86-carat diamond he’d been fencing then ran off into the night. Their actions had resulted in hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage, unwanted police attention, and worst of all, a sullied reputation for Gotham’s own Penguin.
Now, sat at a table, sipping a glass of red wine, he and his assistant listened to private investigator Jack Forbes. Backed up by a cork board decorated with photographs, mugshots, papers, and notes, he relayed the results of his investigation.
“Alright, here’s what we know,” said Forbes. He tapped a security photo from the incident at the club, one that showed a man with long blond hair, wearing a mask and a bulletproof vest covered in pouches. “Blondie over here is a complete unknown. Nobody’s seen him, nobody’s heard of him. As far as I can tell, he's a new player in the game.”
“Is this the hard-hitting, in-depth investigation I’m paying through the nose for?” asked Oswald. “If you short me on this, I take your fee back- with interest.”
“Easy, Ozzie, easy! I always come through for my clients. Let’s start with the biggest fish ‘kay?” He pointed to a mugshot of a Latina woman with messy, dyed hair. “Larissa Diaz, alias Copperhead; professional assassin for the Penitente Cartel in Central America. She’s wanted in connection to a whopping twenty-three murders by both the DEA and the Mexican Federales. Exactly what she’s doing this far north of the border with these chuckleheads is beyond me, but smart money says the Cartel has nothing to do with it, which is… curious.”
His attention shifted to an old photograph of a dark-haired man with a harsh expression on his face. “Pop quiz, boss-man: Who was ‘Kyle Nimbus’?”
“He was an old villain, wasn’t he?” Oswald answered. “He called himself ‘the Mist’, ran with the Injustice Society during the 40’s?”
“Top marks boss-- although now the geezer has a new lease on life and goes by ‘Zephyr’. Spends his copious free time running around with Neo-Nazis in Eastern Europe. But he did leave behind two brats in the States.”
Forbes looked at a picture of two people: a dark-haired man and woman who looked similar to each other. First, he tapped on the man. “Junior here made a splash a few months back-- got his hands on dad’s superpowers, started making a ruckus in Opal City. He got put away for it and, oddly, has been sitting pretty behind bars since. The girl, Nash,” he poked the photo of the woman, “hasn’t been heard from since her brother got arrested. Now isn’t that something?”
“What about the human frog?”
Forbes pointed at another mugshot. “That’s Mister Toad. He was part of the Circus of the Strange, those Eurotrash weirdos who screwed around Gotham until the Batman shut them down. They all went to different prisons, and Frogger here found a home in Blackgate. According to my source in the corrections office, he up and vanished a few days before you were robbed.”
Next, he tapped a police sketch of a man with short, blond hair. “This fine, upstanding citizen is one Jeremy Tell. He’s been busted for illicit gambling a few times, but recently stepped up to the big leagues: accomplice to grand larceny. He acted as getaway driver for some of the Central City Rogues; they got caught, he didn’t. You know how Kansas’ governor takes a personal interest in the goings on in that city? Well, good ol’ Governor Wolfe’s put the word out that he’s on his hitlist. That’s not to mention what Captain Cold would do to him if they ever crossed paths again.”
His attention shifted to one last mugshot of a bald man with a grim expression on his face. “Last, but by no means least is Lefty over here. Meet Timur Abramovichi: Russian expat, worked as an enforcer for mobs in Gotham City alongside his brother. They called themselves Hammer and Sickle.”
Forbes looked back at Oswald. “Funny thing: Hammer still lives in Gotham. He’s got a place on the East Side. Next step is to pay him a visit, ask him some questions about his brother’s whereabouts. I’ll just need one thing from you.”
Oswald scoffed. “If it’s more money, you can forget it.”
“No, nothing like that. I need you to put me in contact with Brutale and the twins. I’m guessing Brother Russia won’t be forthcoming with information about his dear brother. I’ll need an enhanced interrogator to keep him honest and some muscle to keep him still.”
“Fine Do whatever you need to do to get information out of this…”
“Abramovichi,” Forbes answered. “His name is Abramovichi.”
THE PAST; KARSKATAN, SIBERIA
Seven hours ago, Andrei Abramovichi had received the call that his wife Sasha was going into labor. Their neighbor had called an ambulance and she was rushed to the hospital. Andrei was there soon after, having left his post at the factory to be there for his wife. When he got to the hospital, however, a doctor told him that he couldn’t see Sasha. He was told that she was having twins, but that there were complications, and she was being moved from the maternity ward to surgery.
And so, Andrei waited. All he could do was drink the cheap coffee that was available and worry about his wife. The farthest he dared stray from the waiting room was to use the toilet. He asked the receptionist if the doctors had any updates on Sasha’s condition, or if there was anything he could do to help. She gave the same answer every time he asked, and eventually threatened to have Andrei removed if he didn’t calm down. Andrei was often quick to anger-- Sasha scolded him about it often-- but now, more than ever, he knew he had to reign it in. He had to be there for his wife and for his children.
Eventually, the worry and the stress exhausted him to the point that he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and he drifted to sleep in his chair. It was less than an hour later that the doctor awoke him, and Andrei sprang back to life immediately.
<“How is she?”> he asked in his native Russian. <“How is my wife? And my children?”>
<“Mr. Abramovichi,”> said the doctor. <“Your children are… alive. Two successfully delivered boys.”> He seemed to be skirting around an uncomfortable subject. <“We had to perform a caesarean to deliver them safely. Unfortunately, your wife suffered a uterine rupture and we were unable to stop the bleeding in time. I’m so sorry, Comrade Abramovichi, but your wife is dead.”>
Andrei felt like someone had punched him; like the air had gone from his lungs and he had to struggle to get it back. He felt light-headed. He felt like the world was now incoherent and illogical. He needed something to latch onto, something that would bring some semblance of sense and normality back to him.
<“Let me see them,”> he said. <“Let me see my sons.”>
The doctor seemed to pause for a moment, not knowing how he should proceed, before nodding and saying, <“Follow me.”>
As he led Andrei through the hospital to a room in the maternity ward, the doctor said, <“I should warn you, there were some… abnormalities with your sons.”>
<“What abnormalities? Are they healthy?”>
<“We believe so, but…”> the doctor trailed off. <“Your sons… they appear to be conjoined.”>
They arrived at a room and the doctor opened the door. Inside was an empty bed where Sasha was once and a plastic crib. Inside it were two babies, swaddled in white cloths and wearing white caps, sleeping. The two seemed perfectly normal, save for that they were fused at the shoulder, with the one on the left missing his right arm and the one on the right missing his left.
Andrei Abramovichi looked down on his children, with tears in his eyes, and said to them, <“My sons… your beautiful mother gave her life so you two could have yours. She gave her life… for you monsters.”>
THE PRESENT; MIRAHD, BIALYA:
A private jet awaited the Secret Six at Gotham International Airport. The pilot, who refused to give his name, had assured them that security cameras at the airport wouldn’t record their presence, and that the flight to Mirahd would only take nineteen hours and forty-six minutes. He also said, despite Mister Toad’s insistence, that he would be the one to fly the plane, on the grounds that unlike the frog man, he actually knew how.
In the hours they spent over the Atlantic Ocean, the Six learned of Bialya and its infamous leader. The Harjavti family had been in power since the late sixties, when Colonel Hamza Harjavti led a military coup against the previous tyrannical leader. It wasn’t long before he revealed himself to be just as power-hungry and controlling as his predecessor, with his oldest son and heir Rumaan adding a volatile temper to boot.
Bialya and its neighboring country of Khandaq had been on the verge of war for decades, if not centuries. The feud had been attributed to conflicts over territory, religious differences, reprisals and strikes back-- there was no one singular reason behind it. The tensions nearly came to fruition months prior, when the war god Ares blanketed the world in a violent fury, punctuated by planting his weapon, the Annihilator armor, on the Bialyan / Khandaqi border*.
The Justice League had averted catastrophe and had left Colonel Harjavti humiliated by their intervention. Now it looked like he was ready to take out his frustrations on his old enemy and turn Bialya’s long-rumored to exist nuclear arsenal on Khandaq.
*Justice League #51-52
Little of this mattered to the Six. They were hired to protect Harjavti, to keep him breathing despite the threats against his life. That’s what they were being paid to do, and more importantly, being ordered to do so by the Voice.
Nineteen hours and forty-three minutes later, the plane landed on an airstrip in the Mirahd International Airport. Four humvees waited for them, alongside soldiers-- some in combat fatigues, some in black suits and sunglasses. after being thoroughly patted down and searched by the men in suits, as well as having their weapons confiscated, the Six were beckoned into the cars and driven through the streets of Mirahd until they came upon a grand palace surround by a wrought iron fence with a tall, impressive-looking gate.
The driver of the lead car said something into a walkie-talkie in the native tongue of Bialya and received a response in kind. After a few moments, the gate opened, and the convoy drove through it, up the driveway to the palace entrance.
The cars parked in a turnabout in front of the massive front doors, and the Secret Six exited their vehicles and were directed through the doors and into a foyer, where even more soldiers waited for them. The Six were patted down and searched again, before being directed to an elevator, which took them up to the top floor of the palace.
Inside a large, spacious room, with walls decorated in artwork-- many of them portraits of the first Colonel Harjavti-- they were met by an olive-skinned man with a thick black mustache, wearing a fine blue suit with a red tie. He smiled at them as they entered.
“My friends,” he said in accented english. “Welcome to Bialya. I am Colonel Rumaan Harjavti, and it is my distinct pleasure to personally welcome you to my country.”
He approached them and shook their hands individually. When he got to Mister Toad and Sickle, however, he seemed apprehensive to touch them.
“What’s wrong?” Toad asked. “Afraid you’ll get a wart?”
“No, no,” said Colonel Harjavti. “Your friend, Mister Vox, he said you were an odd group. He just didn’t say how odd.” He grabbed Toad’s hand, shook it vigorously, and laughed. “Forgive me, I don’t know where my manners go sometimes.”
“We should really discuss these threats on your life,” said Cluemaster. “We need to figure out where they’re coming from and come up with an evacuation plan in case things go south.”
Colonel Harjavti walked over to a try set up at the side of the room where there was, among other refreshments, a pitcher of ice water with slices of lemon floating in it. He poured himself a glass.
“My friends, I respect your efforts, but there is no need. People have been threatening my life since I was a child; when I die, they’ll leave threats on my gravestone. Whatever danger there is to my life, my security team can handle it.”
“Then why hire us?” asked Cluemaster.
“A show of strength,” he said. “To ensure the people that their leader has the power to put a team of superheroes under his employ.”
“We’re not heroes,” said Copperhead.
Harjavti shrugged. “What’s the American word? ‘Semantics,’ I believe?” He finished his glass. “You are Americans with powers who are working for me. The effect is the same.”
He put his glass down and clapped his hands together. “Enough business talk, my friends. Come, let me show you my palace! You’d like to know where you’ll be sleeping, yes?”
With that, Colonel Harjavti led the Six down the halls of his lavish home, with the group concerned about their ability to protect a man of such overconfidence.
THE PAST; KARSKATAN, SIBERIA
It was a little over sixteen years to the day since Sasha Abramovichi had died, since the birth of the abominations Andrei had been forced to call his sons came into his life.
Andrei had tried to soothe his grief with drink, at first. He spent years at the bottom of a bottle, aware enough to take care of his children, but not enough to hold down his job. Money was scarce and times were difficult in the Abramovichi house until the boys got a job at the Ivanov Circus-- as part of the freak show. The boys had grown tall and strong, and spectators traveled across Siberia to see the incredible feats of the conjoined Abramovichi Twins.
The money they brought in put food on the table whenever Andrei was between odd jobs around the town. His work also kept him busy enough to not lash out at his sons; Andrei hated the boys for taking away his wife, for calling him ‘father’, but most of all, he hated that he depended on them so much to keep a roof over their heads. It wasn’t bad enough that these things had destroyed his life; he had to ‘appreciate them,’ too.
It was a cold Thursday afternoon, with Andrei off work and finishing off his last glass of vodka, when the twins came into their living room, carrying a suitcase.
<“Where are you going with that?”> Andrei asked.
Semyon didn’t answer. He was always the more reserved of the two. Timur, however, had no such compunction. <“We’re leaving,”> he said. <“Dmitri Pavlovich says he will get us to America, get us work, and we will never have to see you again.”>
Andrei took the last pull from his glass. <“This is the thanks I get, then?”> he asked them. <“I raise you, feed you, let you live in my house, and you just leave me behind?”>
<“Thank you, father,”> said Semyon. <“Thank you for calling us abominations. For beating us. For surviving off of our work while treating us like filth.”>
Andrei laughed. <“You think you can survive in America? That country isn’t as kind to monsters as I am.”>
Timur growled and rushed at him, but Semyon kept him from getting too far. <“You are the only monster here, old man!”> Timur shouted.
<“All we wanted,”> Semyon added. <“All we ever wanted, was for you to love us-- to make our father proud of us. But you couldn’t even do that. So we’re leaving, and you’ll be rid of us. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?”>
Semyon headed for the door. Timur went with him, but kept staring daggers at Andrei. The old man snarled back at his son. <“You two won’t last a week outside of Karskatan. You’ll come crawling back to me, beg me to take you in, and I’ll leave you to die in the cold like animals!”>
Timur stopped, forcing his brother to stop with him. He was barely containing his anger. <“I…I feel sorry for you, father. No matter what happens to us, we will always have each other. But you? You will live alone and die alone. Goodbye, Andrei. We’re finally rid of you, you bitter old shit.”>
With that, the Abramovichi twins left their home, slamming the door behind them, shaking the whole house.
Andrei growled, and threw his empty glass at the door after them. It missed the door and shattered against the wall next to it. Andrei felt tears welling in his eyes, and unable to control himself, he cried for the loss of his sons.
THE PRESENT, GOTHAM CITY:
In an apartment building in Gotham’s East End, in front of a door marked ‘210’, Jack Forbes stood, a silenced firearm in his right hand. Behind him were Tommy and Tuppence McTernan, also known as the Terror Twins; dressed identically in plain white shirts, black leather jackets, and blue jeans.
The twins were ready for whatever would come next, confident that they had strength enough to handle anything that waited on the other side of door number 210. Forbes was more anxious about his plan, but at least had faith in the twins to not let him die; Penguin would be furious about the money he'd wasted on a corpse.
With one last breath to steel himself, Forbes pulled a ski mask over his face and casually knocked on the door.
It opened and revealed a giant of a man, well over seven feet tall and powerfully built. He wore a tank top and loose-fitting sweats. His upper body was covered in tattoos; among those visible were a black star, words in a foreign language none of them understood, and a hammer and sickle. He was also missing his left arm, and in its place was a long scar starting at his shoulder and going down out of sight.
“What?” he asked, suspicion in his voice.
Forbes cleared his throat. “Semyon Abramovichi? We’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother.”
“I don’t talk about my brother,” Abramovichi spat. He slammed the door so hard the walls shook, and the trio heard something made of glass shatter in another apartment.
Forbes looked to his compatriots and said nonchalantly, “Well, I’ve done all I can. Terrors?”
The Terror Twins smirked at the sentiment. Tommy stepped in front of the door, readied himself, then kicked the door so hard that it broke off its hinges and fell inward. The twins stepped over it, with Forbes walking in behind them. Abramovichi was inside in a living room, eying them with a mixture of mild curiosity and severe annoyance.
“I understand that English isn’t your first language, so I’ll speak slowly to help you can understand:” Forbes said. “I have questions. You will answer them.”
Abramovichi let out a sigh. He crossed the room faster than any of them expected and picked up the sledgehammer that was leaning against the wall. As heavy as it was, he made it look like a prop with the ease of which he lifted it with one hand. “Here’s what will be happening: You will give me money to fix door, plus five-hundred dollar for inconvenience. Then you will leave, and I will not knock your brains out with my hammer.”
Tommy rushed at him without saying another word. With yet more quickness and speed that surprised them all, Avramovichi swung the hammer, catching Tommy on the side of the head and laying him out flat. While Tuppence and Forbes appeared surprised by the turn of events, Abramovichi looked at the fallen Terror Twin with disappointment.
“There’s usually more blood,” he said.
He didn’t have to look to know Tuppence Terror was following her brother’s suit; she bellowed in rage as she charged at him. Abramovichi swung the hammer again, but this time Tuppence ducked it and grabbed his arm, twisting it to gain leverage. As she stood over him, he grunted and shot out a leg, tripping Tuppence and causing her to lose her footing. Abramovichi pressed the advantage and shifted his weight, pinning her to the ground with his forearm on her chest.
“Hey!” Forbes shouted. Abramovichi saw him aiming the gun at his considerably large frame. “Back off or I’ll put a bullet in you. You don’t need to be in one piece to answer a few questions.”
Abramovichi looked like he could barely contain a laugh. “You think I have not been shot before? You do not scare me, little man.”
He hurled the hammer at Forbes. The throw was wild and impulsive, but nevertheless the head managed to hit Forbes in the shoulder, knocking him over and causing the gun to fly from his hand. Abramovichi smiled, but it was cut short when Tuppence landed a blow across his jaw. He looked at her with a perplexed expression before she hit him again, and again, and again.
Perturbed by this development, Abramovichi struck Tuppence across the face. He leaned back, preparing for a decisive blow to end the fight, but was stopped when an arm wrapped around his throat and refused to let go.
“You’re gonna pay for that, Ruskie,” Tommy grunted. With a mighty effort, he pulled and dragged Abramovichi off of his prone sister. Tuppence scrambled to her feet and immediately got to work hitting him, first in his midsection, then in his face. Each punch got faster and more intense than the last, until finally Abramovichi’s eyes closed, his blood-filled jaw slacked, and his entire body went limp.
“Great job, team,” Forbes wheezed as he got back to his feet. “We did good. Now let’s get his giant ass out of her before someone calls the cops.”
And so, sore and bleeding, the Terror Twins, lifted Abramovichi’s unconscious form by his arms and legs and carried him over the broken door and out into the hallway. Forbes picked up his gun and holstered it again, then decided to grab the sledgehammer that had struck him too, and, with much effort, lifted it and carried it out after the Twins.
MIRAHD, BIALYA:
A day after the team arrived in the capitol of Bialya, a helicopter waited on the roof of the country’s grandest hospital, three miles away from where Colonel Harjavti was set to address his subjects. There were only three people who knew why the helicopter was there: the pilot, the hospital administrator who had been paid a generous sum to keep the landing pad clear and their presence undetected, and the passenger.
As the pilot took the chopper up into the air, the passenger set down his briefcase and opened it. Inside were the components to a long-range, high-powered sniper rifle, which the passenger began assembling methodically; he’d done this before more times than he cared to count. In less than a minute, the rifle was ready, and the helicopter was hovering in place within sight of the royal palace.
A crowd had gathered on the lawn in front of the palace. Speakers were set up on the outside, as well as a long row of men in dark suits; the colonel’s security team. Above them was a balcony with a podium on it. On the podium was a microphone and surrounding it all was three sheets of bulletproof glass.
The door behind the balcony swung open. Two more armed guards stepped forward, surveyed the area, judged it to be clear. After them came Colonel Rumaan Harjavti, wearing the finest military uniform he had, none of the medals earned through actual military action. The passenger thought it a gaudy display; a front of pride and power for a man who should have neither.
As the Colonel stepped up to the podium, he began speaking in the Bialyan tongue. His voice echoed through the speakers to crowds that cheered in response. The passenger lowered the window next to him, propped up his rifle, and took aim at the colonel.
The glass was in his way.
“A little higher, Yusuf,” he said into his headset.
“Yes sir, Mister Cain,” answered Yusuf.
The helicopter raised up and steadied itself. With that, David Cain took careful, deliberate aim at the colonel, took a calming breath in and out to steady himself, and squeezed the trigger.