ISSUE #3 (December 2020)
Written by Travis Hiltz Featuring: |
"THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN!"Earth 28: A world very similar to our own.
Much like Earth one, during the era known as the cold war, the costumed heroes of World War two are presumed dead, retired or forced into exile and the heroic age is years away. The world is practically bereft of costumed, super powered heroes. The United States fights a constant, clandestine war with the insidious forces of the Communist Bloc countries. But, in these dark years, with the Justice Society disbanded and the Justice League yet to be formed, who will protect us from the red menace…? 1962: Crandal City Night has fallen and the financial district is now a collection of dark, silent monoliths. With the offices closed, so too close the nearby eateries and smaller business, as their cliental have all gone either home, or to the fashionable neighborhoods, where the nightclubs and theaters are brightly lit and festive with drink and music. It’s rare to see even a taxi. There is the occasional flicker of light from some junior over achievers’ office or hear the hum of the night janitorial crew. So, there was no one to witness the black town-car, parked in the alley, across from the Powell Company offices. Two men occupied the car. In the driver’s seat, a burly, older man with a. impressive, white mustache, sporting a stylish chauffeurs’ cap was at the wheel. In the back, sat a man with reddish hair, clad in a trench coat, a boxy device decorated with lights and dials by his side. He also wore a set of headphones, connected to the device by a wire. He adjusted a dial, flicked several switches and then picked up a pen-shaped microphone. “Okay, the prowl car just made its pass. We have a window of two hours. Confirm, Big Eye. We good to go?” High above the city, burrowed deep within a cloud bank, a dirigible, resembling an enormous bird of prey soared, its sole occupant intent upon banks of sophisticated monitoring devices. During World War two, he had been one of the allies’ most famed aviators, now age and injury had led him to this solitary post and a support role to his team. “Confirmed, Listener, I’m sending in the troops.” Talon-like extensions released a small saucer-shaped construct, roughly the size of a sports car that gently, silently floated down to the darkened skyscraper. Landing with the merest scrape of displaced gravel, a hatch then opened in the ebony mini-saucer and two figures stepped out: a tall, handsome man with a neatly trimmed mustache, clad in a red military uniform and beret. White brandoliers criss crossed his chest. He wore a pair goggles with red lenses. His companion was a shorter Asian man, compact and athletic, attired in stylish evening wear. Bizarrely, his hands were encased in gloves made of grey metal. They approached the roof door and the man with the mustache took a thin metal rod from one of the many pouches on his belt and inserted it into the lock. There was a faint click and he opened the door, making a ‘after you’ gesture to his companion. They quickly descended the stairs to a dark, cluttered storage area. Once there, the man with the mustache took out a device the size of a deck of cards and held it out, scanning the room. Satisfied, he tucked it away in his belt and brought his wristwatch up close to his mouth. “We are in,” He said, into his wrist radio. He spoke with a French accent. “The good Doctor and I are going to make our way down to the tenth floor. Everything seems quiet.” “Down here as well,” A voice said from the radio speaker. “Might be we are just chasing wild geese, but this is one of the three predicted targets Delta gave us.” “Wish us luck. Mr. Machine out.” He then took a thin flashlight from a pouch on his belt and clicked it on. It appeared to emit no light, but in fact generated infra-red light, as well as a sonic scanning wave, similar to sonar. The duo made their way through the storage room, down another flight of stairs and then down a darkened hallway. Reaching the main stairwell, they quickly descended three flights to their destination. The well-dressed Asian, known by the codename ‘Doctor Hands’, ran a metallic finger around his collar. “Bit Stuffy,” He muttered in a slightly accented voice. “After we capture the thieves, I’ll be sure to have a look at the air conditioning,” Mister Machine replied dryly. “There’s the office.” Frowning, the Doctor followed him, pausing briefly to run a metal hand over the grill of an air vent. Feeling no whisper of moving air, his frown deepened slightly. They reached a door, resembling every other door on the floor, dark wood with frosted glass and the office number stenciled on the window. Another use of the metal tube and they entered the office. “Something’s not right here,” Mr. Machine said, under his breath. “I too feel some unease,” The Doctor nodded, rubbing his chin in thought. “Can’t place my finger on what…?” “No, it’s not a feeling, “Machine said, flicking on the light switch. “Look!” Glancing around the modest office, it was easily noticeable that one of the drawers of a nearby filing cabinet had been left open, as well as several drawers in the desk.” “That’s not carelessness,” Machine said, activating his wrist radio. “Listener, someone has already been here.” “They may be here still,” Doctor Hands said, quietly, laying a hand on his partner’s shoulder. “This seems to indicate they left hurriedly.” “I don’t like it,” Machine said, “Too quiet.” “Too quiet,” Hands repeated, absently, his mind struggling to sort out what was nagging at him. He snapped his fingers with clanking sound. “That’s it!” He hooked his arm through his teammates and dragged him back out into the hallway. “What?” The taller man asked. “It is too quiet,” Dr. Hands repeated. “It’s stuffy because the ventilation system isn’t working. Either it’s been shut off or…” “Or something is blocking the air!” “Everyone, heads up!” He said into his communicator. “We think the thief is escaping using the ventilation shafts.” Doctor. Hands reached out and, with the screeched of metal, yanked the nearest grill off the wall and stuck his head into the airshaft. It was narrow, he bumped his head on the far side, but amazingly could make out a form moving in the darkness below. He pulled his head out and gave one of his lapels a squeeze. “The thief is heading downwards,” He said, into a mini-communicator button. Back in the parked car, the man known as the Listener hit a red button on the device besides him. “Everyone move in! Centurion, move into the service tunnels under the building. Hendy and I have the ground floor.” “I’m keeping watch on the roof in case he doubles back or has accomplices,” The voice from the air ship replied. “Right. Bouncer, move in, in case Big Eye needs back up.” He pulled off his headphones and tapped his chauffeur on the shoulder. “I sent the signal to Delta,” He said. “Let’s move in, Hendy.” “Why does everyone else get called by their codenames…?” The older man grumbled as he tossed aside his cap and exited the car. He wore a maroon uniform adorned with shoulder holsters, a gun belt, pouches for ammo run up both sleeves and more holsters lined the legs. “Head for the west corner, okay, Weapons Master?” “Better,” The old soldier said, drawing a pair of pistols. The Listener shrugged out of his trench coat, revealing a blue two-piece outfit, similar to a jogging suit, covered with tiny pictures of what appeared to be ears. The pair jogged across the street, the Weapons Master easily keeping up with the Listener, despite his age and size. In the shadows at the corner of the building, Weapons Master had a clear line of sight of the main doors. Listener put a finger to his right ear, activating a tiny device embedded there that elevated his already sharp ears to superhuman levels. “I’m getting something,” He muttered. “Definitely someone or thing in the air shafts…and someone else…” He leaned in to glance at the front door. “You see anyone?” He asked in a hush. “No.” “I can hear a heartbeat, but I can’t see anyone…?” “An accomplice, hidden somewhere?” The older man muttered. He crept along the building, towards the doors. For all he could see, the street was deserted. Then, just as he reached the doors, someone stepped out of the wall and struck him from behind… Upstairs, Mister Machine and Doctor Hands were moving quickly down the corridor. Machine held a mini-scanner in one hand and what looked like a stubby, metal boomerang in the other. “The thief had to have gotten out, or moved into the elevator shaft,” He muttered, anxiously. “There’s no way he could go the entire length of the building in the air shafts. They’re too narrow…” “Could have doubled back, like Big Eye suggested?” Hands asked. “Or hidden himself in one of the offices…?” “We are going to bump into the janitors or guards soon,” Machine grumbled. “We need to find him…getting something…!” The grill in the wall next to him was kicked loose, catching the gadget-wielding soldier in the temple. A thin figure leapt out… The rooftop was silent, almost peaceful in the moonlight, just the hum of the air conditioning units. Suddenly, a figure from the nearest building leapt off the roof, easily clearing the distance between buildings and skidding to a halt, next to Mister Machine’s saucer. A tall figure, clad in a grey rubber bodysuit, over-sized boots and bullet helmet. It left his open, friendly face exposed. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, before tapping the side of his helmet. “Bouncer here, Big Eye,” He said. “I’ll keep a look out.” “Hopefully you don’t get too lonely,” The team’s observer replied. “Maybe I should have brought a book?” The Bouncer shrugged, right before the massive bird swooped down and struck him… Their attacker wore a head to toe white bodysuit. He grinned triumphantly as the Weapons master went down on one knee. “Drop your guns, old man?” “Uhhh…don’t worry, I brought a spare,” He swung his arm upwards, snatched another pistol from a shoulder holster and fired at the attacker. The man in white, startled, stumbled backwards, blending into the wall of the office building. “Damnit!” The Listener muttered, as he ran to help his teammate. “It’s the Chameleon! He’s trying to flee the building!” “Then who is attacking us?” Mr. Machine responded. “And something just swooped in to strike the Bouncer!” Big Eye added. “What the hell is going on?” The Centurion’s booming voice cut in. “Do you need me up there?” Listener was about to respond when the Chameleon stepped out of hiding and punched him across the jaw. On the eighth floor, Mr. Machine and Doctor Hands were scrambling to catch their opponent. He was a thin man in a yellow bodysuit with a red cowl. He moved quickly and his own outfit was coated with a chemical substance that made it difficult to grab him. “It’s the Eel!” Machine shouted. He tucked his scanner away and brought out a short metal baton. Doctor Hands lunged for the Eel and gained an electric zap for his efforts. Even through his metal gloves, he could feel the stinging pain. Mister Machine clicked a button and then flung the stubby boomerang. It flew down the corridor then arced back, zeroing in on the Eel. The villain dodged and slithered, but the boomerang kept chasing after the costumed thief. The heroes also continued their attack, boxing in the Eel, but unable to get a hold of him. Mr. Machine caught him a glancing blow with his baton, only to have him shoulder roll and then dive for the open vent. Doctor Hands missed grabbing the Eel and put his fist through the wall instead. He struggled to pull his hand free. The boomerang drone swooped after the Eel and into the air vents. Mr. Machine pushed past his teammate, to stick his head in to opening and try and spot either their assailant or his gadget. “Damnit…!” He muttered. “Um…could I have some assistance?” Hands asked, irritably. On the roof, Bouncer was knocked forward, skidding on the gravel and was sent tumbling off the edge. He plummeted several floors before catching the heels of his special, reinforced boots on a narrow strip of a ledge. It was enough to send him ‘sproinging” back upwards. The Bouncer caught the edge of the rooftop and pulled himself back up. Looming over him was not an enormous bird, but rather a man in a bird costume: A beak-shaped hood on his cowl, taloned gloves and boots and set of massive wings. “The Buzzard…!” Bouncer breathed, leaping to his feet and immediately taking up a fighting stance. Big Eye shifted his chair and adjusted several controls. His specialty was monitoring and transport. He had been sidelined, as far as action was concerned. Now action was needed. He frowned, tapping his fist against the console in frustration. “I miss when my planes had weapons,” He muttered.” Nothing but transports…waitaminute…!” He rapidly punched buttons. Back on the roof, all the lights on Mister Machine’s saucer came on, flooding the rooftop with light. The Buzzard was startled and Bouncer launched himself across the space between them, landing a punch that sent the Buzzard staggering across the roof. Bouncer leapt at him, only to have the Buzzard shot upwards and the rubber-armored hero tumbled off the roof. “Not again!” He yelped, arms windmilling as he fell. Down on the sidewalk, Listener and Weapon Master were struggling with their own opponent. The Chameleon would fade, blending in with surroundings, then jump out and strike. Listener was sure he could get a bead on the thief, if he could just get to concentrate for a few seconds. Weapon Master was having the same problem. It didn’t matter how many guns you have, if you can’t aim at your target. Suddenly, the pavement cracked and an astounding figure came bounding out. The Golden Centurion was clad, from head to toe in golden armor. His bucket-like helmet hid his features, except for his eyes, and sported a blunt fin. On one arm he wielded an octagon-shaped shield. Rocketing forward, the Centurion clamped an armored hand around the startled Chameleon’s throat. “The Chameleon?” The Centurion said. “This was the big menace you couldn’t handle?” “He has help,” The Eel said, slithering out of a window and landing on the Centurion’s broad, armored shoulders. He then zapped him with enough electricity to light up a city block. Centurion shook and spasmed, losing his grip on the Chameleon, who promptly vanished. “Damnit!” Listener snapped, tapping at his earpiece and trying to track him. Weapon master, got up on one knee and fired off two shots. One clipped the Eel across the temple, knocking him off his perch. The other was an explosive round that sent the Centurion stumbling away from the electric villain. Listener was further distracted by the sounds of sirens in the distance. “Better by the minute…!” He grumbled. “At least we got one of them,” Weapon Master said, getting to his feet with an effort, just as the Buzzard swooped down and grabbed the unconscious Eel. “That’s…that’s just not fair,” Listener said, his shoulders slumping. “Whine later,” Big Eye’s voice said from his mini-radio. “Move out, fast!” Weapon Master helped the Centurion to his feet, slinging a golden arm over his shoulder. He looked a question at his teammate. “Let’s got out of here,” Listener said, taking the Centurion’s other arm. “What…oof…what about the others?’ Weapons Master asked, as they dragged the Centurion across the street and into the car. “Where are we going?” Doctor Hands asked, shaking his injured hand. “Are we going to meet up with the others?” Mister Machine shook his head and didn’t slow down his pace. They ran back to the office they had originally investigated. Machine made a hurried search of the open drawers, grabbed a few papers and then ran for the stairwell. “I feel we are forgetting something…?” Doctor Hands muttered. “Um…hello…?” A voice sounded in individual mini-communicators. “I could….really use some help!” “Bouncer?” Machine asked. “Where are you?” “I…uh…think…I’m on the eleventh floor. They aren’t numbered on the outside.” The duo ran from window to window until they spotted their teammate, hanging from the narrow, crumbling windowsill. “Sorry, the Buzzard got away.” He apologized as they hauled him in. “Yes, well, I don’t think any of us fared too well tonight,” Mister Machine said, chagrined. The trio ran to the roof, the Bouncer limping along at the back of the group, holding his wrenched shoulder. They crowded into the mini-saucer and soared, silently into the night. Later, at the headquarters of the secret government agency G.E.O.R.G.E (Global enforcers opposing revenge, greed and espionage): The team sat around a large, white, round table (minus Big Eye, who was represented by a blocky speaker) Weapon Master had a staggering collection of firearms spread out in front of him, on which he was doing maintenance. The Bouncer had removed his helmet, and was intent upon a large sandwich. Mister Machine was also performing maintenance on a collection of objects scattered around a smoldering ashtray and a cup of coffee. Doctor Hands had removed his metal gloves and assumed a restful pose, whether meditation or merely a nap was uncertain. The Centurion had removed his armor, though it stood just behind his chair. He was easing his injuries with a large drink. The Listener was intently studying a folded newspaper, venting his frustrations on the crossword puzzle. A hole opened in the floor at the head of the table and a figure emerged. He was a thin man in a grey business suit, his black hair reached past his collar, and his face was obscured by a white plastic mask that rendered his features blank. “Well, that was an unmitigated disaster,” The new arrival announced without preamble. He stood, surveying the team, his hands clasped behind his back. “Teacher has come to scold us,” Mister Machine said, not looking up from his work. “Delta, all this praise is going to give us swelled heads,” The Centurion said. “And then Stan and I will have trouble getting our helmets back on,” Bouncer added, through a mouthful of sandwich. Delta, the team’s liaison, looked around the table, his disapproval apparent, even with his lack of features. “So,” Big Eye’s voice cane from the speaker, cutting off any further comments from the masked man. “Did those papers Andre grabbed give you any clue as to what’s behind these robberies?” Mister Machine looked up, frowning at the speaker at the use of his real name. “No,” Delta reluctantly admitted. “The plans and components could be used together on various systems, but cannot point to a specific project or even who is behind it.” “Not to mention, no warning that the Eel, Chameleon and the Buzzard had joined forces,” The Listener chided. “Or that their gadgets got souped up since last time we tangled with them?” The Centurion asked. Their liaison seemed put out that the tables had been turned and he was being questioned, and held up a hand to halt further conversation. We have several leads,” Delta said. “Projects that would benefit from the stolen formulas and equipment.” With a casual gesture, pneumatic tubes ejected scrolls of paper to each man’s chair. “While you are investigating,” Delta continued. “I’ve got agents tracking down any information they can on your assailants.” “That would be nice,” Listener muttered, studying the papers. “Can’t help but think there’s something more behind this,” Weapons Master added, not looking up from his firearm maintenance. Elsewhere, in a darkened room, a similar meeting was occurring. The three masked criminals, the Eel, the Chameleon and the Buzzard were seated, each on one side of a large, square table. The fourth held an empty chair. The trio of villains sat in the darkened room, glowering at each other. “I don’t like this waiting…!” The white-clad Chameleon grumbled. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t fumbled the job…!” The Eel muttered. “Something you want to say?” The Chameleon snarled, starting to rise from his seat. “If you two don’t settle down…!” The Buzzard rasped, raking one taloned hand along the tables’ polished wood surface. “Enough!” A voice snapped, harshly from out of the shadows. “I thought I was dealing with professionals, not children!” A short, bulky form then waddled into the light and sat at the empty chair. He was clad in an outfit that made him look like an enormous, pudgy owl. Covered from head to toe, the outfit gave no hint of the man beneath it. The Owl glared at the trio until everyone was subdued and sitting, anxiously awaiting his next word or action. “It did not proceed flawlessly,” The Owl continued. “But we achieved our objective.” “I don’t know about that,” The Eel muttered. There was a frozen moment of tension, the other two villains shifting their gaze and posture away from their teammate. “You wish to say something?” The Owl asked, in a frighteningly calm tone. The Eel was obviously taken aback, but stood up, his fists resting on the meeting table. “Yeah, I do. You recruited us for this “project” of yours! We’ve pulled off three of these robberies, and haven’t seen a dime!” “And the Seven nearly collared us, this last time,” The Chameleon added. “I see,” The Owl mused. “And what of you, Buzzard? Do you also bristle under my yoke?” “I appreciate being out of jail, and the improvements you’ve made to my equipment,” The winged villain replied. “But Eel has a point. We’re taking the risk, especially now that the Seven know it’s us behind these jobs, and we’re still in the dark over what we’re stealing this stuff for.” The Owl sat back, the glassy eyes of his mask intently studying his cohorts. “My project involves science beyond your understanding,” He explained, quietly. “What does concern you, is its completion will change your…the world, and you will be well placed to take advantage of it. Yes, you are currently running the risk, but your aid is invaluable and the potential rewards are…incalculable.” He allowed his teammates several moments to soak up his words. “Incalculable is a good amount,” The Buzzard nodded. “I can be patient for a piece of the world.” There were nods from the other two, as well as shifty thoughtfulness. The Owl nodded in return, satisfied that he had halted any spark of rebellion and stood up. “Good, then we may proceed. There are only two more components remaining. In light of your…concerns, and the increased involvement of the Seven, I believe a change in our usual methods is required. We shall pair off to ensure success. Buzzard, you shall accompany me, while the Eel and the Chameleon strike at the second site. Allow me a moment and we shall make our final plans.” He faded into the shadows, leaving the other three. “Anyone else notice how he told us his plan, without actually telling us anything?” The Eel commented, pushing up his facemark in order to partake of a smoke. “I was wondering about that,” The Chameleon nodded. “I’ll do my best to keep an eye on our benefactor,” The Buzzard said, with a cynical smile. “For the good of the project, of course.” The pipe was narrow and sealed with the most basic of drains, as it was deemed impractical, if not impossible for use as an entry to the Evan Air Chemical Plant. Of course, the plants’ security office never considered a contortionist with a chemically treated bodysuit. The grill was knocked loose and the Eel came slithering out of the opening. He hit the concrete floor, did a shoulder roll and sprang to his feet. He crept to a nearby by fire exit, then unlocked and opened the door. He peered about in nervous confusion, until his partner stepped out of the brick wall and tapped him on the shoulder. “Quit fooling around,” The Eel grumbled. “Guards are due on their rounds. We only got twenty minutes!” “We’re fine,” The Chameleon chided, gruffly, as he looked around. “Down this wall. He said the bank of file cabinets…by that workbench.” Keeping alert for any sound of approaching security guards, the duo made their way across the warehouse. The Chameleon examined the filing cabinet, discovering it was unlocked. He tugged on the middle drawer and the top popped open like a jack in the box and Mister Machine stood up, an odd gun with a bulbous barrel in one hand and metal rod in the other. “Good evening,” He said, pulling the trigger. The pistol squirted a green, viscous liquid, that coated the thief’s special costume. Spitting and rubbing at his eyes, the Chameleon staggered. Reaching out, Mister Machine poked him with his metal wand, causing a spark. The Chameleon’s white bodysuit itself sparked and the liquid coating him. He began to fade and then suddenly returned to normal. “What the…?” He exclaimed. Just then, the tarp covering a work bench was flung aside and Doctor Hands lunged out, grabbing the Eel by both wrists. The special coating on his costume allowed him to slip loose from the dapper-dressed Asian’s metal grip. He stumbled backwards, colliding with the Chameleon. “We gotta get out of here!” The Eel hissed. “They did something to my suit!” The Chameleon protested. “I can’t change!” The Eel flinched, as Doctor Hands clamped a metal gauntlet upon his shoulder. Meanwhile, the Chameleon’s idea was to abandon his partner and run for the exit. As he dodged between two pieces of equipment, the Weapons Master stepped out of his hiding place, pistols drawn and pointed at the costumed thief. “Going somewhere?” The older soldier asked. The Eel slithered loose, and dove away, hoping to hide amongst the machinery and storage crates and escape the government agents. He squeezed between two crates and was immediately socked on the jaw. “Nice try,” The Listener said, blowing on his knuckles. Doctor Hands held both villains by the scruff of the neck and hauled them back to the main workbench. He gave them a shake, before presenting them to his teammates. The two thieves gulped, taking in the various weapons pointed at them, before exchanging a glance. “So,” Mister Machine drawled. “What would you like to talk about?” “If you hurry, you can catch the others!” The Chameleon blurted out. “Wait!” The Listener muttered. “Another target…? What were they after?” “Others?” Weapons Master added. “You mean the Buzzard?” “Um…,” The Eel muttered, his eyes shifting anxiously. Weapons Master jabbed a pistol in his masked face. “Something you’d like to share?” “Just tell them!” The Chameleon snapped. “It’s obvious we were set up! The Owl used us as a distraction while he hit the electronics plant!” Now, it was the heroes’ turn to glance at each other uneasily. “The Owl…?” Doctor Hands muttered. “Uh…we may have been played,” The Listener added, stepping away and tapping his ear piece. “You listening to all this?” “Yeah,” Big Eye replied. “Seemed to be going fine, until that bit at the end.” “Really…? You want to bust my chops now…?” “Is there ever a time when I don’t enjoy it?” “Fine. Wanna help?” Listener grumbled. “Have been, soon as I noticed the Buzzard was nowhere in the vicinity,” Big Eye replied. “Been scanning and I alerted Delta. Stan was already on patrol, so soon as we have anything, I can send him.” “This isn’t good,” Listener said, turning back to his teammates. “Grab those two and let’s get out of here. We need to find this Owl character!” Soon, the heroes and their two captives were aboard the converted bus that served as one of the Seven’s mobile headquarters. The Bouncer, who had stayed behind to stand guard, was driving. The two costumed thieves were in a mini-brig, while the heroes were crowded around a table in the main section. Two speakers had been installed, one for Big Eye to join in, the other for Delta. “What happened?” Big Eye demanded. “How did G.E.O.R.G.E.’s sources miss there was a second target site?’ “And the Owl’s involvement.” Listener added. While not physically present, or even having a visual representative, you could feel the liaisons’ discomfort through the speaker grill. “Yes, well,” Delta said, his usual disdain and bravado noticeably dampened. “The Owl has gained our notice, but until now, he was merely an information broker and dealer in black market technology. “Looks, like that’s changed,” Weapons Master commented. “The Eel and Chameleon acted like there was some ‘grand scheme’,” The Listener said, thoughtfully. “But, aside from vague comments that whatever he wants to build would affect the world, they don’t seem to know much.” “Hired help that thought they were running the game,” Big Eye added. “But what I don’t understand,” Mister Machine said. “Is what they are trying to build? This list of what they’ve stolen or targeted makes no sense! I don’t see what the Owl wants to build?” “We have people going over all that,” Delta said, moving back into supervisor role. The Listener moved to stand behind Machine, and study the sheets of paper with the lists of what equipment villains had stolen. “Yeah, what can you make with all this?” He muttered. “Nothing that our scientists can discern,” Delta replied. “Then why is the Owl bothering?” Weapons Master asked, absently, while cleaning his guns. “Good point,” Doctor Hands nodded, tapping his metallic fingers on the tabletop. “It may just be he’s filling some ‘shopping list’ for clients,” Big Eye suggested. “The way he’s acting?” Listener scoffed. “Using Eel and Chameleon as decoys? Naw, there’s something big and bad going on here.” The others nodded in agreement. “Fine,” Delta grumbled. “Then what…? Our scientists cannot find any device that requires that list…?” “Government scientists,” Mister Machine muttered. “There’s an imaginative lot.” “Anytime you want to jump in!” Their liaison snapped. “What could he build with those items he stole?” The teams’ gadget expert asked, thoughtfully. “Instead of what devices require that list of parts, you should look at the parts and instead say ‘what could I build if I had these?’ and follow that list.” There was a round of silent thought, even the speakers grew quiet and contemplative. “It could be a cannon,” Weapons Master said, breaking the silence. “You would need specialized metalwork, but the chemicals would work…” “If it could be a cannon,” Big Eye interrupted. “Then it could also make a propulsion unit…” “A missile?” Delta mused, anxiously. “Or a rocket.” Doctor Hands suggested. “Neither of those sounds good,” The Listener said. “The combination of those chemicals is dangerously volatile,” Mister Machine nodded. “You need to get searching,” Delta ordered. “I need to consult our science staff.” He trailed off, and his speaker went quiet. “Can we trace this stuff?” Doctor Hands asked. “Possibly,” Mister Machine shrugged, continuing to tinker with a gadget. “We could see about getting the information from our two ‘guests’,” Weapons Master commented. “Listener and I will take the research part,” Big Eye said. “I leave it to you guys to have a chat with Eel and Chameleon.” Doctor Hands cracked his knuckles with a metallic clunk. Motivated by anger, the two costumed thieves required little persuasion to share any and all information they had on the Owl. Their hope of buying some freedom as well as gaining revenge on their benefactor was strong. Soon, the Seven had several locations to investigate. The car pulled up to the small, abandoned airport and Listener and Weapons Master got out. “Good spot for a secret weapon project,” The older man muttered, unsnapping several of his many holsters. “Place looks deserted,” The Listener said, adjusting one of his earpieces. “But, I can…hear…something…?” He pointed towards the dilapidated hanger. They walked towards it at an angle, not wanting to walk directly towards the doors. Weapons Master drew his guns. They paused at the corner of the wide, tin-roof building. “Anyone there?” Listener said, quietly, into his communicator. “We might have something. This place isn’t as deserted as it’s supposed to be.” “I’m getting the same feeling about this ‘abandoned’ chemical plant,” Doctor Hands replied. ‘The Centurion is going in to investigate…” “We’ve just researched the assembly plant,” Mister Machine joined in. ‘The Bouncer is going to the roof as we speak…” “Well?” Weapons Master asked. “I think we’re good,” The Listener said, just before the explosion. It wasn’t at their location, but where one of the other teams had gone, but it reverberated through his earpieces like a gunshot. He fell to his knees, clutching at his ears, gritting his teeth to keep from groaning in pain and possibly giving away their location to their enemy. Weapons Master was quickly kneeling by him. “What happened?” He asked, in a hush, anxiously looking around, suspecting an attack. “What happened?” Mister Machine echo’d. “What was that explosion?” “It was at the factory where Hands and the Centurion were investigating!” Big Eye announced. “There was a strange heat signature…” “Here too,” Mister Machine added. “Hopefully, we can…damnit! The Buzzard’s here!” A blast of static ended the conversation, leaving the confused Weapons Master and his dazed teammate. “How are you feeling?” “My head is ringing like a bell,” the Listener muttered, sitting up. “And the calvary probably aint coming, because it was just blown up…” “None of that,” Weapons Master said, helping him to his feet. “We have a job to do.” “Yeah…okay,” Listener nodded, leaning against the wall, while he struggled to get his balance and focus back. “We need to figure this out…what do we know…?” “The Owl knew we were coming,” The Weapon Master said, grimly. “Interesting that we haven’t encountered a booby trap.” “You think we hit the jackpot?” Listener asked, rubbing his forehead. “The Owl was willing to sacrifice the locations best suited to making weapons.” “Machine said he could use the list for either a missile or propulsion.” Listener muttered, his head clearing. “He picks a hanger…why all these shenanigans if he’s just building a plane…?” “Let’s have a look and find out.” Weapons Master said, easing along the wall. They crept along, until they reached the gap between the over-sized double doors. “I hear machinery,” Listener whispered. “But, almost no people…it might just be the Owl…? Why would he not bring the Buzzard or some hired guns?” “Come look,” The Weapons Master instructed, gesturing him over. The younger man moved and peered into the hanger. “Holy $%&!,” He breathed. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Weapons Master said, with a gruff humor. Through the gap, the pair could see the large, saucer-shaped construct. It was topped by a dome of transparent dome. “That design…?” listener muttered, anxiously. “If it works, we’ll never be able to catch it.” “If it doesn’t,” Weapons Master said. “It’ll blow up on the runway and with the chemicals the Owl stole for fuel, it’ll leave a crater a mile wide.” “Let’s get this over with,” Listener said. They slid the door open, just enough to squeeze in, and with the Listener intently scanning, were able to get close to the saucer. “That metal working…,” The Weapons Master pondered, tapping the hull with one of his guns. “There’s a hum of machinery coming from this thing,” The listener said, in a hushed tone. “We might have gotten here just in time.” Cautiously, they made their way around the saucer. “Is he here?” Weapons Master whispered. “Not getting anything,” Listener replied. “I heard movement, but I’m not picking up a heartbeat…!” “Can I help you, gentlemen?” The dome solid open and the Owl emerged, wings extended, as he swooped down at the duo. Weapons Master tried to get a shot off, but the Owl’s wings slapped him across the face. The Owl kicked out as he glided by, knocking the Listener aside. He then landed on a stack of crates. “Pathetic!” He laughed, harshly. “Stumbling around, thinking you’re clever…thinking you pose some challenge to my intellect! You have no notion what you are up against!” He swooped back, dodging the Weapons Masters’ shots. Listener reached underneath his tunic, easing a pistol out of a small holster set in the small of his back. He quickly, precisely put two bullets through one of the Owl’s wing. The portly villain wobbled in midair and landed ungracefully on the metal shell of the saucer. “Everybody thinks I’ve forgotten how to use a gun,” The Listener muttered. The Owl stumbled to his feet, surveying his damaged wing and then glaring at the duo. “Stupid fools!” He fumed, as the two advanced, their guns pointed at him. “You think my genius will be cowed by a few pellet guns?” “A bullet tends to stop most men,” Weapons Master advised him. “I am NOT most men!” The Owl screeched. He grabbed at his cowl and pulled it back. Both heroes started back, halted by the sight of the villains’ face. The Owl was bald as an egg, lacking even eyebrows. His ears were prominent and pointed. His skin was a sickly green. “He’s a martian…!” Listener exclaimed. “Idiot…,” The Owl muttered. “I have no interest in wealth or power over this miserable rock! All my plans have been in the service of ending my exile, repairing my ship…and now I shall!” “Wait!,” Weapons Master asked. “why go to all this trouble?” “And risk giving the technology of my people…my genius, to a bunch of monkeys?” The Owl scoffed. He flung something from his belt down and in the ensuing flash and cloud of smoke, was able to scramble back into his craft, while the pair of heroes were startled. “He likes the sound of his own voice,” Weapons Master muttered, waving away the smoke. “They always do,” Listener said, holstering his gun and adjusting his earpieces. “We get what we needed?” Weapon Master asked. “Almost too much. I don’t think ‘little green man’ was on any bodies list. We need to get in there and stop him. That thing is gonna blow. You can hear…well, I can, how much the machinery is straining. I seriously doubt that hubcap can contain that much energy.” “Not to mention, the Owl is obviously unstable and going to rush to get away, now that he’s been found out.” Weapons Master nodded, glancing around. “I think we can work with some of this equipment…” “Good. I’ll be right back.” The Listener jogged to the hanger door and squeezed through. ‘You hear all that?” He asked. “Enough.” Big Eye replied. “That ship is messing with radio signals. I’m heading your way and the closer I get the less luck I’m having talking to Delta. We’re on our own.” “That’s when we do our best work.” Listener replied, shading his eyes and peering towards an approaching cloud of dust and dirt. “Huh, this might be trouble.” A black car skidded to a halt and Mister Machine and the Bouncer climbed out. The big acrobat had the bound form of the Buzzard slung over one shoulder. “Yep, I was right,” Listener smirked. “We had a little trouble getting directions,” Machine said. “How can we help?” “There’s a space ship in there that could turn into an enormous bomb,” The listener explained. “We need to keep it on the ground.” There was an odd humming noise and the hanger began to shake. The Listener felt it through the doorframe he was leaning against and it was strong and sudden enough to cause him to stumble. “That’s bad…?” Bouncer asked, dropping the Buzzard on the ground. The trio grabbed the trembling hanger doors and forced them open enough to squeeze back in. The saucer was floating several feet above the floor, its dome pressing against the ceiling. It sported several new dents and scorch marks. The Weapons Master stood nearby, reloading the makeshift rocket launcher, he had fashioned from equipment around the workspace and his own personal collection of weapons. “I’m not having much luck!” He shouted, to be heard over the increasingly worrying loud hum of the spacecraft. “How about some assistance?” Mister Machine jogged over, pulling gadgets from his various pouches and pockets to help with the weapon. The Bouncer took a running leap and quickly crossed the hanger, landing on the metallic body of the saucer. He skidded about, before planting his feet and bracing his special rubber boots. He struggled to reach the dome and then began pounding on it, in hope of finding an opening and reaching the pilot. The Listener slid the hanger doors shut and frantically began shoving crates in front of them. He doubted it would stop the manic alien, but any small delay gave them a chance. The Owl apparently calculating his chances trying to break through the roof and instead opted for ramming the doors. The heroes scattered, diving for cover as the front of the hanger exploded in a rain of shrapnel. Running from cover, Weapons Master and Mister Machine fired at the saucer, while the Bouncer made another frantic leap at it. In the midst of all this chaos, the Golden Centurion touched down, looking around in confusion. “What I miss?” He asked. The Lister limped up to him, his costume torn and smeared with dirt. “Long story,” He muttered, holding his side and wincing. “That space ship could go off like an atom bomb!” “We want to stop it or hope it gets away from Earth?” The armored hero asked. “Not sure.” Listener said, then winced and touched his ear piece. “Can anybody hear me!” A voice said. “Amateurs!” “Hi, Delta,” listener said. “What can we do for you?” “You can deal with whatever is violating American Air space before the military attempts to shoot it down!” “Oh, that’s bad!” “So, glad I have your expertise on the matter.” Their liaison said, snidely. “Okay, how long have we got?” “Roughly ten minutes,” Delta replied. “I can perhaps stretch it to fifteen, if I lie and say we have a team of experts dealing with it.” “Then what am I doing hanging around here?” The Centurion asked, adjusting the controls on his gauntlet. “Talk to you in a minute!” He leapt up and zoomed after the saucer. “Will he and Bouncer be able to handle it?” Doctor Hands asked. “I hope so.” The Listener muttered. Several hundred feet up, the Bouncer was having some doubts about his course of action. Desperately gripping a gap between two metal plates, he was pounding on the plastic dome with his other. All the while wondering how he was going to get down if something happened. Actually, he’d figured out how he was going to get down. It was surviving it, that was worrying him. “Need a hand?” A voice asked. He looked up to see the Golden Centurion, flying alongside the space ship. “If you aren’t busy!” The Bouncer shouted. He leapt from the saucer, just as his armored teammate fired his wrist rockets. The Bouncer landed on the Centurions’ back, then grabbed hold as the blast set the saucer wobbling off its course. The heroes barely managed to avoid a collision, the Centurion firing as he swerved. The blasts seemed more an annoyance then to be doing any serious damage: A few dents, a couple loose metal plates and a small crack on the dome. They couldn’t hear whatever it was the Owl was muttering at them, but both heroes assumed it was his planet’s version of cursing them out. “That’s my mini-missiles done,” The Centurion said, grimly. “Let me try switching to the ray beam.” “Whatever you want,” The Bouncer said. “I’m just along for the ride at this point! It’s getting a little hard to breathe though…!” “Couple more minutes!” The Centurion said, more in hope than certainty. As the saucer started to pull away, the Centurion reached out and grabbed hold of the edge, digging his metal fingers in, until he left dents in the outer plating. Leaning over the edge, he fired a couple ray blasts. The dome was now spider-webbed with cracks and the alien pilots’ actions seemed increasingly frantic. “Guys, can…zzzttt…hear me?” The Listeners voice said. “We got some…zztt…thing on….zztt…scanner….could be…air force…might….want to skedaddle…!” “You see anything?” The Centurion asked, struggling to fire and keep his grip. The Bouncer shook his head, but then realized his teammate couldn’t see it, but he felt too weak to draw a breath, let alone join the conversation. He was more focused on his own grip weakening. “Can’t…hold…uh…on,” He managed to wheeze. “It’s not a missile,” A new voice said in their communicators. ‘It’s me. Look up!” “Big Eye…?” Bouncer mumbled. “Bart, what the hell are you up to?” Centurion asked. “Hey, what’s with using my name?” Big Eye replied. ‘We’re secret agents, remember. Get off that thing! Its readings are red hot! Soon as it hits orbit, I’m going to give it all I’ve got!” “Can the Wing go that high?” Centurion asked. “I don’t know, Stan, but my chances are better then yours. Get Bouncer to safety and then come play cavalry if you want.” “Damnit,” The Centurion muttered, before letting go of the saucer in order to grab his teammate. He zoomed back to the ground, fast as his armor would let him. “Is he going to be okay?” The Listener asked. “I dunno,” The Centurion replied, grimly. “If he thinks I’m letting him pull some stupid, noble gesture…!” “He knows what he’s doing,” The listener said. “But he’s been feeling the years and his injuries pretty hard, lately…he might be ready to go…” The Centurion swooped down, touched ground and hurriedly handed the groggy Bouncer off to Weapons Master. He then turned toward the Listener. “If I won’t take that kind of talk from him,” He said, pointing at the Listener. “I sure as hell aren’t gonna hear it from you!” He immediately shot off like a rocket. Back in the stratosphere, Big Eye adjusted controls and moved the airship within range. His chair resembled an old-time barber’s chair. It was attached to the metal deck and moved about the control room on runners built into the floor. Having long since lost most use of his legs, the famous aviator, swiveled and moved about the monitor and control consoles. He dabbed at his brow and hurriedly turned several dials. “Owl, or whatever your name really is,” He said, into the speaker. “If you can hear me, shut down your engines. I can come closer in order to rescue you, but I am not letting that atomic hubcap of yours endanger my friends or my country!” There was static and then empty air. “You want to get home, we can help you, but not until you power down!” “Help me…?” A weak, staticy voice replied. “As if any of you primates could understand…as if I would stoop to accepting the help of barely evolved….!” “Yeah, I get it,” Big Eye said, turning off the communicator. “They always have to do it the hard way! Just once, I’d have liked to meet a reasonable one.” He opened a panel and flipped the three red switches. He could hear all his teammates entreating him not to do anything too rash. He wore a grim smile, at both their concern for him and at their collective amnesia at what a daredevil he had been in his aviator days. He was also aware, that the danger was not just the Owl’s ship blowing up, but if he did escape, what was to stop him coming back with a fleet of arrogant, foul-tempered green men, bent on conquest. “Earth’s off limits,” He said, flicking the switches. The Golden Centurion felt the blast as he flew upwards. He struggled to keep steady and pour on more speed, as concern for his teammate built. “Damnit…!” He muttered, the blast rattling him inside his suit of high tech armor. He tumbled back down, before shaking it off and jetting upwards into the massive cloud of smoke and debris. Practically blinded, the Centurion flew erratically buffeted by pieces of the saucer (and most likely its pilot). “Bart…Big Eye…can you hear me?!” He shouted as he dodged wreckage. “Yeah, you wanna quit shouting and catch me?” The Centurion spotted the large metal sphere ‘escape pod’ from Big Eye’s airship. Its parachute was in flaming tatters. The armored hero swooped and, with a grunt, managed to catch the Volkswagen-sized sphere. His jets struggled to keep him and his burden aloft. He didn’t need to fly, but he would prefer not to crash. It wasn’t the smoothest trip, but soon enough, he and Big Eye were safe on the ground. They found a chair in what was left of the hanger, that allowed the famed aviator to sit and help supervise while his teammates and the troops sent from G.E.O.R.G.E. cleaned up. The Listener pulled over a crate and sat with his friend, “We should be finished here soon,” He said. “See about some rest and then hitting Delta up for a new airship.” “Good,” Big Eye nodded. “His highness have anything to say about us saving the world?” “He said our efforts were ‘adequate’.” “It’s embarrassing when he gets so emotional,” Big Eye said. “How are you doing?” “Well, feels strange to have my feet on the ground, and not sure how I feel, finding out how worried you guys were about me.” The pilot said, quietly. “The plan was never to go out in a blaze of glory or intentionally end it all.” “You sure?” Listener asked. “Because it kind of looked…” “I admit, it’s been hard…my legs, and maybe I stayed up there because flying is in my blood or maybe I was hiding, a little…so, while I’m waiting for my new and improved flying wing, you guys can tell you how much you missed me and how being super heroes is no fun without me…!” “Yeah, then I’m gonna need a drink,” The Listener said, getting to his feet. “Probably a couple.” “Yeah, me too. You’re buying.” “What? Why?” “It’s your turn. I paid last time.” Big Eye said, simply. “Last time? Last time was in 1949!” “Yeah, I know. I wrote it on my calendar because I knew you’d try to weasel out of it.” Authors note: They were the greatest heroes you never heard of… Okay, not really. They were kind of goofy and if you’re a big enough comic geek, you might have even heard about them. History lesson: Way back in the 60’s, DC was struggling to figure out what to do with Blackhawk. A bunch of WW2 pilots just weren’t working in a world full of super heroes and spies. So, what if you combined the two and made them spies with super powers? Why, it’s so brilliant it’ll…actually barely last a year and then 99% of fandom will pretend it never happened. Until I found a couple issues in a ‘all for a dollar’ box at a convention. I became kind of fascinated by this version. The idea of giving spies and soldiers gadgets to give them super powers so they could fight the ‘dirty commies’ seems fun and full of potential. I kept thinking, that if it wasn’t for the Blackhawk baggage, it could have been a fun, goofy, fondly remembered silver age team. So, I took away the Blackhawks and just wrote the Seven. We’ll say this is the version from Earth 47 or whatever number is free. Between this and the Freedom Fighters, I’m building my own little multiverse. |