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| Issue #1 October 2005 |
"Renovations" Part One: The End of the Beginning Written By Thomas Deja |
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I brought them here, I say to myself.
It's not like they're ruining our city. For years, Vermillion was one sinkhole away from relocating comfortably in Hell. One of the arguments I made to the City Council was that if there were super-fights, we would save money on demolition on the crumbling infrastructure. I knew there would be violence coming into the plan.
But even though they've been here for six months, I have yet to get used to the idea of seeing them wrecking the place. In person.
I'm watching them try to contain the mess made by this madman Black Talon (didn't he wear a chicken on his head or something?), watching them beat back monsters that used to be parts of constituency, and I have to wonder if what I did was for the best of Vermillion.
Did I destroy this city I love because I wanted to save it?
XXXXX
The thought does cross her mind as she extends her widow's line to ensnare those who are coming too close with her right hand, using the widow's sting to keep others at bay with the left.
There's just too many of them.
And with that thought comes the recriminations. Surely, she says to herself as she leaps in the air to avoid the lunge of one of these monsters, we could have called in the Avengers or the Fantastic Four or even the Power Pack, if all else failed. This isn't the sort of thing they should be handling.
Once more her widow's line swings out in a wide arc. The end wraps around the neck of one of the creatures. A flick of her wrist and a tug with both hands, and the creature falls to the ground. His presence serves to trip up those directly behind him, which creates even more of a log jam. Another flick of the wrist and the line is broken, allowing her to use the device again to pull her up above the streets. She situates herself on the ledge of a crumbling, boarded up second floor tenement. She shifts her weight onto one foot, pressing lightly against the crumbling cornice so that the chain of micro-suction cups can gain purchase on the wall's facade. Now secure, she snipes at those creatures she can see would cause their fellows to trip up.
It is only from this vantage point that she sees the enormity of the situation. The crowds of altered residents of the Blue Heights district stretches out as far as the eye can see. From her point of view, she can see a pocket of these--
(You can call them what the Talon wants you to call them, the voice in the back of her mind says. Zombies)
--Zombies where they're being flung outward in all directions, and she allows herself a brief tight smile.
"The Gift of Battle, eh Hercules?" she says to no one in particular before launching a series of quick shot widow bites into the crowd pressed against the walls of the building, looking to climb up to where she is. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mattie hovering in the air, attempting something with her powers that maybe they shouldn't let her do.
It's at that point, she realizes that this is exactly the sort of thing they should be handling.
Because no one else would care.
XXXXX
"Come one, come all! I am the Prince of Power! And I have a gift for thee at the end of my fist!"
He laughs as he fells another of these foul abominations that were once the mortal men and women. of Vermillion. The truth of the matter is he's having the time of his life.
He turns just as a half dozen of these now-dead things rush toward him, fingers curled into talons. With a grin as wild and as wide as any he wore when he was adventuring with Jason hundreds of years ago, he pounds the side of the abandoned building with all his might. There's the telltale crack of rotten support beams being sundered in two and a slow creak that increases in volume before the front of the building sloughs off and buries both himself and about two dozen of the monsters.
He chuckles, stands up and raises his two fists high. Dust and debris rain down from his massive form
"Who else wishes to challenge the matchless might of the one true Hercules?"
Two of the creatures rush forward and grab him by the waist. He simply drives his elbows into their skulls, ignoring the meaty crack as bone shatters, and pulls them off, flinging their bodies into the areas most crowded with the walking dead.
He catches a flutter of wings as snowy white as those of his cousin Eros. He lifts a particularly large specimen up, its fingers trying to cut his iron-hard skin and throws it with all his might along Broadway.
"Need an assist, Herc?"calls out the friend who heads this fine endeavor, a man he regrets not keeping in touch with all those years since the last group broke apart.
"No, good friend Warren," he calls back as he grabs one of the creatures by the neck and swings it around, knocking its nearby fellows down like ten pins. "Verily, the Prince of Power has this well in hand!"
And he never meant it more in his life.
XXXXX
He flies away from where Hercules was--quite effectively--routing a large number of these zombies and presses the redial on the cellphone connected to his headset.
"Champions of Vermillion," the voice on the other end says by way of greeting. "This is Kuni Cordova."
"Kune," he says qiuckly, endeavoring to keep his voice calm despite the site of hundreds of undead and near-dead walking the streets of his present home. "What's the status on that riot squad assist."
"I just got off the phone with Oakland Code Blue. They should be coming to the city limits any second now, and they'll be carrying extra riot control gear for the local police."
"They have to enter though Del Oro," he reminds his head of operations. "If they enter through the Ventura, they'll have to go through Blue Heights, and--"
"They might not make it through the George Romero Fan Club. Don't worry, boss. I got it under control."
"Good, Kune," he says as he banks and heads towards Mattie. "Keep me updated."
He taps the headset to sever the connection and closes in on the place where one of the members he's not so sure of hovers. The woman--barely more than a girl--floats in the air, arms spread wide, face contorted in concentration. He wonders if giving her such a degree of responsibility in this, given her history of instability and drug use.
But then he remembers what Natasha said to him when they were mulling over Mayor Aguilar's offer. He remembers how she felt the Champions could be a path to help not just for the common man...but the uncommon one as well.
XXXXX
What she sees when Mr. Worthington interrupts her efforts is not what she should be seeing. The sights of chaos on the streets, the sense-images of these now non-sentient vessels of rage forcing their way through the mass of dead and dying flesh belong to those few whose minds are active enough for her to reach with her new skills. In the few moments when she's able to free enough of her mind to think, she kicks herself. She's still not sure of how her super-powers work since she detoxed from the MGH, and volunteering to try and 'deprogram' these zombies who hadn't died yet was a stupid move.
"Any progress, Mattie?" Mr. Worthington asks with his angelic voice.
"D'Arc," she manages to force out. For a second, she threatens to be dragged under by the dark non-thoughts of the mass below, but she fights against it and regains dominance.
"What?" comes the response, and to be fair it's understandable.
"Like...you know, Joan," she gasps out. "I fig-figured if I'm gonna...be hearing voices in my...head...."
After a long pause filled with more images of the zombie hordes scrabbling at the walls and doors of Vermillion, Mr. Worthington says, "That's a pretty awful code-name."
"Not everyone," she points out, tamping down the urge to open her eyes and look directly at her boss, "had...such an obvious name attached...to their powers."
"Says the girl who used to have spider legs growing out her back," she catches him muttering under his breath before saying, louder, "Fine. Give me a progress report."
She struggles to sift through the images and sensations with abilities still unfamiliar to her. There's an ache behind her eyes as she concentrates, looking for the one neuron she can switch to shut just one of these barely alive things back to a semblance of sanity.
She feels his hands on her, gentle and soft. "Hey, we need you at full strength. Don't kill yourself over this."
"I...I didn't do that back east," she gasps out. "why should I start now?"
..and she firmly pulls away from his grip and goes back to concentrating. She will stop this zombification from spreading...even if it does kills her.
XXXXX
He takes a deep breath and rotates his wrists, activating the gauntlets on his armor. He works the chin toggle to engage the anti-grav thrust unit--a clean propulsion unit he thought up while convalescing at Bellevue--and leaps off the side of the Zevon Trust Building.
And he's flying.
He never could fly in any of the outfits he designed before--the bulky armors that he used when he called himself 'the Mechano-Marauder. As he feels himself cut through the air currents, the plates on his arms and legs cutting down on wind resistance to increase his speed, he wonders why he never tried it before.
After all, it's really, really cool.
He works the chin toggle some more, switching the Omni-Blasters payload to compressed air. Immediately upon his command, little vents open up in the outer carapace, designed to force air through specially designed tubes in his arm and store it for discharge later. He waves at Natasha, who clings from the walls of one building, and uses his other arm to shoot his payload at the gathered zombies below.
"You may have scared Fabian Stankowicz," he mutters to himself, trying to sound manly, "But you're nothing to The Blue Bullet!"
He wonders why his friend, the man who helped him refine the new Blue Bullet ordnance, insisted that the other Champions not know about him. Surely, he reasons, they would welcome the extra help. This isn't Chicago or New York or Los Angeles, after all--this is Vermillion, a city notorious for being one step away from slipping into utter madness...a city that has become a hotbed of super-villain recruitment and secret experiments because no one cares.
Well, that's changed, he thinks. He lets out a whoop of joy as a zombie falls (but not teminally; he was insistent on almost all of the payloads for this ordnace being non-lethal) and impedes the progress of some of his fellows. His eyes direct the HUD, opening the aperture for the gauntlets so that the impact will have a greater radius. He circles back and fires once more, and lets out another shout in exaultation as a number of the creatures fall.
Amongst the living dead and near-dead, he feels alive. And he thanks both his new comrades and friends for this gift.
XXXXX
She hears them scrabbling at her doors shortly after the moon comes out. She instructs her girls to ignore them at first and goes back to brushing her hair; she has a client coming who's just about ready to feed her, and she'll be damned if some supernatural incursion is going to stop her from tasting the delicate flavor of a newly corrupted soul.
But after a hour, it becomes obvious that the man is not coming tonight. And the scratching and the scrabbling continues without abatement.
She begins to feel cross. Her pupiless emerald eyes smoulder with a hellish energy--appropriate, considering her origins.
She strides through the building (a former hotel that fell into disrepair during the Depression), past the lacy curtains that act as doors to the girls' apartments. The delicate fabric, thick enough to conceal identity but thin enough to entice anyone watching with promises of carnal delight, stirs in her wake as if buffeted by a strong wind. the lightbulbs in the waiting room's chandelier flicker as she passes by.
She throws open the door of the building she has been using as her home ever since her brother first sat on the throne of Hell. The zombified grifters, bums and gangbangers that make up the hougan's pathetic army surge forward briefly, ready to tear her apart.
The startling green of her eyes flicker, then sputter, then flare up into a burning light.
The victims of the second rate voodun priest back away, cowed. Some of them stumble to the ground, and yet still scrabble unmindful of fingernails broken against the uneven pavement.
"You can have everything else in this city," she snarls, her arms stretched above her languidly in a parody of sexual enticement. "But my house stays mine."
She slams the door shut. Neither she, her girls, or her business will be bothered for the rest of the night.
XXXXX
Having been dead has given him an insight into the afterlife.
This is not surprising, considering that he made the afterlife his home for years after The Sacrifice.
These dead and near-dead automatons are being directed by a madman who calls himself the Black Talon. During his time on Earth, he had heard of the man--mainly derisive comments about his choice of headgear--but never encountered him.
As he pushes aside two zombies who try to ripe at his shiny skin, he wonders if the same heroes who laughed at the Talon would laugh at him now. Especially after then learn what Natasha did...that this was a test, and that if he and his comrades don't stop him, Los Angelos is next.
Death, he learned upon his return from the afterlife, leaves a trail. Only those intimate with it could see it.
He sees it when he squints. This trail, which connected the legion of zombies to its master, shines so brightly it lights up the night.
And it leads to The Uensler Building, and the rooftop.
He uses his massive fists to dig handholds into the crumbling facade of the building. A number of zombies, still in their ragged jeans, t-shirts and bandanas, leap on his broad back. He flexes his muscles and they fall away.
He knows he is making more noise than is necessary. He could easily slip into the building proper, take the stairs or the elevator. But this way is more direct. It lets the Talon know he's been found out.
It lets the Talon know justice is coming for him.
He gets several stories high, the sound of masonry being pulverised by his punches echoing off the opposite building. Winds come in from the west, hot and dry, plucking at his clothing and howling in his ears. If his eyes were capable of tearing, they would. If his hair was capable of being mussed, it would.
Eventually, he comes close enough to the top for the Talon to look over the side. Gone is the hood in the shade of a chicken-head. His bare chest is no covered by a tasteful black t-shirt with an upside down cross painted on it. His jacket looks positively...stylish.
"Who are you," the Talon demands in a voice that must have been designed for shouting to the rafters, gesturing toward him with the long staff made of gnarled wood and feather, "to come challenge the Black Talon on this, his most triumphant of nights?"
He drives his hand into the wall again and pulls himself closer to his foe. "You have deprived many people of the rest of the world beyond, hougan. You have shut the doors to paradise on them to test a silly toy."
He is almost close enough to reach the villain now. "I know what you stole from your victims, criminal. I have spent time there, and can tell you how henious your crime truly is."
Uncertainty flickers in the Talon's eyes. The villian makes to move away, but heis close enough that he can reach out and grab the man by his shirt. He brings the man's face close to his, so close that he can smell the hougan's fetid breath. "I am Piotr Rasputin. My comrades call me Colossus. And you are going to pay for denying these people Heaven."
Next Issue: Isn't Colossus dead? Who is this mysterious friend of Fabian Stankowicz? What happened to Mattie Franklin's powers? Why is Warren Worthington refinancing a super-team than ran him into the ground? You may have a sense of who this team is and what they're about now...but come back in time with us to see how they got where they are when "Renovations" continues.
The Comments Page That Could Be YOU!
Welcome to CHAMPIONS.
As one or two of my friends have pointed out, this series has been coming for a long time. There are themes I'm going to explore that I've played with elsewhere, most specifically in a RANGERS mini-series I had worked on briefly for Altered Visions. It also allows me to return to a book I loved as a kid.
Yep, that's right; I was the guy who felt THE CHAMPIONS was his favorite comic book. You may laugh now.
I'm grateful to Doug and Thomas Moses, who arranged for me to have Warren (and who also suggested that I use Colossus in a role I had originally planned former Champion Darkstar to fill...thanks, guys!). This will hopefully be fun.
However...
Here's the deal. You'll notice that former Spider-Woman Mattie Franklin is one of our members, and that Mattie...well, she's sans codename. I have no idea what to call her, but maybe you will.
Starting the day after this issue hits the AV Virtual stands, I will be accepting suggestions on the AV Message Board for Mattie Franklin's new code name. She's still super-strong and fast and agile, she's got the superflight, and she's got a tweaked package of psychic powers. All the other stuff is gone. Give me a name, and the winner will get both a landmark in Vermillion named after him and a very...provacative sketch of one of our cast members from my collaborator on Ghost Rider, Mr. Chris Munn.
So put your thinking caps on and get to work! There's swag to be won! I'll see you back here soon enough!
--Thomas Deja
