Global Guardians #1

Manhattan, New York, USA
1944

The sound of the rainfall was deafening as the old man made his way through the deserted streets. His long gray coat was damp and heavy, and on a different day, he wouldn’t have noticed it at all. He might not even have worn it, and would have walked proudly down the streets of his home with his flamboyant attire on full display, rain be damned; but he was tired, and he was beaten.

The old man turned a corner at a street sign labeled Christy Street and saw what he was looking for: a painted sign hanging above a small shop, with purple letters reading ‘Forbidden Tales Bookstore and Fortune Telling’. The old man ran across the street and to the door, only to find that it was locked, a sign reading ‘Closed’ in front. He knocked on the door rapidly and, after a moment, got a response.

“We’re closed,” a woman yelled from inside. Nonetheless, the old man knocked again, harder this time. When he stopped, he heard steps inside the shop, then the turn of a lock, and finally the door opened, accompanied by the sound of a bell. The woman inside was beautiful, with flowing black hair and enchanting blue eyes, but those same eyes were glowering at the old man. “Look, we’re closed, okay? Come back tomorrow, and…”

She trailed off and her eyes widened with recognition. “My god, Sam, what happened to you?”

The man called Uncle Sam looked up at her; his face was paler and more wrinkled than the last time she’d seen him, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his shoulders hunched. “It’s been a rough couple o’ days, Xan. Can I come in?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she answered. Madame Xanadu opened the door and stepped back, allowed Sam in, and closed and locked the door behind him. The old man neatly hung his soaking wet overcoat on a hook, revealing his brightly-colored, well-known attire: a blue jacket, white shirt, and red and white striped pants. His star-spangled top hat was clutched in one hand.

“Take a seat, please,” Xanadu said. They sat down across from each other at a circular table. “I thought you were in France, with the Resistance.”

Sam let out a heavy sigh. “I was, and me n’ my Freedom Fighters were doing a damn fine job of it, too. But the Krauts, they…they dropped a surprise on Paris.”

His steely grey eyes met hers as he said a single word: “Ubermensch.”

“I don’t understand,” Xanadu responded. “What is that?”

“Hell if I know,” Sam answered. “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s like me; a spirit of the people, only instead of a patriot, he’s a Nazi.”

“Which means right now he’s as strong as you are,” she said as she inspected his tired and beaten form from top to bottom. “By the looks of it, stronger.”

“He beat us,” Sam hung his head. “He took the fight to us, and he beat us. He beat me. We…had to retreat, and the Krauts took everyone in the Resistance. I didn’t have the strength to keep fighting.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Xanadu said. “I truly am.”

“I need your help, Xan,” he said abruptly. “If the Ubermensch is like me, then he’s magic, and you know more about that junk than anybody. You can help me take him down. Please.”

“Sam, I’d love to, I really would,” Xanadu answered, “but I can’t. I simply don’t have that much magic in me.”

At that, Uncle Sam’s expression turned dark. “What’re you playing at Xan?” he growled. “You can end a fight like that in seconds.” He paused. “What’s really going to happen? What do you know that I don’t?”

Xanadu chuckled at that. “I could fill a book with things I know that you don’t. Nevertheless, Sam, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

Sam grunted and, after a pause, said, “I’ll owe you one.”

And there it was. For a fraction of a second, a knowing smile flashed across Madame Xanadu’s face, before vanishing. “One what?” she asked innocently.

“I ain’t got time for games, Xan!” he barked. “Every minute we sit here, the Ubermensch is gaining power and more people are dying. I’ll make it simple: you help me take him down, I’ll owe you one favor, whatever you want that’s within my power to grant. Do we have a deal?”

Xanadu leaned back, considering the offer. Then she stood up and approached one of the shelves in her store. She pulled down an empty glass jar and tossed it to Sam, who deftly caught it. “I have a plan, but you’re not going to like it.”

Sam didn’t respond, but looked at her sternly. She continued, “If the Ubermensch is just like you, he’ll have the same weakness you do. He’s powered by people’s belief in an ideal. If you weaken that belief, you weaken him. But belief’s a powerful thing; it’s hard to break. And after seeing you, the symbol of all things American, lose to him, it’s a safe bet that people’s belief in the Nazis is strong. We can’t break their faith.”

“I ain’t hearin’ a plan here,” Sam said.

“We can’t break their faith,” Xanadu said. “So we break them.”



Manhattan
Present Day

Ryan Great Eagle feared he might suffocate right there on the streets. It wasn’t just the stench of car exhaust and stale food and assorted body odors that made him want to gag; it was the people themselves. Having spent all of his nineteen years on the Jackson County Indian Reservation in South Dakota, Ryan had never been around so many people crammed together so tightly. The closest was on Ryan’s thirteenth birthday, when his dad took him to see Mount Rushmore. It was on a Saturday during summer, and it was very crowded, but Manhattan made it look like the nothing that it was.

And still, Ryan wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than on the crowded street with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. When his father was inspired by Gotham City’s prominent vigilante, he became the Man-of-Bats, and Ryan had eagerly followed him as Little Raven. But time passed, and Ryan became disillusioned with their career choice; for all his presentation, for all his effort, William Great Eagle was nothing more than a rez doctor with a hunting rifle and a stupid-looking costume, and Ryan was hardly any better.

Still, the younger Great Eagle knew he could do more than just break up bar fights and escort drunks home. Abandoning the diminutive name of Little Raven, Ryan had gotten as much money as he could scrape together, bought a bus ticket to New York, and adopted the new, more dignified title of Raven Red. He would be the hero his father never could, and honor them both with his actions.

However, at the moment, Ryan’s attention was focused on navigating the streets of Manhattan and finding a cheap apartment. He must have looked like a picturesque tourist. An Indian kid trading off between checking a list of directions and looking up at street signs, appearing completely lost; all that was missing was a Hawaiian shirt and a beer gut. I already look sunburnt, he thought to himself; the joke put a smile on his face.

The smile stopped abruptly when he was bumped into by a hunched old man in a long grey coat. Ryan stumbled and nearly fell, but the old man didn’t even break his stride; he just kept walking. He must’ve been stronger than he looked.

“Asshole,” Ryan muttered as he composed himself, shoved his hands back in his pockets, and went on his way down 52^nd Street; it was then that he realized there was empty space in his right pocket, next to his bottle opener, where his wallet should have been.

“You’re kidding me.” Ryan turned around. “Hey!” he shouted. “Bastard took my wallet!” The city was deaf to his cries; the machine that was Manhattan kept moving uninhibited. Ryan cursed and tore back down the street, dodging and weaving through the crowd in search of the old man. He saw a flicker of grey go down an alley and shot after it as best he could, but when he turned the corner, the old man - and presumably his wallet - were nowhere to be seen.

“What the hell…?” he trailed off as he walked in, looking around for any sign of the hunchback in the grey coat. His search was abruptly interrupted by someone else knocking into him, except this one came from behind and brought him to the ground.

The offender was a young man, with a slim build, a shaved head, and a look of disgust on his face. “Watch your step, Tonto.”

“Bite me, white boy,” Ryan responded as he got back to his feet.

The bald man snarled and cracked his knuckles. “Don’t make me teach you a lesson in respect, redskin.”

“Try me.” Ryan clenched his fists. “I’ve had a long day and could really work off some stress.”

Ryan was no stranger to fighting. It happened to him quite a bit on the rez, though he lost most of those fights because he often challenged people older and stronger than him; they were the ones who made fun of his and his father’s profession. Still, Ryan never backed down from a fight; not when he lost three of his teeth to Junior Colt, not when Hank Greene broke his nose, not when Art Yellow Lodge pulled a knife on him. He never backed down.

The bald man looked so angry that he was about to explode. Faster than Ryan could have expected, the bald man charged forward, his right arm swinging. Ryan barely managed to block it before he got hit on the cheek by the left, a hit so hard it brought him back down to the ground.

“Here endeth the lesson,” the bald man spat. “And for that you should be grateful, Tonto.”

Ryan forced the stars out of his eyes and tried to shamble to his feet. “Anyone…anyone ever tell you that haircut makes you look like a skinhead?”

At that, the bald man snorted. “Thank you,” he said smugly before turning his back and walking away.

“Hey!” Ryan barked as he stood up unsteadily. “We ain’t done here, cowboy! C’mon! Show me you can do more’n just slap like a girl!”

But it was too late. He had disappeared behind the back door of a bar called Bitter’s Pub with nary a look back.

Despite the unease of his feet and the uncomfortable thought that blood may be pooling in his mouth, Ryan Great Eagle smiled. He dropped his duffel bag, eagerly unzipped it, and pulled out a red and black mask that covered his whole head. He tore off his jacket, revealing the red t-shirt with the black bird decal that he wore underneath. Finally, he pulled from the duffel his weapon: a tomahawk, an old axe with the blade dulled by time, but still weighty and strong enough to knock some sense into (or out of) his enemies.

Ditching the bag behind a dumpster, Raven Red snuck towards the door, softly and deftly opened it, and slipped inside, unaware of the amazing sight he was about to behold.



A group of twelve had gathered in the basement of Bitter’s Pub. Most were dressed in plain clothes, but five of them wore unusual costumes that set them apart from the small crowd. The leader of them was dressed in a German military uniform from the Second World War, its color faded and its fabric torn in places, but its meaning still held true to anyone who saw it.

The door of the pub opened and a young bald man entered. “Ah,” the man in uniform said in a thick German accent, “so glad you could join us, Mr. Swan.”

“I’m on the clock, Sarge. Call me by my ‘official’ name.” The bald man took off his jacket, revealing his bare chest beneath it and the black swastika tattooed above his heart.

“Very well,” the man in uniform answered, then said in German. “<Hermann, step forward.>”

Hermann was a small man, thin of build and short of height, yet he stepped forward with conviction and saluted with an outstretched arm. “<Hermann,>” the man in uniform continued, “<do you believe in our righteous cause?>”

“<Yes, Herr Klingemann,>” he answered stiffly.

“<Do you believe in the unification of the Aryan race and its superiority?>”

“<Yes, Herr Klingemann.>”

“<Do you believe in the control and, if need be, extermination of the inferior races?>”

“<Yes, Herr Klingemann.>”

“<Do you believe in the inevitable triumph of the Fourth Reich over the communists, the Jews, and the mongrels of this world?>”

“<Yes, Herr Klingemann.>”

“<Do you give yourself - mind, body, and spirit - to our cause?>”

“<Yes, Herr Klingemann.>”

Hans Klingemann looked to the soldier and said, “<I believe you.>”

None of them even saw the knife until it had already swung through Hermann’s throat. A river of blood flowed out of his neck. His face was a picture of pure shock before he slumped to the ground. From behind his back, Klingmann produced a glass jar, a black mist swirling through it, and hurled it at the ground, the glass shattering as it hit the pool of Hermann’s blood.

As the mist eerily swirled over and blended with the crimson of the blood, Klingemann intoned, “Trinken sie aus dem blut der gläubigen und geheilt werden! Leben wieder und nehmen die welt wieder für die arische rasse!”

The room rumbled and shook as the tornado of black fog and crimson blood grew and grew. There was a sense of dread in all twelve of those watching; all except Klingemann, who had a look of wide-eyed amazement and excitement, like that of a child at Christmas morning. His mouth even threatened to break into a smile.

And suddenly, the twister stopped and dissipated, and standing in its place was a man; tall, strong, with golden blond hair and lively blue eyes. He wore the same-style antique uniform as Klingemann, but it was pristine and new, with a crimson band around his arm that bore a black swastika. Klingemann stared up at him and whispered in amazement: “Ubermensch.”

The spirit took in a breath and exhaled deeply. He turned his head to look at the military man and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hans Klingemann,” he said in a deep voice, “<you have done well.>”

“Danke, mein ubermensch,” he answered almost nervously. The Ubermensch turned his attention to the rest of the group. “This is our Fourth Reich, yes?” he asked in accented English. They all saluted in response. “Wonderful!” he laughed. “Simply wonderful. Are they good soldiers? Are they loyal?”

“Of course, mein ubermensch,” Klingemann answered.

“No they aren’t,” he said sternly. “Not all of them.”

There was a silent feeling of shared confusion and fear. The Ubermensch continued. “There is someone here who does not share our faith; someone who would sooner see us and everything we stand for burnt to ashes.”

Silence followed again as the soldiers began to eye each other warily, not moving but ready to do their worst. “Calm yourselves, soldiers,” the spirit said. “He is not one of you. Isn’t that right, you spineless dog?” He looked towards the door. “Get up and die with dignity, if you can muster that.”

From behind the door stood a masked man in a red outfit, an old tomahawk hanging from his hand. “Good afternoon. Do you have a moment to talk about the lord?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“And what would you know about Him?” Ubermensch said condescendingly.

“I know he hates Nazis,” Raven Red answered with a smirk.

And then, against all expectations, the spirit chuckled. The chuckle built until it became a full-on laugh. His cackle was terrifying, but Raven Red gripped his weapon, unhindered by the monster he now faced.

As his laughter subsided, the Ubermensch looked at the vigilante and said, “Your mirth will be missed. Soldiers, kill the redskin.”

Ryan Great Eagle never backed down from a fight. However, he did know when to make a tactical retreat. Go outside, he thought. They’ll get bottlenecked following you; they can’t gang up on you. He knew the strategy was less than sound, but he couldn’t see any other option. Without giving himself time to think of a plan B, Raven Red bolted towards the door, threw it open, and rushed outside.

He was met by a sight more unusual than what had just happened in the basement of Bitter’s Pub. Five people, each more strange-looking than the last, faced him down. Front and center was a very familiar silver-haired old man dressed in a white shirt, a blue jacket, red and white stripped pants, and a star-spangled top hat. He smiled knowingly, rolled up his sleeves and said to Ryan, “Don’t you worry, Red. The Global Guardians are here!”






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