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| Issue #6 November 2009 |
"Heroes and Villians and Frogs, Oh My!" Written By Derrick Ferguson |
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The United States Maximum Security Installation for the Incarceration of Superhuman Criminals aka THE VAULT.
Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, the Front Range of Colorado
The sleek midnight black jet landed in VTOL mode with no incident on the landing pad servicing The Vault. This was the only way prisoners and supplies were brought in. At least the only way most people knew about. There was at least one other secret way in and out that only known to the warden of the facility. And The Mad Thinker had his own way out he’d been using for years.
The ease with which the jet landed showed that an expert was piloting the craft. The advanced design of the jet was one that many of the world’s air forces would have loved to get their hands on.
The hatch opened and a short staircase unfolded itself and locked into position as two men disembarked first, followed by a small entourage of four men and two women.
King T’Challa of Wakanda was still dressed in his elegant black suit but now he wore a livery collar around his neck. A ceremonial black panther skin was draped over his left shoulder and held in place with a solid gold clasp in the shape of a snarling panther’s head. He wore a black silk crown style kufi embroidered with the name of his family in gold thread.
Warren Worthington gave his pure white wings a good shaking out. They needed it even after the short flight here from California.
“And I thought The X-Men moved fast. That’s one hell of a bird you’ve got there, T’Challa. I didn’t know you knew how to fly.”
“People forget that I designed the Quinjets used by The Avengers and they are constructed in Wakanda. Aviation has been a hobby of mine since I was a boy.”
“Really? And by the way, why do you look like you’re going to address the U.N.?”
T’Challa sighed. “I much prefer dressing simply, Warren. But I have found that on missions such as this one, the trappings of royalty help a great deal in expediting matters.”
“Don’t they know you’re coming?”
“Oh, by all means. My Avengers status would have been enough to grant me clearance but I am not here as an Avenger. My diplomatic status was more than sufficient to allow me permission to enter. But still, I have learned that looking the part never hurts.”
Warren nodded. As the head of a multi-billion international corporation he knew something about the value of showmanship in business as well as in politics. “So let me get this straight: you talked to S.H.I.E.L.D. You talked to The State Department. You talked to The Attorney General. All they all agreed to let you just walk out with Tilda Johnson?”
They were walking at a pretty good clip toward the reception complex of The Vault and there was a group emerging from the main dome. Warren recognized the distinctive dark and light green armor of The Guardsmen, the elite security force in charge of maintaining order in the Vault. The three Guardsmen were accompanying a man dressed in a simple brown business suit. His narrow eyes sized up T’Challa as they drew near. He extended his hand.
“This is an honor, gentlemen. I’ve met quite a few dignitaries in my short time here but I’ve never met an Avenger and an X-Man until today. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fischer Price. I’m the warden here at The Vault. Took over five months ago.”
Warren was trying to smother a grin. T’Challa frowned slightly and even Price seemed to be amused. “Am I missing something?” T’Challa asked.
“His name, T’Challa,” Warren said. “It’s also the name of a toy company, one of the largest in the world.”
“I spell my first name differently, though, Mr. Worthington. F-I-S-C-H-E-R.” he shrugged. “What can I say? My parents had a sense of humor.”
“Did you ever ask them why they named you that?”
“Never got the chance. They were killed in a boating accident when I was three years old. I was raised by my father’s brother and his wife.”
“Our condolences,” T’Challa said.
Fischer Price waved it away. “You didn’t come here to listen to my family history. You’re here to see Tildy Johnson aka Deadly Nightshade.”
“If she accepts the offer I’ve made to her she will not use that name. She will be known as Dr. Nightshade.”
“Well, your people were here yesterday and they laid it all out for her. I have to admit, Your Majesty, I’m at a loss to understand why you want to come here to get her answer in person. Surely your people could have wrapped this up.”
“Miss Johnson and I have history together, Warden Price. I owe it to her to get her answer in person.”
“As you wish. May I introduce Guardsmen Villagran, Tinsley and Smoot. They’ll be your escort to Nightshade’s cell.”
“If you don’t mind, warden, I would prefer that just Warren and I went down there.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“It’s most irregular.”
“But not unheard of. Exceptions have been made in the past for Captain America, Iron Man-“
“Quite true. Quite true,” Price scratched the side of his nose. “But they’re American citizens. You’re a head of state, Your Majesty. If anything…and I do mean anything went wrong down there it would be an international incident.”
“Then I trust you will insure that nothing does go wrong, Warden Price.”
The Rurh Valley, West Germany
Normally quiet peaceful and tranquil, the industrial city of Iserlohn was not one where superhuman battles were commonplace. German superheroes such as Frieiheitskampfer, Rork, Blitzkreiger and Captain Mors tended to operate in the major cities such as Berlin, Munich or Stuttgart. They rarely, if ever got to the smaller cities unless and until there was a pressing need for them.
They certainly could have been used ten minutes ago. That’s when the twelve foot tall mechanical man appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Belching orange flames from its grated mouth. Its arm and legs joints hissing and thrumming as it stomped through the usually placid and quiet streets of Iserlohn. It’s wide, broad feet crushing cars easily, smashing them completely flat.
The mechanical man did not have the smooth, sleek look of modern day technology. Indeed, it looked like something that had been built back in the 50’s or 60’s. Resembling one of the menacing monsters found on the covers of pulp science fiction magazines of that day. Red hot pipes extending upwards at an angle from it’s broad back vented scalding steam and other noxious gases that were the by-product of whatever power source it was using. Massive rivets of black metal held it together. Its eyes were burning crimson headlights.
The iron monster put its foot through the front of a butcher shop. Screams came from within as panicked customers sought shelter from flying glass and bricks. The iron monster pulled its foot back, turned around and put that same foot through the front of a shoe store. It seemed to have no design or plan to its destructive rampage. It just wanted to destroy seemingly for the sake of destroying.
A massively muscled figure flew in from the south, behind the iron monster. A blur of speed, it smashed into the back of the iron monster, toppling it over onto its face. It landed in the middle of the street, as was the intention of the one who struck it. The damage to the street was considerable, but at least it hadn’t fallen on any of the buildings.
The man who landed in the street behind the iron monster was clearly more than human. His incredible musculature as well as the regal bearing of his stance and the very look in his eyes bespoke of a heritage more than mortal.
Well over six feet with dark brown skin like aged brass; he held an oversized blacksmith’s hammer in one large hand. His garb was simple; a metallic shirt of gold and blue with metallic brown pants. A wide golden belt. Dark brown boots. Blue fingerless gloves with golden cuffs. Decorative tribal tattoos were under his eyes and on his bald head. His body seemed filled with unbounded life and energy.
The iron monster was struggling to regain its footing but the hammer wielder wasn’t going to allow it the time to do so. He sprang forward in one huge bound; landing on the iron monster’s back and scrambled to its neck. He lifted the hammer and brought it down in one thunderous stroke.
Jagged bolts of energy burst from the hammer as it struck home. Bolts that curved around back into the head of the iron monster, stabbing deep into whatever served it as a brain. The robot was lurching to its feet, the cacophony of clashing metal against metal as it did so a frightening, deafening din. The hammer wielder held on with one hand as he repeatedly struck the robot again and again at what apparently he thought was a weak point.
The robot collapsed to its knees, the crimson headlights that were its eyes dimming noticeably as it gave out with a great metallic gasp and crashed back down to the street, apparently exhausted. Huge gouts of steam erupted from the pipes on its back as if the robot were giving out with one last breath.
The hammer wielder leaped from the back of the robot and stood next to it, watching as the thing settled, and the red-hot metal creaking as it cooled.
“Your name is Phastos, I take it?”
The hammer wielder turned, resting the head of his weapon on one muscular shoulder. He sized up the speaker: a chunky, broad-shouldered black man with a shaved head. He was dressed in a conservative, expensive, well-cut black business suit. What made him distinctive was the monocle he wore over his right eye.
“You should not be here, sir. This robot could still be dangerous.”
The business man waved a meaty hand dismissively. “I may not look it, good sir, but I assure you that I have seen more than my share of danger. You are Phastos the Eternal?”
“You have the advantage, sir.”
“My apologies. My name is Ishanta. I am a member of the royal family of Wakanda and loyal kinsman to its current ruler, King T’Challa. I trust you have heard of him?”
“Few have not heard of The Black Panther. But what business has he with me?”
“King T’Challa has a proposition for you. He is forming an organization of superhumans and he believes that you can be a valuable component of that organization.”
Phastos smiled in what might have been amusement. “And what could your King T’Challa offer an Eternal? Wealth? Power? I have that already.”
Ishanta smiled back. But smile was one of smug confidence. “But you have not satisfaction of the spirit, good sir. You have not peace of mind. You remain on this world in search of something you lost long ago but have to idea of how or where to find it.”
“How could T’Challa know this?”
“There is little that my kinsman does not know. Will you at least come back to Wakanda with me to hear him out?”
“How can T’Challa help me to find that which I seek?”
Ishanta’s smile widened as he said; “By chance, good sir…have you ever heard of King Solomon’s Frogs?”
The Vault
Warren eyed the rows of cells as he walked with T’Challa down the long, well lit corridor. Despite that he knew the various supervillains were held inside cells that had been custom made to negate their powers and abilities, he couldn’t help but feel a ripple of nervousness tremble up and down his spine.
“I feel the same unease you do, Warren. I do believe that The Absorbing Man is making highly obscene gestures in our general direction.”
“If you think that’s obscene take a squint at what The Mandrill is doing. T’Challa, was this trip really necessary?”
“I think so.” T’Challa’s voice was slightly troubled. “Warren, have you heard any talk in Washington about a new Vault being built in the Negative Zone?”
“Sure. Been a lot of debate about it.”
“And your feelings on it?”
“The idea has a lot of merit. Personally, I’ve never been happy about the idea of Reed Richards having the only door and key to The Negative Zone. What gives him the right to have an entire universe as his backyard?”
“He’s Reed Richards. Isn’t that enough?”
“So that gives him the right to have a doorway to a hostile dimension full of creatures capable of destroying the Earth? And we’re supposed to take his word for it that he’s got everything under control?”
“And you have no problem with criminals being incarcerated in that hostile dimension?”
“You have no problem forming your own team to after the bad guys before they come after you.”
“Point taken.”
“Speaking of which, what do you think is going to happen when your Avenger buddies find out what you’re doing?”
“They same thing that happened when Tony Stark announced he was financing The Avengers: absolutely nothing.”
The two men had arrived at their destination. The cell they stopped in front of contained the same thing all of the cells in The Vault did: a toilet. A sink. A bed that was comprised of a platform molded to the wall. The woman in the room had been designated a Technology Terminal Threat. That meant that she was not allowed anything that she could conceivably create a weapon from.
She was barely five foot four and could conceivably be a hundred pounds soaking wet. She looked nothing like her reputation which listed her as one of the Ten Most Dangerous Women in the World. Tilda Johnson looked more like a junior high schooler than a formidable genius who had taught herself genetics, biochemistry, physics, cybernetics. As Deadly Nightshade, Queen of The Werewolves she’d more than held her own against Captain America, The Falcon, S.H.I.E.L.D. and other super powered heroes and villains.
Warren had heard of her but he was having a hard time believing that this woman who looked more like a little girl was as dangerous as T’Challa claimed. But then again, The King of Wakanda was not given to hyperbole or wasting his time.
Tilda Johnson stood up and bowed slightly. “Your Majesty. It’s an unexpected honor.”
“For a matter this important I felt it necessary that we talk face to face. Once, after we fought you tried to live responsibly. You wanted to be free of the stains on your soul.”
“She tried going straight?” Warren said.
T’Challa smiled slightly. “That’s one way of putting it.” He turned back to Tilda. “You’ve read my proposal?”
Tilda gestured at the bed upon which a thick stack of papers rested. “Several times since it was delivered.”
“Let us be clear before you give me your answer, Tilda. I sincerely believe that you wish to change your life. I am willing to help you as much as I can. But if you play me false or disobey me in any way, then you will not be sent back here. You will face The Black Panther’s justice. Once you leave here you will be a citizen of Wakanda and as such you are under my law. And my law can be most…severe.”
“You have my word that I will serve Wakanda and The Black Panther for the rest of my days.”
T’Challa nodded. “I will see to your release, then.”
Suddenly, the lights went out.
In the oppressive darkness, Warren Worthington’s voice was pure sarcasm; “Okay, is there anybody here who didn’t see that coming?”
Brooklyn, NY
Misty Knight twisted the wheel of the Porsche Cayenne, desperately trying to avoid most of the withering gunfire strafing the Red Hook street and sidewalks. The plan had been for her to meet a boat on a pier not far from the warehouse from which she had recovered the suitcase. The boat would then take her Manhattan and an armored guard would escort her to the Wakandan embassy. Said suitcase rested on the seat next to her, securely strapped in. Misty had no idea what was in it so she was taking no chances on the contents getting destroyed by being bounced around.
Misty found her pickup boat in flames and the crew murdered. She had also found a gang of armed men bent on doing the same to her. The Porsche hadn’t been far away and she’d only had to shoot three men to get to it.
The Porsche Cayenne roared up onto the sidewalk, tires smoking and screeching as Misty drove right through the Red Hook housing projects. At this time of the morning there would hopefully be no innocents in the way. She hated taking chances like this but she had no choice. There were simply too many guns and men on her ass.
Bullets spanged and sparked as they bounced off the bulletproof rear of the Porsche. Misty and her partner Colleen Wing spent a lot of their income on bulletproofing all their vehicles and never once did they begrudge the money they spent. Misty lost count of how many times that bulletproofing had saved her life.
The Porsche sped out of the projects and back onto a darkened street, sparks showering in the car’s wake as the undercarriage banged against the blacktop. Misty twisted the wheel, the car fishtailing as it sped off, four black vans dead on her tail.
Misty reached under the seat and withdrew a .357 Desert Eagle Magnum from under the seat. Driving with on hand at 90 miles an hour she tucked the gun between her thighs and smoothly withdrew the clip of standard ammunition. She tossed the clip into the back seat and reached to the dashboard, punched a section of it that flipped open to reveal more ammo clips. Some were red. She selected a red one and pushed it home into the Magnum.
Misty brought the gun up and looked in the rear view mirror to aim and squeezed off three shots.
The explosive bullets hit the lead van squarely in the grill. The entire front of the van disappeared in an orange red ball of fire. The van flew up into the air, flipping over three or four times before crashing back into the street.
The second van’s driver wasn’t good enough to get out the way and ran right into the flaming hulk blocking the street. The second van’s explosion was even more spectacular, the screams of men being incinerated alive rising along with the arcing ribbons of flaming gasoline.
Misty swerved the Porsche into a screeching stop. The remaining two vans had slowed up but were still coming on. She again took careful aim.
From above the two vans, something appeared. It was as if the night had taken on tangible form. It was a man in a costume of black and gunmetal gray with a dark purple cape and helmet. He landed on one of the vans and from the metal gauntlet on his right wrist fired some kind of cord.
It wrapped around the steering wheel of the other van and the costumed man yanked, pulling that van into the one he rode atop. The vans collided together with a tortured yowling of metal and both vans went tumbling over and over, adding to the already apocalyptic destruction.
The costumed man had flipped nimbly from the van he rode atop long before that and was walking toward Misty. She pointed her Magnum at the costumed man’s helmeted head. “Just hold it right there, buster! I-“Misty blinked in surprise. Her Magnum was gone. As if it had evaporated. “What the hell?”
“I merely wished to insure that you did not shoot one who is here to assist you.” Misty looked at the young man who now held her Magnum in his hand. Somehow he’d slipped close enough to her van unseen and unheard to snatch the gun from her van. True, there’d been enough reason for Misty’s attention to be focused elsewhere but still…she didn’t like the thought that somebody, anybody could get that close to her to take her own gun out of her hand without her sensing them.
Misty climbed out of her Porsche, taking stock of the young man. He was dressed simply in a black silk jacket with rolled up sleeves and baggy black pants cinched at the ankles. Comfortable black moccasins were on his feet. He wore a straw Chinese coolie hat tied under his chin.
“What are you dressed up for? Chinese Halloween?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“He dresses like that all the time, Misty,” the costumed man said. “Long time, no see.”
Now that Misty got a good look at him she knew who he was. “I’ll be damned! Hobie Brown! That is you in that costume, right?”
“It’s me, Misty. I’ve been back in town for a while now. Took up being The Prowler again. Surprised you haven’t heard.”
“Been doin’ a little traveling myself. Who’s your friend?”
“Misty Knight, meet Bruce Leroy Green.”
“Bruce Leroy? You have got to be kidding me.”
“Hey, I’ve seen him in action. I’d bet next month rent he could give Colleen or Danny a workout.”
Misty plainly looked skeptical but now wasn’t the time to debate it. “You guys get in my car and let’s get the hell out of here. This may be Red Hook and the cops aren’t going to bust their assess getting here but they will show up.” She led the way to her Porsche. “We can talk at the Wakandan embassy. I’d like to know how the hell you-“Misty stopped. The Prowler and Bruce Leroy peered over her slim shoulders.
The metal suitcase had popped open and the contents of it were surprising to say the least.
What lay inside appeared to be a frog made of polished, ancient brass small enough to fit inside the palm of a hand.
“What’s the problem?” The Prowler asked. “It’s a frog.”
“Not just a frog. It’s one of King Solomon’s Frogs. And it’s that’s so; we’re in worst trouble than I thought. Get in the car, fast and let’s get the hell
outta here!”
NEXT ISSUE: So if Misty Knight has one of King Solomon’s Frogs then where’s the other one? The answer is held by Roberto da Costa aka Sunspot!
Plus, who would be mad enough to think they could pull off a mass breakout at The Vault when The Black Panther and The Angel are there to put a stop to it? All this and much more in CHAMPIONS #7!
