JSA #1: Injustice For All, Pt 1

Ted Grant faked low with his left, then dancing aside, he aimed a lightning-fast right hook at his opponent’s head--- though he had to reach pretty high up to do it, as she was head and shoulders taller than him! His gloved fist connected with the side of her head, and the force of it sent Josephine Morgan Pratt stumbling backward.

“Keep your guard up,” The Champ growled at Jo’s stunned look. “Just because you’re taller and stronger than most doesn’t mean you can’t be tagged, or that their punches won’t hurt.”

Jo nodded, and raised her hands again, thankful for the mouthpiece she bit down upon; that last blow had rattled her teeth and brains!

“C’mon, Jo, show the old man how the next generation does it!” Hooted the young, blonde woman outside the ring. She was still in her own red and yellow trunks and sportsbra, and had a nice shiner developing over her left eye.

“Shaddup, Chambers,” Growled the Champ, his eyes never leaving the seven foot red-head circling him. “If you kids are going to be JSAers, yer gonna learn to fight the right way.”

Stolen from their parents at a young age, Jo and Jesse--- along with other children of the heroes of yesterday--- had been brainwashed and trained by the time-jumping villain Per Degaton in a Nazi “re-education” camp for the express purpose of destroying the JSA. Luckily, as Wildcat had chided them afterward, they were not trained that well. So he had taken it upon himself to ‘fix’ and complete their training, knocking out of them their bad habits the ‘hard way.’

“Is this really necessary?” Wesley Dodds had asked one afternoon from ringside, as Ted gave Happy Terrill’s boastful son Ray a particularly “instructive” lesson in the sweet science.

“Do you think Solomon Grundy would go any easier on them?” Carter asked--- which ended the conversation.

Of all of them, however, Jo Pratt, AKA Atomika, was proving to be the most adept at close hand-to-hand combat--- and that was without the benefit of her atomic-powered punch! This did not surprise Ted Grant too much; she was, after all, the daughter of his former teammate (and fellow pugilist) Al Pratt, the Mighty Atom, and was named for the boxing coach that trained both Al and Ted! In fact, Battlin’ Joe Morgan had owned the very gym they trained in now, back in the 1930s and ‘40s. He had left it to his greatest pupil, and Ted had run Milligan’s in his memory ever since. It was run down, boasted no up-to-date, high-tech exercise equipment, and was in one of the worst neighborhoods of Gotham City--- but boxers from all over the world applied to train there anyway: Milligan’s churned out more championship fighters than any gym in the world, and all of them owed their success to Ted Grant, the world’s foremost authority and Professor Emeritus of the Sweet Science.

His latest batch of pupils, however, still left much to be desired. Leading with her left, Jo rushed in sticking the jab, but Ted showed her his elbows and closed, ducking under her longer reach and delivered a quick succession of right-handed uppercuts. He backed away, confident that he’d knocked the wind out of her--- only to be caught from above with a haymaker that flung him up against the ropes!

Jesse Chambers cheered wildly, and Jo just stood there in disbelief. Ted shook off the blow, and found that he couldn’t refrain from smiling.

“Nice one,” He conceded, unwilling to spoil her day by admitting she had scored more because of his mistake of underestimating her, than her ability. Still, if he had underestimated her, others would as well.

“Let’s call it a day,” He snatched up a towel from a corner, and threw one to Jo. “You two hit the showers, and scram; I got a hot date tonight.”

Ignoring Jesse’s whistles and catcalls, Jo mopped her face with the towel and asked. “We’ll see you tomorrow in New York, then? For the parade?”

The city had declared tomorrow “JSA Day” and were giving them the honors most felt were decades overdue. There were even rumors that President Stuart was going to be there, to present an official Congressional apology for the disgraceful HUAC Hearings of 1951.

“Parade’s aren’t really my thing, dollface.” He chucked her under the chin, and Jo colored despite herself. Ted didn’t notice as he busied himself unlacing his gloves, but Jesse had, and she smirked at her friend with raised eyebrows. “But I might pop by Headquarters afterward for the meeting. I hear Ma Hunkel’s making her famous Five Alarm Chili.”

“Alright, see you there, Mr. Grant.” Jo climbed out of the ring in a hurry and joined Jesse as she headed for the ladies’ locker room.

“C’mon, dollface, let’s get cleaned up.” Jesse teased as they disappeared down the hall, Jesse dodging Jo’s swipe.

When they were gone, and Ted himself had showered and shaved, he lingered in the empty gym, moving from ring to ring and reminiscing. They were good kids, Jo and Jesse, not to mention Ray and Todd and Jennie-Lynn and Deanna. Their return, along with Carter’s, had brought them all back together--- had essentially reformed the JSA. And that felt right to Ted Grant. More than that, it felt right that the next generation was as heroic and idealistic as his. He, and the other original JSAers still active wouldn’t be around forever, and it felt good that they were building a team that would survive the ages. It was a good legacy to leave the world. He experienced only a momentary pang that he wasn’t training a son or daughter of his own to take his place on the team. But that was a decision he had come to terms with a long time ago.

Not that Wildcat was going anywhere anytime soon! He sipped his beer, and checked his reflection in the mirror. Slightly grizzled, but in a distinguished way; other than a little gray at the temples, Ted Grant looked younger and better than most men half his age!

A quick check of his watch told him it was time to go. There was a charming pair of Swedish stewardess waiting for him across town, and he had no intentions of disappointing them. But as he was turning off the lights, someone came in.

The slow, careful steps echoed ominously in the dimly lit gymnasium. Ted could tell from the shape that it was a woman, and a curvaceous one at that.

“We’re closed, sweetheart.” He called out, “But come back in a coupla days, and I’ll be happy to give ya a few lessons.”

“I’m not here for any lessons, Champ,” Came the throaty, somewhat familiar voice. The woman approached the circle of light shed by the closest floodlamp. “Although maybe I could give you a few.”

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, but he was confident this late night visitor could present no danger to him…

“Who are you, lady?” Ted squinted as she moved into the light.

“Don’t you know?”

She was dressed in skin-tight tiger striped spandex, her long red hair pulled back into a top-knot. Over her left eye was a tattoo of a claw. Her lips were stretched in a smile that exposed her teeth.

“You were such good friends with my mother and father…”

Ted Grant froze. “Your mother…?” With a horrified start, he realized who she was. It was like he was looking back through time: she had the same graceful, athletic body that her mother had, always poised on the verge of exploding into action…

“Artemis---!” But whatever else he had to say was cut off. With a quick, slashing movement, she hurled something at him. A bola sliced through the air, and the cord wrapped around into his neck, the weighted balls whirling around and fastening tight! He choked, his fingers scrabbling to pull the cord away, but the material seemed to constrict harder the more he pried at it. Stars exploded before him as the oxygen to his brain was cut off…

She approached him cautiously, a crossbow drawn. His eyes bulged and he gasped for air.

“I wanted to do you myself.” She raised the crossbow and fired. The bolt slammed into his right pectoral, intentionally wide of the lung. Ted Grant staggered and would have fallen had he not backed into a wall. “You know, sort of as a tribute to my parents.”

“Wait---!” He rasped, feeling himself losing consciousness. He held up one hand to forestall her, but she fired another bolt. This one embedded itself with a wet thud into his left pectoral, and he winced at the pain, but still struggled to speak. “You mother… Paula… Never told you…” Every word was agony, forced through an esophagus that was not taking in any air.

But this did not seem to have the effect on her that he intended. Rage twisting her features, she drove a kick between his legs, causing him to curl up in agony.

“Didn’t tell me what?” She shot him again, in the thigh this time, as she leaned over him, spittle flying from her mouth. “That you had an affair with her? No, my father told me that! Told me how you had cuckolded him. Why do you think Sportsmaster hated you so much? You ruined his marriage! You ruined his life! Did you know he killed my mother?” Another bolt thudded into his shoulder, but by now Ted Grant was almost past the point of caring. He was using both hands to pry the bola’s cord back even a little, his chest heaving for breath.

“A year ago, my father drank himself to death! And I hold you responsible! It’s your fault! You killed my mother and my father, and now I’m going to kill you!”

She leveled the crossbow at his heart, and he was powerless to stop her. He mustered everything he had left, and croaked in a fading voice: “No…! I am… your father…!”

The hand holding the crossbow sank. Artemis Crock’s eyes widened, the words hitting her like a blow. “Wha---? What the hell do you…?”

But by then it was too late. Ted Grant’s head hit the floor of the gym, his tongue lolling from his mouth; he was dead.

“Mom, Dad, I’m home! Is it still on? Did I miss the Hourman tribute?”

Rick Tyler closed the door of his parent’s Connecticut house and shook the snow off his brown hair and shoulders. He heard the TV from the living room, and trudged down the long hallway, smiling at the smells of his mother’s pumpkin pie baking in the kitchen.

“Does Dad still wish he’d gone to the city for the parade? Has Uncle Alan done his speech yet---.”

The sight that greeted Rick Tyler in the living room stopped him in his tracks. The TV blared the sights and sounds of the parade in Manhattan, but in the middle of the room, dangling from a rope tossed over the rustic crossbeams of the cathedral ceiling, hung his father, his legs kicking and his fingers struggling to pull the noose from his throat. His mother was sprawled out on the floor, unmoving.

Standing amidst the wreckage of the room, balanced on his father’s overturned armchair, was the villain Rick recognized as Ragdoll.

Rick met his father’s bulging, horrified eyes.

“Well, well, well!” Giggled the bouncing madmen, twirling atop the cushions, then somersaulting to balance on one hand, his ropy red hair hanging down. “Caught in the act! But you’ll never save them in time, kiddo! Tick-tock, tick-tock…!”