Post by HoM on Aug 11, 2015 15:05:42 GMT -5
Issue One: “How To Make Friends And Influence People, Pt 1”
Written by UltimateDC
Cover by Roy Flinchum
Cover by Roy Flinchum
Edited by House Of Mystery
He was awake now; at least, he thought he was. His mind wasn’t entirely aware, his brain not completely functional. A half-formed thought-- all instinct-- complained ‘five more minutes’ as he shifted in bed. However, there was another thought in his head, a voice of reason that never steered him wrong, which offered a different perspective.
Get up. This isn’t right. You can’t sleep right now. You need to get up.
But I don’t-- the instinct whined, but it was silenced.
You know this is wrong. You need to get up. OPEN YOUR EYES!
And with that, he was awake, eyes front and mind mostly active. He realized quickly that the advisor was right; something was very, very wrong. This wasn’t his house. This was a prison cell-- concrete walls, metal bars and a steel toilet next to the thin, scratchy pillow he was resting his head on. Strangest of all, he was laying on his cot dressed in his orange-and-brown costume.
Think, the voice in his head said. It’s what you’re good at. Start with the basics. What’s your name?
“Arthur. Arthur Brown,” he said aloud.
What year is it, Arthur Brown?
He mumbled a response as he rubbed his eyes.
Where are you right now?
“I don’t know.” He sat up now and pushed his dirty blonde hair out of his face.
What’s the last thing you remember?
“…Home,” he said. He was home, in Gotham. Stephanie was at her mom’s place, and he was planning his debut heist as the Cluemaster. He was going to outwit them all this time-- prove he was the city’s master intellect-- he was sure of it.
Then Arthur heard a noise, the sound of his front door being opened. He had stood up and crept towards it. “Steph?” he had called out. “Is that you?” Then he felt a pinch in the back of his neck; someone was behind him and the syringe was in his neck. Before he could turn around and see who his home invader was, everything went black.
Arthur shook his head, hoping to rid himself of the last bits of whatever was in that needle. He stood up and the world wobbled on its axis for a moment before realigning. Still, Arthur kept close to the wall, using it as a support, and walked to the door. When he pulled on it, he was amazed to find it unlocked. He slid it open and the clanging metal echoed around the open hall. Arthur stepped outside and saw that his prison was old and dank. Puddles spotted the floor beneath leaky roofs, cement was cracked in places along the walls, and the stench of mold permeated the air. Arthur grabbed the kerchief from around his neck and set it over his nose and mouth. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but it was something.
As Arthur began to walk the halls of the prison, cautiously exploring his surroundings, he heard the sound of his own footsteps on the concrete floor, which were like a cacophony in the empty quiet of his new surroundings. The only other noise was the occasional drip of water falling from a leaky pipe landing in a puddle directly beneath it. Then, Arthur heard something else; more footsteps. They weren't his, and they were moving fast.
From around the corner came a man wearing an open black shirt. His arms were covered in small black tattoos; his bare chest, however, had a large queen of hearts playing card on it. He stopped in his tracks and stared at Arthur for a moment before saying awkwardly, “H-Hey.”
“Hey,” Arthur said back.
“This might be a weird question, but did you just wake up in a prison cell with no idea how you got there?” the stranger asked.
“That’s right, yeah,” Arthur said.
“Well, at least I’m not the only one,” he muttered. “I’m Double Down.”
“Cluemaster,” Arthur responded.
“Huh. Hey, you wanna’ stick together? Join forces, combine our powers, get out of this place?” Double Down said. “What are your powers, anyway?”
“Knowledge of chemistry, anatomy, engineering, robotics, tactical analysis--”
“Wait, wait, hold on,” Double Down interrupted. “Do you have any actual powers? Like, actual superhuman abilities? You’re just a guy?”
“Well, I like to think my intelligence is enough that I can compensate for any physical shortcomings,” Cluemaster said. He stopped when he saw a peculiar sort of hunger in Double Down’s eyes as he put a hand to his bare chest.
“That’s interesting,” he said. “‘Cause, y’see, I do have powers.” Double Down appeared to peel off a patch of skin from his chest, revealing a perfectly rectangular patch of exposed muscle. The skin, in turn, became completely rigid and appeared to be, on the inside, a playing card; specifically, the six of spades.
Double Down flicked the card at Cluemaster; it darted across the room, cut Arthur’s cheek, and embedded itself in the wall behind him. Double Down peeled off another patch of skin, this time becoming a three of clubs, and said, “Now listen, blondie. You work for me now. Do as I say, help me get out of here, and I spare you. Challenge me, and I’ll cut you to ribbons and bleed you dry.”
“Oi! Back offa’ him!”
They both looked and saw the speaker, and were taken aback from the site of him. He looked to be a human frog, with green, leathery skin, a wide, round face, and red eyes. He had a wide frame and was dressed in a red leather jacket, a green buttoned shirt, and a brown bowler hat atop his head.
“Whoa,” Double Down laughed. “I didn’t know the circus was in town.”
“You say that like it’s an insult, my son,” the frog man said in what sounded like a cockney accent. “Now back off the man before I have ta make ya, quick like.”
“Or what?” Double Down faced him. “You’ll give me a wart?”
As he laughed at his own joke, the frog man said to Cluemaster, “Best cover your ears, mate. S’about ta get real noisy in ‘ere.” He breathed in, and as he did, his throat swelled and bulged. Arthur put his hand over his ears just in time as the frog man opened his mouth and let loose an unnatural, deafeningly load croak.
Arthur looked to Double Down and saw the instant the wave of sound hit him, knocking his oppressor back onto the ground. The frog man stopped his onslaught, pausing for breath before walking over to Arthur and helping him up.
“You alright?” he asked as Arthur dusted himself off.
“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks for that.”
“S’nothin’. Never been a fan of bullies is all,” the frog man shrugged. He extended a green hand to Arthur, which Arthur couldn’t help but notice did indeed have one or two warts on it. “The name’s Mr Toad.”
“Cluemaster,” Arthur said, shaking his hand and silently thanking his captors for leaving him his gloves.
“Don’t suppose ya know where we are or why we’re ‘ere, then, do ya?” Mr Toad asked.
“All I know is someone dumped us,” Arthur said. “I can’t say as to the where and why.”
Toad sneered. “That’s just my luck, it is. Waitin’ it out in Blackgate, go in for a physical, next fing I know, BAM!” He clapped his hands. “I wake up alone in this pit. I tell ya this, mate, Lady Luck’s never been one ta smile on ol’ Mr Toad.” He let out a sigh and looked back at Arthur. “Suppose we join forces, then? Try and get ourselves outta this mess, suss out the where, why, and who of it all while we’re at it?” Toad asked.
“As long as you don’t try to cut me with a playing card, I think we have a deal,” Cluemaster said.
“Sounds like a plan,” Mr Toad said. He then turned his attention over to Double Down, who was still on the ground, stunned and confused by Toad’s croak. “What should we should do wif ‘im?”
Arthur shrugged. “Take him with us, I suppose.”
“You’re kidding,” Toad said. “Cause I can kill him, no trouble. S’not like there’s any guards here to stop us, is there?” He cupped his hands and shouted, “Oi, coppers! There’s a deranged freak ‘bout to beat some dickhead to death!”
“He’s just as much a victim of this situation as we are,” Arthur said. “Besides, you never know when you might need a human shield.”
Mr Toad snorted. “Fine, but if he screws this up for us, I’ll eat him like a grub.” He looked at Double Down. “You hear that, friend? Or are you still deaf from my little croak?”
“WHAT?” Double Down answered with a shout.
“Eh, it’ll wear off in a few. Or it won’t.” He turned and started walking away. “C’mon, I fink I saw an exit sign somewhere ‘round ‘ere.”
Cluemaster walked after him. Double Down watched them walk away, thankful for them to be gone. Then, as he realized how dark it was in the prison and how quiet it was without his hearing, he scrambled to his feet and shouted to the others, “GUYS, WAIT! WAIT FOR ME!” and ran after them.
* * * * * *
Nash Nimbus was pissed off, and someone was going to pay.
She spent the last few months working tirelessly to make her debut as the Mist perfect. She had perfectly copied her father’s formula and given herself his same superpowers. She had pieced together the ideal plan for assassinating every member of the Opal City PD who had ever put him away; her way of showing that she not only was a part of her father’s legacy, but that she was a force to be reckoned with beyond what he was.
She had done things that made it difficult to sleep at night, things that were necessary if she was to embrace her destiny. And yet, on the day of her big debut, she woke up in a jail cell; one that wasn’t even guarded, in a prison that looked like it went to crap years ago. Oh yes, Nash was angry, and she would find the person responsible and end them.
As she walked, Nash felt what almost seemed like a tremor. She stopped, and felt again, this time accompanied by a footstep that wasn’t her own. Then another step, another tremor. Nash instinctively reached for her Colt .38, only to be reminded that whoever took her also took her gun.
Bracing herself, Nash turned around and faced whoever or whatever was following her.
The first thing that struck her about this stranger was his height; he was well over seven feet tall, and solidly built. He was bald, with pale skin and cold, steely eyes. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his upper body was dotted with tattoos, including a red star, a wolf, a skull, words in another language Nash couldn’t understand, and a hammer and sickle. Strangest of all, this newcomer had no right arm, instead sporting a nasty looking scar from his shoulder all the way down to his waist.
The giant stranger grinned at Nash, and she mentally went on the defensive. “You seem lost, little girl,” he said in a thick Slavic accent. “Do you need escort, perhaps?”
“Where am I and why am I here?” Nash said. She wanted to get this over with as soon as possible; the way the stranger looked at her made her uncomfortable.
“You tell me,” the stranger regarded her carefully. “I awake in old prison and only other person here is strange girl. Unless this how American prison system work, I do not know where we are or why we are here.”
Nash sighed. She reached into a pocket and found, to her surprise, that her sunglasses were still there. She put them on and said, “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.”
She stuck an arm forward and it transformed itself into a green swirl of fog, still attached to her body but completely gaseous. The fog drifted up and filled the stranger’s nose and mouth. His eyes went wide as he started choking, coughing and shaking as he tried and failed to get a breath of fresh air. He dropped to his knees as tears filled up his eyes, and Nash allowed herself a small but sick smile as she admired her own work.
Nash retracted the cloud, allowing it to reform into her right arm as the stranger gasped gratefully for air and wiped the tears away from his eyes.
“Now I’ll ask once more, politely,” Nash said. “Tell me where I am and why I’m here.”
Between coughs and sputters and gasps, the stranger said, “Fine. Fine. I tell you what I know.”
The man was faster than Nash predicted. His left arm shot like lightning and grabbed Nash by the throat. She tried to escape, tried to turn incorporeal, but couldn’t focus enough to dissipate as she felt the weight of his fingers on her throat.
“What I know about this place is very little,” the stranger growled as he got to his feet, lifting Nash off the ground without breaking his grip on her. “I wake up here. I find strange girl. I offer help, she try to kill me. I do not know if she prisoner like me, and I do not care. So I kill her; make sure it does not happen again.”
Nash could feel her head pounding. Her vision was starting to tunnel. She struggled and kicked and tried to pry his fingers off her throat with her bare hands, but they were like vices and refused to even budge.
“Goodbye, little girl,” he said.
“Let her go.”
The both turned and saw the speaker: a slim, lithe woman with pale blonde hair, wearing tight-fitting, red-and-black clothing. She wore wrappings around her feet in lieu of shoes and black greasepaint around her eyes in lieu of a domino mask.
“Give me moment,” the one-armed stranger said, returning his attention to Nash. “I have business to take care of.”
The woman sneered at him. “Are you Sickle?” she asked.
He raised an eyebrow to her. “Who is asking?”
“That must make you the Mist,” the woman said to Nash. “The man who brought you here wants to speak to you-- both of you. Alive.” She crouched down and leaned back, like a snake getting ready to strike. “So I suggest you put her down now, because if we can lose one of our own,” she pointed at the Mist, “we can certainly lose another,” she finished, casually pointing at Sickle.
Sickle looked at Nash, then at the woman, then back at Nash. He pondered the threat as Nash’s vision became completely blocked out by darkness. Suddenly, she felt herself fall and land on the floor, and air rushed into her lungs. Her vision returned and as she coughed through a bruised, sore throat, she saw that she was lying on the ground, looking up at Sickle.
“Very well,” he said. “I will speak with our captor. Perhaps kill him.”
As Sickle walked away, Nash forced herself to sit up and said to him in a hoarse, creaking, angry voice, “I’ll remember this!”
Sickle stopped, turned around, and looked at her, bemused. “Good,” he said. “Is important lesson.” His expression turned grave. “Do not screw with Timur Abramovichi.”
And with that, Sickle turned and walked away, following the woman’s lead down the hall and around the corner. Nash took a few quick moments to get her breath back, then got to her feet and went after them as well.
* * * * * *
Sickle, Mist, and the woman walked the halls of the prison until they came to what looked to be a cafeteria; a long room with metal tables down the middle, lined with uncomfortable-looking stools that were screwed into the floor. There were old lights and speakers on the ceiling and monitors dotted around the room, though more than a few of them looked disused or broken, with a thick layer of dust covering them and stray wires sticking out.
Sitting around one of the long tables were three others who took notice of the trio; a blond man in a brown costume, a man with a large playing card tattooed on his exposed chest, and what looked to be a giant human/frog hybrid wearing a dapper bowler hat.
“What a fine gaggle of misfits we are, eh?” Mr Toad laughed. “So, Copperhead, we gonna know what this is all about or what?”
Copperhead, the slim woman, didn’t answer. She simply sat down at the table across from Cluemaster. The other two joined her, with Mist making a point of not sitting next to Sickle.
As soon as they were all sitting, the speakers around them creaked into activity and the monitors flicked on. There was a high pitched squeal as the old machines awakened for the first time in a long time, followed by an old tape recording, fuzzy-sounding and decayed by the passage of time. The screens that still worked displayed a capital letter ‘A’ in front of the word “Arkham”. A pleasant-sounding male voice spoke to them.
“Welcome to Arkham Asylum, where your well-being is our primary concern. We ask that all patients please keep calm and--” the recording cut short and the screens went to static.
“Good god, we’re up on the hill. We’re in the old asylum,” Cluemaster said, aghast. “I thought this place was due for demolition--”
Before anyone could say anything else, a new voice came over the loudspeakers; one deep and distorted that instantly grabbed all of their attentions. The screens then showed the white silhouette of a man’s head, with two black eyes staring down at all of them.
<I’m the one who’s brought you here. You may call me the Voice,> whoever was speaking, the transmission was modulated, corrupted, so the identity of the speaker couldn’t be discerned. <You’re probably wondering where you are. That video will have answered that question. These are the ruins of the old Arkham Asylum, on the outskirts of Gotham City. You’re also probably wondering why you’re here. It’s quite simple: I have need of a team; a wet works squad, capable of performing black ops missions across the world, and entirely loyal to me.>
“Loyal?!” Copperhead said, incredulous. “You drug us, kidnap us, and drop us in this miserable pit, and you expect us to be loyal?”
<Perhaps that isn’t the right word,> said the Voice. <‘Obedient’ would be more accurate. Most commanders choose to lead with either the carrot or the stick; I prefer to use both. Work for me, follow my orders, and you will be extremely well compensated; more than that, you will be respected-- and you will be feared.> Double Down looked almost excited by that. <Go against me and I guarantee you will regret it.>
“Of course you do, honey,” Copperhead stood up and began to walk away. “I don’t believe in the great and powerful Oz. Call me when you find the man behind the curtain.”
None of them tried to stop her as she neared the door. However, she did stop when a new voice came out of the speakers: her own. She turned to see herself on the television screen, sat behind an interview table, a camera levelled on her calm, collected face.
“For the record, then. My name is Larissa Diaz, though my name on the street is ‘Copperhead’. That’s how the people know me. For years I have been an assassin for the Penitente cartel. I have met directly with and worked for several high ranking members of the cartel, including Geraldo Garcia, Jose-Miguel Rosales, Hector Eladio--”
As the names continued, Copperhead looked up at the TV screens and said, “That’s a fake! I never said that! I never said any of that!”
The recording stopped and the Voice answered, <Will the cartel believe you if I sent that recording to every law enforcement agency in America? How long will you last if they think you betrayed them?>
Copperhead began speaking in Spanish, faster than any of them could understand. The only thing they could pick up was her anger and her fear. The Voice ignored her protests and continued.
<Before the rest of you get too cocky, know that I have plans for all of you. Double Down, there’s still a warrant for your arrest in Central City. If I left you on Governor Wolfe’s doorstep, how long would it take for you to be put in Iron Heights? I understand some of the Rogues are still in there; do you think they hold a grudge?>
“Please,” Double Down said. “P-Please don’t. I’ll work for you, I’ll do whatever you say, just don’t put me in there with them.”
“You bloody coward,” Mr Toad spat. “Have a little spine, will ya? Show us that there’s a pair a’ balls swingin’ ‘tween your legs.”
<Would you like to know what your particular punishment for failure to comply is, Mr Toad?> asked the Voice.
“What, you gonna put me away too?” he laughed. “Hate ta disappoint ya, but you already done broke me out of jail ta get me ‘ere. Not much more you can do ta me that ain’t been done already.”
<Perhaps not,> the voice answered. <But there things I could do to your former cohorts in the Circus of Strange.>
The screen changed to a mugshot of an exceptionally fat woman with a beard. <For instance, your friend Big Top is listed as male on her birth certificate. It would be relatively easy to have her transferred from Fairfield Women’s Prison to Blackgate Penitentiary. A woman of her… stature, behind bars with the worst criminal element Gotham City has ever seen? The mind races.>
There was another mugshot, this one of a bald man covered in burn scars. <Phosphorous Rex could well be classified as a metahuman and be sent to Belle Reve. How long would he last with the real super criminals?>
Another mugshot, this one of a round-faced man who had clearly been in a fight and lost badly. <And the man in charge, Professor Pyg? Well, for his particular crimes, I think the death sentence would be appropriate, don’t you, and not the comfortable confines of New Arkham?>
“You leave ‘em alone!” Toad stood up. “They’ve got nuffin’ ta do wif ‘fis!”
<Loyalty among thieves. A rare commodity I seek to promote between you all.> The Voice continued. <Sickle, you will be sent back to Siberia. Alongside with your brother. You will have plenty of time to spend with each other and if you even attempt to return to the States again you will be marked men. Every hired hand, hitman, and assassin in the country will be trying to kill you.>
Sickle merely grunted in response.
The screens shifted again, this time showing video of a young blonde girl, no older than sixteen, sleeping peacefully in a bed.
<Cluemaster,> The Voice continued. <I will put a bullet in your dear daughter’s head. And as for you, Mist-->
“--You’ll kill my brother?” she said, her voice hoarse and still recovering. “Is that what you were going to say?”
<No,> The Voice said. <I know what you did to him; how much you care about him. No, if you step out of line, Ms ‘Nimbus’, I will erase you from every record that ever bore your chosen name or your face.>
The screens began to flash rapid images, showing picture ID’s, school photos, social media images, and a birth certificate, all of them bearing Mist’s identity.
<When I’m finished the only people who will know you ever existed will be your already senile father and your halfwit brother. You will be less than a memory, and then, only then, will I kill you. Your legacy will be left in their hands.>
The Voice paused, and his words hung heavy in the air. None of them were willing to admit it, none of them wanted to believe it, but all of them were scared. Of course, the things he was describing were ludicrous, he couldn’t possible have that much power…but then that one deadly phrase crept into the back of their minds and gave them all cause to fear: What if he’s not lying?
<But that doesn’t have to happen,> the Voice said. <None of this has to happen. So long as you follow orders, so long as you do your jobs, you will become extremely wealthy, as well as be part of the most feared team this world has ever seen. If you think I’m lying, you’re free to leave whenever you want, well aware of the consequences of those actions. So, please, if you are so inclined, leave now, and watch your lives burn down around you.>
There was a pause. The Voice waiting for dissention. None came. <Good. Welcome to the Secret Six. Shall we begin?>