Post by David on Sept 30, 2008 20:42:51 GMT -5
The Former Soviet Republic of Pokolistan…
The train station at Pokolnya was all but deserted. It was well past midnight, and the platforms were empty, only a few scraps of yesterday’s newspaper blowing around the cracked tile floor. The station had seen its best days decades ago, and despite the fact that it was still a working stop on the Trans-Ural line, it had fallen into disrepair. Yellowed fluorescents flickered in the canopies overhead, casting the scene in garish light. A homeless man slept off a hangover in a corner, snoring softly, a hat pulled low over his face. A rat sniffed at the man’s shoe, poked its whiskers at the leather, then scurried away.
It was nearly 2 A.M. when the black, unmarked train rolled into the station. It steamed up to the primary platform like a great hungry beast, its running lights glaringly bright. As it slowed to a stop, the sound of footsteps echoed through the station; three figures emerged from the night. Two were nearly identical, jackbooted in black leathers with a spiked helm and an opaque faceplate to hide their features. Their only identifying marks were twin slashes of red lightning, like two stylized ‘S’s, on their chest. The other man was much more distinct. He was easily seven feet tall, and almost as wide. He went bare-chested, displaying on his chest and torso the tattoo of a huge swastika. The SS troopers carried rifles, and flanked the American known as Masterman, who carried only a titanium attaché case. The three of them waited and watched as the door to one of the train cars opened, and a small crowd of men in dark suits and darker glasses filed out.
Last to step out off the train was a tall man in a military uniform. He was of stern aspect, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. His eyes were lidded as he regarded the Nazis before him.
“General Avruiskin,” said Masterman in English, inclining his head at the military man.
“Von Bach. I trust all has been arranged according to our agreement?” The General said in accented but perfect English.
“Of course.” Masterman bristled. “Our Fuhrer is as good as his word.”
The look on Avruiskin’s face was of a man who had swallowed something sour. “Your previous Fuhrer was making protestations of peace with Pokolistan only days before the Wehrmacht rolled into this very town; you will pardon me if I inspect the payment. You may, of course, inspect the cargo onboard, if you like.”
Masterman glared at Avruiskin, but nodded once, his jaw tight. He glanced at one of the SS troopers, and motioned towards the train. The trooper nodded as well--- and then from his body sprang an exact replica of himself, complete with anonymous faceplate and machine-gun rifle.
The Pokolistanis were startled, several of the dark-suited men reaching into their inside pockets for hidden firearms; General Avruiskin forestalled them with a single, sharp word on command.
Masterman’s grin was broad and toothy as the duploid hurried past the Pokolistanis into the train. “Der Sturmer’s talents can be… disconcerting.” The two original stormtroopers blankly faced forward, with no indication which of them was the original--- if either.
“If you please, Mr. Von Bach…” sighed Avruiskin, gesturing to the titanium attaché case.
Masterman stepped forward and held the case out, unlocking the latches. General Avruiskin motioned for one of his men to inspect it, and the man hastened to obey, lifting the lid. General Avruiskin could not keep a small smile from his thin lips as his man fanned through stack after stack of U.S. hundred dollar bills. There was more money in that case than the GNP of Pokolistan. More than enough to finance his coup.
By that time, Der Sturmer had returned from inside the train. “Everything seems to be in order.” He pronounced, his voice muffled by the faceplate.
“Then our business is concluded.” General Avruiskin announced, pleased. “The train is yours, gentlemen. I invite you to never again return to Pokolistan. Good evening.”
The Nazis watched as the General and his men swept past them, leaving the station. Masterman snorted, and he and the three Der Sturmers climbed aboard the train. Within moments, it was moving, steaming out of the station.
The passed-out homeless man, whom none of them had bothered to notice, stood up abruptly and peered through the lenses of his gas mask down the corridor; there was no sign of the Pokolistanis. Drawing his gas gun, the Sandman sprinted down the platform after the train and leaped, catching a handhold, and slipped into a dark compartment…
Josephine Morgan Pratt was named for the legendary fighter Joe Morgan who taught not only her father, Al Pratt, but also the champ Ted Grant, the nuances of the “sweet science”. A fading, sepia-toned photograph of Morgan occupied a place of honor on a wall in the JSA Archive, and Jo took a break from her research to study it. The photo showed a graying man, already gone to flab a little bit, leaning against the ropes of a boxing ring and wearing a gap-tooth smile.
She hadn’t realized how tense she was, or how cramped her muscles had become from pouring over the old casefiles, until she felt the strong, firm hands on her shoulders, kneading out the knots, massaging away the pain. Her eyes closed of their own accord as she luxuriated in the sensation. Rick, David, Ray---whoever that was, she could kiss him…
“Good ol’ Jammin’ Joe,” Wildcat grunted at the object of her scrutiny. “He was a one-of-a-kind…”
She had tensed up again at the sound of his voice, and her cheeks flamed as bright as her hair. She caught his reflection in the glass of the photo-frame: he contemplated the image of his mentor, his strong, stubble-covered chin close to her right ear.
“Mr. Gran--- I mean Wildcat, sir,” Jo stammered, meaning to move away. But he stopped her, pulling her back with a renewed and insistent shoulder massage.
“Quit squirming kid,” he growled, working on a particularly nasty knot behind her shoulder blade. “You took a helluva beatin’ from Artemis at this morning’s workout. I know you aren’t using your powers, but ya gotta stop holding back so much. I guarantee you she isn’t.”
“Tigress is a great fighter,” Jo conceded, trying not to allow herself to be distracted by his cologne. He was in uniform, but his mask was down, his hair still wet from a shower.
“She’s a dirty fighter and a hellcat,” he corrected her. “And I need you to stop holding back and to beat some humility into her. You’ve got the heart that she lacks. She saw what that looks like today.”
Jo flushed again, this time at his praise.
“What was he like?” she asked, awkwardly changing the subject. She gestured to the old photograph.
“Joe Morgan?” Wildcat mused, his hands pausing on her lower back as he thought. “He was a booze-hound, a womanizer, and a gambler. But he was also a fighter with a heart of gold. He didn’t know how to quit and he didn’t know how to lose. He taught me more about life and fighting than anybody else. Your Dad, too. We loved him, and he loved us. He was like a father to us. Kinda makes you his granddaughter, huh?” He chuckled and swatted her aside, done with his massage. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to stare at the photo of Jammin’ Joe, smiling back at him from the past. “Three hundred of his boys came to his funeral in ‘49. Not a few of us wearin’ spandex and a mask--- some of us even on opposite sides of the law. We called a truce that day though. For Joe.”
Atomika went back to her worktable, just as Wildcat turned to her.
“What’re ya lookin’ for in this dusty old crypt, anyway?” he asked, despite the fact that the Archive was a state-of-the-art digital and research library, lined with books and computers, original documents and a filtration system that allowed not a microbe of dust to get in.
She gestured to the newspaper on the desk next to a stack of old case-files. The headline on today’s New York Times read: Sky Pirate to JSA: “Come and Get Me!” They had all seen it, and even now Hawkman was leading a squad of JSAers to answer the challenge.
Wildcat snorted. “Don’t worry about that bum. Hawkman and the others’ll find him. He was a joke in the 40s, and this new guy is in for a world of hurt.”
Jo wasn’t so sure. The brazen villain had become the terror of the Manhattan skyline in recent days, appearing out of nowhere in his airship, The Aeronautilus, which was equipped with a whisper drive and cloaking technology far advanced of anything on Earth, and virtually impossible to track. For now, he had limited himself to raiding society functions, liberating rich old dowagers from their pearls and gentlemen from their award-winning single-malts… but despite his outlandish pirate garb, brass goggles and poofy shirts, he sported laser-powered flintlocks and commanded a nasty crew of henchmen who had already trashed more than a few Park Avenue penthouses. Jo had wanted to go along with Hawkman’s hunting party, but the chairmen felt another body would only get in the way on such a mission.
“I’ve been reading up on the first Sky Pirate, Clyde Sandusky, trying to find the connection…” Jo shook her head despairingly at the stack of files. “But the trail leads nowhere. The JSA locked him up in ’51, he served his time, paid his debt to society and opened up a hardware store in Opal City. He died in ’97, and both his sons, Clive and Curtis are retired with grandchildren. His old ship, The Flying Dutchman, is actually on display downstairs…”
“Hmm…” Wildcat feigned interest poorly, and shrugged. “I wouldn’t waste anymore time on it, kid. He’s just another whack-job, and we’ll take him down. Catch ya later--- workout at six?”
Jo nodded, and Wildcat waved goodbye. He passed Tigress in the doorway, who sauntered slowly into the room, a knowing smile on her full lips.
Jo found her blush returning under Artemis’ scrutiny.
“What do you want, Tigress?” Jo turned away to hide her expression, stacking her files into neat piles.
“I was looking for Cam, and heard you and dear old daddy talking.” Wildcat’s daughter by the original Huntress Paula Brooks stalked into the room, sounding amused. “He has no idea, you know.”
“Who has no idea of what?”
“Wildcat has no idea you’re in love with him.”
Jo’s whole body flamed, and she whirled on Artemis. “Shut up!”
“I’ve seen the way you look at him. The way you hang on his every word, craving his attention, his approval. But you’re just another rookie to him. Worse yet, you’re his best friend’s little girl!”
The two women were much alike. Both had red hair, though Artemis was more strawberry blonde to Jo’s traditional carrot-top and a smattering of freckles. Both of their green eyes flashed at the other. Jo was a head taller, clad in sweats and a JSA Academy t-shirt, while Artemis was in skin-tight spandex, lithe, but possessed of a feline grace Jo utterly lacked. They faced each other, fists clenched.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about…” Jo’s voice fairly shook.
Artemis’ lip curled. “Please, sweetheart. I’ve been around the block a few times. I know puppy love when I see it. Besides, this is for your own good. Dear old daddy isn’t exactly boyfriend material, Jo-Jo. How would you like it if I seduced your father?”
“Seduced?” Jo was incredulous.
“Oh, Mr. Pratt, if you could only rub my back just… There…” Artemis’ wide-eyed disingenuous tone melted into sensual purr.
“Artemis, I swear to god if you say another word---.”
“Or maybe I should just go and tell him right now,” Artemis feigned serious thought. “Daddy, I don’t know how to say this, but our little Jo-Jo is so hot for you she---.”
With an inarticulate cry of outrage, Jo charged her. Caught off-guard, Artemis lost her footing, and the two were carried backward with the momentum until they hit a bookshelf, sending dozens of books crashing down around them.
“You go too far!” Jo gnashed her teeth, but Artemis had already slipped out of her grasp, spinning away and delivering a chop to the back of Jo’s neck that sent her reeling. She staggered, but turned in time, to block the second blow, hurling Artemis back momentarily.
“Me? You’re the one with the pervy schoolgirl crush!” Artemis spat back, whirling in a dropdown spin kick that took Jo out at the knees. “How did it feel this morning when I whipped your ass in front of him? You ready for round two, now?”
“What the hell is going on here?”
Both of them ignored the newcomer. Artemis boyfriend, Cameron Mahkent, the Icicle stood in the doorway, looking surprised--- and a little turned on. “If you two are going to do this, please wait until I can go grab my video camera---.”
But Jo was up and after Artemis again, and this time, her fist pulsed with a pent up atomic fury. The blow sent Artemis flying backward, and crashing into a wall, shattering, among many others, the framed photograph of Joe Morgan. Artemis slumped at the base of the wall, dazed.
“Hey, no fair!” Cameron raised his hands and blasted a jet of ice at Jo, which just missed her, but froze an entire section of shelves and computers. She whirled on him, ready to charge--- but stopped abruptly.
Behind Icicle was Robotman, the JSA HQ castellan. He grabbed the unsuspecting Cameron Mahkent by the back of his jacket, and lifted him off the ground. He pointed his other arm at Jo, and from his palm came a particle wave field that caught and held her in stasis. His ocular receptors glowed a bright, furious red.
“This. Is. Over.” Came his metallic voice.
Then, from around the corner came Wildcat to see what all the noise was about.
Josephine Morgan Pratt wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
Hawkman felt like hitting something.
He came up from out of a cloud, the sun shining blindingly bright at this altitude. Come and get me, huh? His fingers tightened around the haft of his mace, in anticipation of the fight. It wasn’t so long ago, in his own years, that he had faced the original Sky Pirate, and he was going to make damned sure no one else thought it a good idea to take up the legacy of that clown again…
In the distance, the Ray was flying point, and quickly pulling away from the rest of them, despite Carter’s repeated warnings for him to rein it in and stay close. The young hothead was yearning to really open it up, and prove himself. He had a lot to learn, and Carter hoped Ray Terrill lived long enough to learn it.
He turned to his wingman, Starman, and with an annoyed expression motioned for him to go after Ray. David Knight nodded, and extending his cosmic rod out in front of him, he increased his speed, dwindling into the distance. That one had just the opposite problem. Too cautious. Too analytical. David Knight was adept at his father’s technology, but used it with none of the instinctive panache that had made Ted Knight not only a hero but a legend. But he was young, smart, and a quick learner.
Behind him came the rest of his squad. Jade was, potentially, one of the most powerful beings in the universe, but she had barely scratched the surface of what she could do with her inheritance, the power of the Starheart. Behind her, in a glowing green bubble, she towed Hourman and Cyclone, both of whom seemed perpetually too distracted with each other to take their roles in the JSA very seriously. At least they seemed focused now, scanning the clouds for signs of the Aeronautilus.
It was a strange, new world that Carter Hall had awoken to last year. Trapped for decades in the Nth Force, he had lost his beloved Shayera to his immortal foe Hath-Set, and could not contemplate a life without her. Reforging the JSA with Alan, Jay, Wes and Ted was something that Carter could live for--- this strange new world needed a Justice Society. The Justice League was well and good--- he watched with some satisfaction as his own Thanagarian son joined their ranks--- but these younger heroes, these legacies of proud mantles, needed the guidance and experience that only a lifetime of heroism could give them. There was too much at stake; he thought of his friends Ted Knight, C.C. Batson, Hippolyta… He had a responsibility to their memory. And someday these kids would carry the torch to a new generation.
“Hawkman!”
His cosmic rod sputtering excitedly, Starman swooped back, looking aggravated. “I’m sorry... I had almost caught up to him, when he suddenly veered and shot off, too fast for me to follow. I lost him!”
Swallowing an oath, the chairman of the JSA reared back, and scanned the panoramic view of New York that opened up below him. It was a jungle of concrete steel and glass as far as the eye could see. But, thanks to his Nth Metal, Hawkman’s eyes could see farther than most.
There… a flare of light over the harbor…
He turned and gestured with his mace to Jade, calling out. “It’s Ray, he’s found the Sky Pirate. Let’s go hit something!”
The Tower of Fate, Salem, Massachusetts…
The helm, amulet and cloak floated, suspended in the aether, as if together they comprised a living being. Manifestations of otherworldly paradigms orbited them, as if summoned by a sovereign, magickal siren, caught in a relentless gravitational field.
<Where are you?> echoed the voice of Jim Corrigan through the kaleidoscopic void. <I conjure thee, in the name of the Presence and the Lords of Order to reveal yourselves. O, Spirit of Vengeance it was my burden for so long to bear, whither goest thou? Kent? Inza? You live still, else the things of thy making would crumble into dust, and thy Tower yet stands as bulwark against the mind-flaying outré. I am a dead man, and cannot long wear the accoutrements of the agent of the balance. Hear my call! Spectre! Dr. Fate…!>
Things gibbered and cackled in the teeming void, but it was false hope. Hours passed. Or was it minutes?
Another failure. Corrigan let the spell lapse and the weird other-realm fell away, to be replaced by the warm, welcoming stone of Dr. Fate’s study. Jim Corrigan’s body filled out the artifacts, incorporealizing on the material plane. He wasn’t alone. A shadow blacker than any natural darkness lingered in a corner, its bright white eyes watching Fate.
<Obsidian.> Corrigan raised the helm off his head with both hands, greeting Alan Scott’s son with a wary expression. “How did you get in here? The wards on this place cannot be bypassed…”
The shadow that was Todd Rice slithered over wall and floor, and sprang into three dimensions across the room, by the display case for the Spear of Destiny… but the shadows lingered around him, as if refusing to give up their hold.
“I’m not sure. I came via the Shadowlands.” He looked at Jim as if in challenge.
Jim let go of the helm, and it floated to its tripod of its own accord; the cloak and the amulet followed, and soon Jim was dressed comfortably in light gray linens. He tried to give the younger man a reassuring smile but it came out as a grimace. “Todd, in my time as the Spectre, I journeyed to some very dark and inexplicable places. But none were more perilous than the Shadowlands. Be careful where you tread.”
Feeling a little more at ease, Todd allowed his own costume to fade away, leaving only a brown-haired young man with a confused expression.
“I know. I am. It’s just that… when I faced the Shade a few weeks ago, I got the impression that I could… master it. That I could control it, and not the other way around.”
“Hmm.” Jim scratched his chin, a habit a dead man had little use for, but Jim Corrigan had never gotten used to certain realities. “And you’re looking for guidance?” He sighed heavily. “I may have his artifacts, but I am not the Dr. Fate Kent Nelson was. I was just a homicide detective who was unlucky enough to bond with a divine personification. As the Spectre, I may have been able to help you, but as Jim Corrigan, I have a lot to learn. If Kent and Inza were here…” He gestured feebly, trailing off.
Todd nodded, his disappointment obvious. He changed the subject.
“How goes the search for them?”
“Frustrating.” Corrigan admitted. He went over to the Orb of Hotash, gazing into its milky depths. “Neither they, nor the Spectre appear to be on this plane any more, and the arcane trail is non-existent. Even Nabu is silent. There is something familiar about the psychic forensics, but I can’t quite put my finger on it…” He hesitated, thinking hard, as if something had triggered a memory. “Put my finger on it…” he repeated. But it got away from, him, and he smiled ruefully. “I’ll find them. And if nothing else, I have a new respect for Kent Nelson.”
“Alright, we’re ready whenever you are, Bulleteer.”
Deanna Barr stood in the combat simulation chamber, a vast holo-suite many floors below ground. She nodded towards the control booth, a box high up on the wall, behind the glass of which she could see her doctors Charles McNider, Pieter Cross and Beth Chapel, the JSA technology advisor Michael Holt, and Jay Garrick, the Flash. Jay gave her an encouraging smile.
The cast from where Black Adam had broken her arm many weeks before had come off that day, and this was the first time since then that she had put on her pointed helm and red goggles. As she watched, the room around her transformed into a city street, complete with the sounds of honking horns, distant jackhammers, the smell of exhaust and a nearby hot dog stand. She stood in the middle of an intersection, and there was a car heading right for her. The driver jammed on the brakes, and the car skidded--- but it would not stop in time.
“Do it! Transform! Fly away!” came Jay’s frantic voice over the loudspeaker.
But she could only stare at the incoming vehicle, aware only of the danger. At the last moment, she closed her eyes and thought about the Nth Metal. She tried to remember what it felt like as it suffused her body, coating her skin, making her invulnerable and pulling her off the ground… But she could not shut out the squeal of tires, the blare of horns, and the feeling of panic that welled within her.
At the sound of crunching, twisting metal, the simulation halted. She opened her eyes, to see the world around her had frozen in the midst of catastrophe. The hood of the car that had been hurtling towards her was mid-way through her, the resolution of the holographic image flickering, and all around other vehicles had veered to avoid it, and had smashed into each other.
“Damn,” she whispered, glancing quickly up at the control booth.
“Re-setting,” Michael Holt’s calm voice sounded in the chamber. The scene changed slightly. It was the same city street, but it was now quiet and empty, devoid of cars and pedestrians. Deanna turned around slowly, taking it in.
Then before her appeared a man in a blue and yellow costume and a fin-topped mask; he had a thin mustache and the representation of an atom on his chest.
“His name is Cyclotron,” Jay told her. “We faced him in the early days, and he’s a dangerous one. Atomic blasts, flight, increased strength and durability. But you can take him, Bulleteer. Believe in yourself!”
Cyclotron raised his arms and his hands glowed with power. Deanna dove to the ground just as the energy was discharged. It scorched the air where she had been, exploding a storefront across the street. She scrambled to her feet, reaching for that mental trigger again, desperate to find it. But Cyclotron was advancing towards her, taking to the air and circling overhead.
She ran, her concentration shredded by the villain in the skies above her. The next blast detonated just behind her, chewing up concrete and asphalt, sending her head over heels. With a cry she fell, pain lancing her arm and shoulder. A shadow fell over her, and when she looked up, all she could see was the sneering face of Cyclotron.
“Program stop.”
The scene froze. Cyclotron hovered over her, poised to blast her at point-blank range; the look on his face was exultant. She slammed the ground with her fist, squeezing back tears. Then the Flash was there, offering a hand to help her up.
“It’s alright, Deanna,” he reassured her, his good, honest face torn between concern and sympathy. “It’s just too soon. We’ll try again tomorr---.”
“No,” said Deanna climbing to her feet on her own. “It’s no use, Mr. Garrick. It’s gone.” She tore off her goggles and helm, and wiped the hot tears from her cheeks. “Hawkman told me I have to feel the Nth Metal to trigger the transformation, but I just can’t find it anymore. It’s a psycho-receptive substance; it should be there when I call for it. It’s just not anymore.”
Jay opened his mouth, but his words of comfort died in his throat, killed by the look of abject despair and resolution in Deanna’s eyes. She handed over the helm and goggles to him, and turned away, heading for the exit.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrick, but effective immediately, I quit the JSA…!”
The Statue of Liberty, the greatest symbol of what America meant to the world, rose majestically from Liberty Island. Sight-seers and immigrants crowded the national monument on most days, but today was different: today Coast Guard cutters patrolled the waters, NYPD helicopters buzzed the skies--- and hovering near the top of the statue, moored to the Torch, was a pirate ship.
The Aeronautilus was a sleek, chrome and steel airship, with fiercely-glowing aft engines, and dorsal jets that seemed to emit anti-gravitonic rays. It had a trio of masts, each with a crackling electrical field that acted as a sail, and from the highest one it flew the skull-and-crossbones. The crew of the pirate ship was swarming the monument, planting wired-charges across its surface, and menacing the tourists on the walkway of the Torch.
“Avast, New York City!” A flamboyantly-clad figure called from his perch on the foredeck. “I am the Sky Pirate, agent of anarchy and Fortune’s favorite! And today I am holding you hostage!” His voice boomed over the harbor, artificially magnified, and audible miles away. He doffed his tri-corn hat, releasing dark rows of dreadlocks, and smiled broadly, the sun glinting of his brass goggles. “If I don’t get exactly what I want in one hour, then Lady Liberty here is going to suffer a most distressing accident, of explosive proportions. In other words, I am going to blow her up.” He explained unnecessarily, except that he seemed to be enjoying his tirade. “And what I want is quite simple, really, something my predecessor all those years ago failed to obtain. I want trophies for my wall! I want the ring of Green Lantern, the mace of Hawkman, and that ridiculous silver hat of the Flash!”
“Well, you’re certainly going to get at least one of those!”
Hawkman dove from out of the sun, his teeth barred and his mace drawn back, ready to swing.
The Sky Pirate raised his hand, which held what looked like an antique flintlock pistol, except it emitted a blazing-hot stream of energy. The Winged Avenger tucked in his wings, and rolled aside, but arced back around, preparing for another dive. Behind him came Starman and Jade, the latter with Cyclone and Hourman in tow.
“Hold it right there, JSA!” Crowed the Sky Pirate! “I just want to show you what happens to those who get in my way,” he gestured to a crony, who wrestled something into view. It was a person, trussed up, and unmoving. It was the Ray, unmasked, his hair hanging lankly in front of his face. The Sky Pirate held up the hero’s mask, tauntingly. “The first of my collection. I’m going to nail it to the wall in my cabin.” Then he said over his shoulder. “Give my regards to Davy Jones, kid.” He winced almost apologetically at the appalled look on Hawkman’s face. “Sorry. It’s something we all have to say.” He turned back to his henchman. “Dump the dead weight.”
The grinning lackey gave a push, and Ray Terrill’s body tumbled over the side of the Aeronautilus, hurtling through empty space, towards a watery grave below.
The train station at Pokolnya was all but deserted. It was well past midnight, and the platforms were empty, only a few scraps of yesterday’s newspaper blowing around the cracked tile floor. The station had seen its best days decades ago, and despite the fact that it was still a working stop on the Trans-Ural line, it had fallen into disrepair. Yellowed fluorescents flickered in the canopies overhead, casting the scene in garish light. A homeless man slept off a hangover in a corner, snoring softly, a hat pulled low over his face. A rat sniffed at the man’s shoe, poked its whiskers at the leather, then scurried away.
It was nearly 2 A.M. when the black, unmarked train rolled into the station. It steamed up to the primary platform like a great hungry beast, its running lights glaringly bright. As it slowed to a stop, the sound of footsteps echoed through the station; three figures emerged from the night. Two were nearly identical, jackbooted in black leathers with a spiked helm and an opaque faceplate to hide their features. Their only identifying marks were twin slashes of red lightning, like two stylized ‘S’s, on their chest. The other man was much more distinct. He was easily seven feet tall, and almost as wide. He went bare-chested, displaying on his chest and torso the tattoo of a huge swastika. The SS troopers carried rifles, and flanked the American known as Masterman, who carried only a titanium attaché case. The three of them waited and watched as the door to one of the train cars opened, and a small crowd of men in dark suits and darker glasses filed out.
Last to step out off the train was a tall man in a military uniform. He was of stern aspect, with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. His eyes were lidded as he regarded the Nazis before him.
“General Avruiskin,” said Masterman in English, inclining his head at the military man.
“Von Bach. I trust all has been arranged according to our agreement?” The General said in accented but perfect English.
“Of course.” Masterman bristled. “Our Fuhrer is as good as his word.”
The look on Avruiskin’s face was of a man who had swallowed something sour. “Your previous Fuhrer was making protestations of peace with Pokolistan only days before the Wehrmacht rolled into this very town; you will pardon me if I inspect the payment. You may, of course, inspect the cargo onboard, if you like.”
Masterman glared at Avruiskin, but nodded once, his jaw tight. He glanced at one of the SS troopers, and motioned towards the train. The trooper nodded as well--- and then from his body sprang an exact replica of himself, complete with anonymous faceplate and machine-gun rifle.
The Pokolistanis were startled, several of the dark-suited men reaching into their inside pockets for hidden firearms; General Avruiskin forestalled them with a single, sharp word on command.
Masterman’s grin was broad and toothy as the duploid hurried past the Pokolistanis into the train. “Der Sturmer’s talents can be… disconcerting.” The two original stormtroopers blankly faced forward, with no indication which of them was the original--- if either.
“If you please, Mr. Von Bach…” sighed Avruiskin, gesturing to the titanium attaché case.
Masterman stepped forward and held the case out, unlocking the latches. General Avruiskin motioned for one of his men to inspect it, and the man hastened to obey, lifting the lid. General Avruiskin could not keep a small smile from his thin lips as his man fanned through stack after stack of U.S. hundred dollar bills. There was more money in that case than the GNP of Pokolistan. More than enough to finance his coup.
By that time, Der Sturmer had returned from inside the train. “Everything seems to be in order.” He pronounced, his voice muffled by the faceplate.
“Then our business is concluded.” General Avruiskin announced, pleased. “The train is yours, gentlemen. I invite you to never again return to Pokolistan. Good evening.”
The Nazis watched as the General and his men swept past them, leaving the station. Masterman snorted, and he and the three Der Sturmers climbed aboard the train. Within moments, it was moving, steaming out of the station.
The passed-out homeless man, whom none of them had bothered to notice, stood up abruptly and peered through the lenses of his gas mask down the corridor; there was no sign of the Pokolistanis. Drawing his gas gun, the Sandman sprinted down the platform after the train and leaped, catching a handhold, and slipped into a dark compartment…
Justice Society of America
Issue #5: “Rampage of the Sky Pirate, Part One”
Written by David Charlton
Cover and Additional Art by Alex Vasquez
Edited by David Charlton
Issue #5: “Rampage of the Sky Pirate, Part One”
Written by David Charlton
Cover and Additional Art by Alex Vasquez
Edited by David Charlton
JSA Roll Call!
Hawkman (Carter Hall): Reincarnated champion of justice, this Winged Avenger is master of Thanagarian Nth Metal and his own destiny!
Captain Marvel (Billy Batson):With one magic word, the World’s Mightiest Mortal battles the enemies of man with the power of Shazam!
Green Lantern (Alan Scott): Dark things cannot stand the light of the original Emerald Gladiator!
Bulleteer (Deanna Barr): Daughter of Golden Age heroes Bulletman and Bulletgirl, thanks to her father’s experiments she can transform her body into an indestructible, gravity-defying Nth Metal alloy!
Flash (Jay Garrick): The emotional core of the team, this original super-speedster is proud to mentor the next generation of heroes!
Atomika (Jo Morgan Pratt): Daughter of the original Atom, this Mighty Maid packs a nuclear wallop!
Wildcat (Ted Grant): The champ with nine lives, always ready to deliver the knockout punch to crime!
Jade (Jennie-Lynn Scott): Daughter of Alan Scott, she has internalized the power of the Green Flame, and just may be one of the most powerful beings in the universe!
Obsidian (Todd Scott): Son of Alan Scott, he controls the dark flipside of the Starheart, the Shadowlands, the quintessence of terror!
Sandman (Wesley Dodds): Donning a gas mask and a fedora, this haunted dreamer delivers the sleep of the just to wrongdoers!
Cyclone (Jesse Chambers): Daughter of Golden Age heroes Liberty Belle and Jesse Quick, when she speaks the formula 3X2(9YZ)4A, she becomes the fastest woman alive!
Ray (Ray Terrill): Son of the Golden Age Ray, this brash young hero dazzles with the power of pure light and his razor-sharp wit!
Starman (David Knight): Son of the Golden Age Starman, the newest wielder of the Cosmic Rod inherits a proud legacy of heroism and sacrifice!
Doctor Fate (James Brendan Corrigan): Separated from the Spectre, the ghost of Jim Corrigan dons the magical artifacts of his missing friend Kent Nelson as an agent of the balance between Order and Chaos!
Icicle (Cameron Mahkent): Son of the original Golden Age villain, he needs no ice-gun to shoot freezing blasts or send the temperature plummeting!
Tigress (Artemis Crock): Daughter of an illicit affair between Wildcat and the Golden Age villainess the Huntress, she is a master of exotic weaponry and a dozen fighting styles!
Hourman (Rick Tyler):The brand-new Man of the Hour, a Miraclo-powered dynamo!
Josephine Morgan Pratt was named for the legendary fighter Joe Morgan who taught not only her father, Al Pratt, but also the champ Ted Grant, the nuances of the “sweet science”. A fading, sepia-toned photograph of Morgan occupied a place of honor on a wall in the JSA Archive, and Jo took a break from her research to study it. The photo showed a graying man, already gone to flab a little bit, leaning against the ropes of a boxing ring and wearing a gap-tooth smile.
She hadn’t realized how tense she was, or how cramped her muscles had become from pouring over the old casefiles, until she felt the strong, firm hands on her shoulders, kneading out the knots, massaging away the pain. Her eyes closed of their own accord as she luxuriated in the sensation. Rick, David, Ray---whoever that was, she could kiss him…
“Good ol’ Jammin’ Joe,” Wildcat grunted at the object of her scrutiny. “He was a one-of-a-kind…”
She had tensed up again at the sound of his voice, and her cheeks flamed as bright as her hair. She caught his reflection in the glass of the photo-frame: he contemplated the image of his mentor, his strong, stubble-covered chin close to her right ear.
“Mr. Gran--- I mean Wildcat, sir,” Jo stammered, meaning to move away. But he stopped her, pulling her back with a renewed and insistent shoulder massage.
“Quit squirming kid,” he growled, working on a particularly nasty knot behind her shoulder blade. “You took a helluva beatin’ from Artemis at this morning’s workout. I know you aren’t using your powers, but ya gotta stop holding back so much. I guarantee you she isn’t.”
“Tigress is a great fighter,” Jo conceded, trying not to allow herself to be distracted by his cologne. He was in uniform, but his mask was down, his hair still wet from a shower.
“She’s a dirty fighter and a hellcat,” he corrected her. “And I need you to stop holding back and to beat some humility into her. You’ve got the heart that she lacks. She saw what that looks like today.”
Jo flushed again, this time at his praise.
“What was he like?” she asked, awkwardly changing the subject. She gestured to the old photograph.
“Joe Morgan?” Wildcat mused, his hands pausing on her lower back as he thought. “He was a booze-hound, a womanizer, and a gambler. But he was also a fighter with a heart of gold. He didn’t know how to quit and he didn’t know how to lose. He taught me more about life and fighting than anybody else. Your Dad, too. We loved him, and he loved us. He was like a father to us. Kinda makes you his granddaughter, huh?” He chuckled and swatted her aside, done with his massage. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to stare at the photo of Jammin’ Joe, smiling back at him from the past. “Three hundred of his boys came to his funeral in ‘49. Not a few of us wearin’ spandex and a mask--- some of us even on opposite sides of the law. We called a truce that day though. For Joe.”
Atomika went back to her worktable, just as Wildcat turned to her.
“What’re ya lookin’ for in this dusty old crypt, anyway?” he asked, despite the fact that the Archive was a state-of-the-art digital and research library, lined with books and computers, original documents and a filtration system that allowed not a microbe of dust to get in.
She gestured to the newspaper on the desk next to a stack of old case-files. The headline on today’s New York Times read: Sky Pirate to JSA: “Come and Get Me!” They had all seen it, and even now Hawkman was leading a squad of JSAers to answer the challenge.
Wildcat snorted. “Don’t worry about that bum. Hawkman and the others’ll find him. He was a joke in the 40s, and this new guy is in for a world of hurt.”
Jo wasn’t so sure. The brazen villain had become the terror of the Manhattan skyline in recent days, appearing out of nowhere in his airship, The Aeronautilus, which was equipped with a whisper drive and cloaking technology far advanced of anything on Earth, and virtually impossible to track. For now, he had limited himself to raiding society functions, liberating rich old dowagers from their pearls and gentlemen from their award-winning single-malts… but despite his outlandish pirate garb, brass goggles and poofy shirts, he sported laser-powered flintlocks and commanded a nasty crew of henchmen who had already trashed more than a few Park Avenue penthouses. Jo had wanted to go along with Hawkman’s hunting party, but the chairmen felt another body would only get in the way on such a mission.
“I’ve been reading up on the first Sky Pirate, Clyde Sandusky, trying to find the connection…” Jo shook her head despairingly at the stack of files. “But the trail leads nowhere. The JSA locked him up in ’51, he served his time, paid his debt to society and opened up a hardware store in Opal City. He died in ’97, and both his sons, Clive and Curtis are retired with grandchildren. His old ship, The Flying Dutchman, is actually on display downstairs…”
“Hmm…” Wildcat feigned interest poorly, and shrugged. “I wouldn’t waste anymore time on it, kid. He’s just another whack-job, and we’ll take him down. Catch ya later--- workout at six?”
Jo nodded, and Wildcat waved goodbye. He passed Tigress in the doorway, who sauntered slowly into the room, a knowing smile on her full lips.
Jo found her blush returning under Artemis’ scrutiny.
“What do you want, Tigress?” Jo turned away to hide her expression, stacking her files into neat piles.
“I was looking for Cam, and heard you and dear old daddy talking.” Wildcat’s daughter by the original Huntress Paula Brooks stalked into the room, sounding amused. “He has no idea, you know.”
“Who has no idea of what?”
“Wildcat has no idea you’re in love with him.”
Jo’s whole body flamed, and she whirled on Artemis. “Shut up!”
“I’ve seen the way you look at him. The way you hang on his every word, craving his attention, his approval. But you’re just another rookie to him. Worse yet, you’re his best friend’s little girl!”
The two women were much alike. Both had red hair, though Artemis was more strawberry blonde to Jo’s traditional carrot-top and a smattering of freckles. Both of their green eyes flashed at the other. Jo was a head taller, clad in sweats and a JSA Academy t-shirt, while Artemis was in skin-tight spandex, lithe, but possessed of a feline grace Jo utterly lacked. They faced each other, fists clenched.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about…” Jo’s voice fairly shook.
Artemis’ lip curled. “Please, sweetheart. I’ve been around the block a few times. I know puppy love when I see it. Besides, this is for your own good. Dear old daddy isn’t exactly boyfriend material, Jo-Jo. How would you like it if I seduced your father?”
“Seduced?” Jo was incredulous.
“Oh, Mr. Pratt, if you could only rub my back just… There…” Artemis’ wide-eyed disingenuous tone melted into sensual purr.
“Artemis, I swear to god if you say another word---.”
“Or maybe I should just go and tell him right now,” Artemis feigned serious thought. “Daddy, I don’t know how to say this, but our little Jo-Jo is so hot for you she---.”
With an inarticulate cry of outrage, Jo charged her. Caught off-guard, Artemis lost her footing, and the two were carried backward with the momentum until they hit a bookshelf, sending dozens of books crashing down around them.
“You go too far!” Jo gnashed her teeth, but Artemis had already slipped out of her grasp, spinning away and delivering a chop to the back of Jo’s neck that sent her reeling. She staggered, but turned in time, to block the second blow, hurling Artemis back momentarily.
“Me? You’re the one with the pervy schoolgirl crush!” Artemis spat back, whirling in a dropdown spin kick that took Jo out at the knees. “How did it feel this morning when I whipped your ass in front of him? You ready for round two, now?”
“What the hell is going on here?”
Both of them ignored the newcomer. Artemis boyfriend, Cameron Mahkent, the Icicle stood in the doorway, looking surprised--- and a little turned on. “If you two are going to do this, please wait until I can go grab my video camera---.”
But Jo was up and after Artemis again, and this time, her fist pulsed with a pent up atomic fury. The blow sent Artemis flying backward, and crashing into a wall, shattering, among many others, the framed photograph of Joe Morgan. Artemis slumped at the base of the wall, dazed.
“Hey, no fair!” Cameron raised his hands and blasted a jet of ice at Jo, which just missed her, but froze an entire section of shelves and computers. She whirled on him, ready to charge--- but stopped abruptly.
Behind Icicle was Robotman, the JSA HQ castellan. He grabbed the unsuspecting Cameron Mahkent by the back of his jacket, and lifted him off the ground. He pointed his other arm at Jo, and from his palm came a particle wave field that caught and held her in stasis. His ocular receptors glowed a bright, furious red.
“This. Is. Over.” Came his metallic voice.
Then, from around the corner came Wildcat to see what all the noise was about.
Josephine Morgan Pratt wanted to crawl into a hole and die.
*******
Hawkman felt like hitting something.
He came up from out of a cloud, the sun shining blindingly bright at this altitude. Come and get me, huh? His fingers tightened around the haft of his mace, in anticipation of the fight. It wasn’t so long ago, in his own years, that he had faced the original Sky Pirate, and he was going to make damned sure no one else thought it a good idea to take up the legacy of that clown again…
In the distance, the Ray was flying point, and quickly pulling away from the rest of them, despite Carter’s repeated warnings for him to rein it in and stay close. The young hothead was yearning to really open it up, and prove himself. He had a lot to learn, and Carter hoped Ray Terrill lived long enough to learn it.
He turned to his wingman, Starman, and with an annoyed expression motioned for him to go after Ray. David Knight nodded, and extending his cosmic rod out in front of him, he increased his speed, dwindling into the distance. That one had just the opposite problem. Too cautious. Too analytical. David Knight was adept at his father’s technology, but used it with none of the instinctive panache that had made Ted Knight not only a hero but a legend. But he was young, smart, and a quick learner.
Behind him came the rest of his squad. Jade was, potentially, one of the most powerful beings in the universe, but she had barely scratched the surface of what she could do with her inheritance, the power of the Starheart. Behind her, in a glowing green bubble, she towed Hourman and Cyclone, both of whom seemed perpetually too distracted with each other to take their roles in the JSA very seriously. At least they seemed focused now, scanning the clouds for signs of the Aeronautilus.
It was a strange, new world that Carter Hall had awoken to last year. Trapped for decades in the Nth Force, he had lost his beloved Shayera to his immortal foe Hath-Set, and could not contemplate a life without her. Reforging the JSA with Alan, Jay, Wes and Ted was something that Carter could live for--- this strange new world needed a Justice Society. The Justice League was well and good--- he watched with some satisfaction as his own Thanagarian son joined their ranks--- but these younger heroes, these legacies of proud mantles, needed the guidance and experience that only a lifetime of heroism could give them. There was too much at stake; he thought of his friends Ted Knight, C.C. Batson, Hippolyta… He had a responsibility to their memory. And someday these kids would carry the torch to a new generation.
“Hawkman!”
His cosmic rod sputtering excitedly, Starman swooped back, looking aggravated. “I’m sorry... I had almost caught up to him, when he suddenly veered and shot off, too fast for me to follow. I lost him!”
Swallowing an oath, the chairman of the JSA reared back, and scanned the panoramic view of New York that opened up below him. It was a jungle of concrete steel and glass as far as the eye could see. But, thanks to his Nth Metal, Hawkman’s eyes could see farther than most.
There… a flare of light over the harbor…
He turned and gestured with his mace to Jade, calling out. “It’s Ray, he’s found the Sky Pirate. Let’s go hit something!”
*******
The Tower of Fate, Salem, Massachusetts…
The helm, amulet and cloak floated, suspended in the aether, as if together they comprised a living being. Manifestations of otherworldly paradigms orbited them, as if summoned by a sovereign, magickal siren, caught in a relentless gravitational field.
<Where are you?> echoed the voice of Jim Corrigan through the kaleidoscopic void. <I conjure thee, in the name of the Presence and the Lords of Order to reveal yourselves. O, Spirit of Vengeance it was my burden for so long to bear, whither goest thou? Kent? Inza? You live still, else the things of thy making would crumble into dust, and thy Tower yet stands as bulwark against the mind-flaying outré. I am a dead man, and cannot long wear the accoutrements of the agent of the balance. Hear my call! Spectre! Dr. Fate…!>
Things gibbered and cackled in the teeming void, but it was false hope. Hours passed. Or was it minutes?
Another failure. Corrigan let the spell lapse and the weird other-realm fell away, to be replaced by the warm, welcoming stone of Dr. Fate’s study. Jim Corrigan’s body filled out the artifacts, incorporealizing on the material plane. He wasn’t alone. A shadow blacker than any natural darkness lingered in a corner, its bright white eyes watching Fate.
<Obsidian.> Corrigan raised the helm off his head with both hands, greeting Alan Scott’s son with a wary expression. “How did you get in here? The wards on this place cannot be bypassed…”
The shadow that was Todd Rice slithered over wall and floor, and sprang into three dimensions across the room, by the display case for the Spear of Destiny… but the shadows lingered around him, as if refusing to give up their hold.
“I’m not sure. I came via the Shadowlands.” He looked at Jim as if in challenge.
Jim let go of the helm, and it floated to its tripod of its own accord; the cloak and the amulet followed, and soon Jim was dressed comfortably in light gray linens. He tried to give the younger man a reassuring smile but it came out as a grimace. “Todd, in my time as the Spectre, I journeyed to some very dark and inexplicable places. But none were more perilous than the Shadowlands. Be careful where you tread.”
Feeling a little more at ease, Todd allowed his own costume to fade away, leaving only a brown-haired young man with a confused expression.
“I know. I am. It’s just that… when I faced the Shade a few weeks ago, I got the impression that I could… master it. That I could control it, and not the other way around.”
“Hmm.” Jim scratched his chin, a habit a dead man had little use for, but Jim Corrigan had never gotten used to certain realities. “And you’re looking for guidance?” He sighed heavily. “I may have his artifacts, but I am not the Dr. Fate Kent Nelson was. I was just a homicide detective who was unlucky enough to bond with a divine personification. As the Spectre, I may have been able to help you, but as Jim Corrigan, I have a lot to learn. If Kent and Inza were here…” He gestured feebly, trailing off.
Todd nodded, his disappointment obvious. He changed the subject.
“How goes the search for them?”
“Frustrating.” Corrigan admitted. He went over to the Orb of Hotash, gazing into its milky depths. “Neither they, nor the Spectre appear to be on this plane any more, and the arcane trail is non-existent. Even Nabu is silent. There is something familiar about the psychic forensics, but I can’t quite put my finger on it…” He hesitated, thinking hard, as if something had triggered a memory. “Put my finger on it…” he repeated. But it got away from, him, and he smiled ruefully. “I’ll find them. And if nothing else, I have a new respect for Kent Nelson.”
*******
“Alright, we’re ready whenever you are, Bulleteer.”
Deanna Barr stood in the combat simulation chamber, a vast holo-suite many floors below ground. She nodded towards the control booth, a box high up on the wall, behind the glass of which she could see her doctors Charles McNider, Pieter Cross and Beth Chapel, the JSA technology advisor Michael Holt, and Jay Garrick, the Flash. Jay gave her an encouraging smile.
The cast from where Black Adam had broken her arm many weeks before had come off that day, and this was the first time since then that she had put on her pointed helm and red goggles. As she watched, the room around her transformed into a city street, complete with the sounds of honking horns, distant jackhammers, the smell of exhaust and a nearby hot dog stand. She stood in the middle of an intersection, and there was a car heading right for her. The driver jammed on the brakes, and the car skidded--- but it would not stop in time.
“Do it! Transform! Fly away!” came Jay’s frantic voice over the loudspeaker.
But she could only stare at the incoming vehicle, aware only of the danger. At the last moment, she closed her eyes and thought about the Nth Metal. She tried to remember what it felt like as it suffused her body, coating her skin, making her invulnerable and pulling her off the ground… But she could not shut out the squeal of tires, the blare of horns, and the feeling of panic that welled within her.
At the sound of crunching, twisting metal, the simulation halted. She opened her eyes, to see the world around her had frozen in the midst of catastrophe. The hood of the car that had been hurtling towards her was mid-way through her, the resolution of the holographic image flickering, and all around other vehicles had veered to avoid it, and had smashed into each other.
“Damn,” she whispered, glancing quickly up at the control booth.
“Re-setting,” Michael Holt’s calm voice sounded in the chamber. The scene changed slightly. It was the same city street, but it was now quiet and empty, devoid of cars and pedestrians. Deanna turned around slowly, taking it in.
Then before her appeared a man in a blue and yellow costume and a fin-topped mask; he had a thin mustache and the representation of an atom on his chest.
“His name is Cyclotron,” Jay told her. “We faced him in the early days, and he’s a dangerous one. Atomic blasts, flight, increased strength and durability. But you can take him, Bulleteer. Believe in yourself!”
Cyclotron raised his arms and his hands glowed with power. Deanna dove to the ground just as the energy was discharged. It scorched the air where she had been, exploding a storefront across the street. She scrambled to her feet, reaching for that mental trigger again, desperate to find it. But Cyclotron was advancing towards her, taking to the air and circling overhead.
She ran, her concentration shredded by the villain in the skies above her. The next blast detonated just behind her, chewing up concrete and asphalt, sending her head over heels. With a cry she fell, pain lancing her arm and shoulder. A shadow fell over her, and when she looked up, all she could see was the sneering face of Cyclotron.
“Program stop.”
The scene froze. Cyclotron hovered over her, poised to blast her at point-blank range; the look on his face was exultant. She slammed the ground with her fist, squeezing back tears. Then the Flash was there, offering a hand to help her up.
“It’s alright, Deanna,” he reassured her, his good, honest face torn between concern and sympathy. “It’s just too soon. We’ll try again tomorr---.”
“No,” said Deanna climbing to her feet on her own. “It’s no use, Mr. Garrick. It’s gone.” She tore off her goggles and helm, and wiped the hot tears from her cheeks. “Hawkman told me I have to feel the Nth Metal to trigger the transformation, but I just can’t find it anymore. It’s a psycho-receptive substance; it should be there when I call for it. It’s just not anymore.”
Jay opened his mouth, but his words of comfort died in his throat, killed by the look of abject despair and resolution in Deanna’s eyes. She handed over the helm and goggles to him, and turned away, heading for the exit.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrick, but effective immediately, I quit the JSA…!”
*******
The Statue of Liberty, the greatest symbol of what America meant to the world, rose majestically from Liberty Island. Sight-seers and immigrants crowded the national monument on most days, but today was different: today Coast Guard cutters patrolled the waters, NYPD helicopters buzzed the skies--- and hovering near the top of the statue, moored to the Torch, was a pirate ship.
The Aeronautilus was a sleek, chrome and steel airship, with fiercely-glowing aft engines, and dorsal jets that seemed to emit anti-gravitonic rays. It had a trio of masts, each with a crackling electrical field that acted as a sail, and from the highest one it flew the skull-and-crossbones. The crew of the pirate ship was swarming the monument, planting wired-charges across its surface, and menacing the tourists on the walkway of the Torch.
“Avast, New York City!” A flamboyantly-clad figure called from his perch on the foredeck. “I am the Sky Pirate, agent of anarchy and Fortune’s favorite! And today I am holding you hostage!” His voice boomed over the harbor, artificially magnified, and audible miles away. He doffed his tri-corn hat, releasing dark rows of dreadlocks, and smiled broadly, the sun glinting of his brass goggles. “If I don’t get exactly what I want in one hour, then Lady Liberty here is going to suffer a most distressing accident, of explosive proportions. In other words, I am going to blow her up.” He explained unnecessarily, except that he seemed to be enjoying his tirade. “And what I want is quite simple, really, something my predecessor all those years ago failed to obtain. I want trophies for my wall! I want the ring of Green Lantern, the mace of Hawkman, and that ridiculous silver hat of the Flash!”
“Well, you’re certainly going to get at least one of those!”
Hawkman dove from out of the sun, his teeth barred and his mace drawn back, ready to swing.
The Sky Pirate raised his hand, which held what looked like an antique flintlock pistol, except it emitted a blazing-hot stream of energy. The Winged Avenger tucked in his wings, and rolled aside, but arced back around, preparing for another dive. Behind him came Starman and Jade, the latter with Cyclone and Hourman in tow.
“Hold it right there, JSA!” Crowed the Sky Pirate! “I just want to show you what happens to those who get in my way,” he gestured to a crony, who wrestled something into view. It was a person, trussed up, and unmoving. It was the Ray, unmasked, his hair hanging lankly in front of his face. The Sky Pirate held up the hero’s mask, tauntingly. “The first of my collection. I’m going to nail it to the wall in my cabin.” Then he said over his shoulder. “Give my regards to Davy Jones, kid.” He winced almost apologetically at the appalled look on Hawkman’s face. “Sorry. It’s something we all have to say.” He turned back to his henchman. “Dump the dead weight.”
The grinning lackey gave a push, and Ray Terrill’s body tumbled over the side of the Aeronautilus, hurtling through empty space, towards a watery grave below.
