Crossover Earth '98

The Very Bad Day of Leonard Deschesne                     Scott Bennie
A Battle in Montana

Hellhole Montana. Okay, so it’s really called Helena. If you’re a cameraman for one of the networks and you have to come to this pisspoor joint, and it’s raining hard enough to hurt your head when you’re hung over, and it’s cold enough to freeze your ass when you’re wearing five layers of clothing, then you’d call it Hellhole too.

My name’s Deschesne. It’s pronounced (DO-shane). First name’s Leonard. I take pictures for a living. Have expensive camcorder, will travel. I cover the superhero beat. I get along pretty well with most of them. Me and Red Dagger have been pals for years (I’m sure his recent conviction was a frame), and I even dated Crystal Melody for awhile (talk about a space case, too bad she’s "gone incorporeal"). I like running in a dangerous crowd, I guess.

But what brought me to Hellhole? It was a miserable excuse for a human being, one of the biggest pieces of crap to ever receive superpowers. Take a complete moron, make him a big moron, then make him a mean son of a bitch, and then give him the ability to hurt, maim, or kill anyone he wants. That’s Mark Battle.

Battle had just had a big fight in Sacramento against The Epee. You’ve all seen the papers, you know about Epee, and all the nasty accusations between him and Beguile. Well, Battle was the guy who brought him in. And then he didn’t say anything to the press. And we – the general public -- had only just started seeing this guy, so the network asked me and Brittany to go to Hellhole, where we’d learned he was heading, and get a few words with him. It was a pretty dumb idea, given that the man’s attitude is just a little more sociable than the Carver’s: he’s a bounty hunter, he’s not a superhero. But when someone – or something – is hot news, you gotta follow it.

And when management has a "great idea" up their butts, you know it’s going to cause a stink sooner or later.

So we headed to Hellhole. Late autumn, cold hard rain, clean mountain air, the works. We figured he’d have to show up at the sheriff’s office, so that’s where we staked out. We being Brittany Johnston and me. Brittany’s a pretty good reporter. It goes without saying that she’s a knockout, she works on camera. She’s single, and she’s as cold as ice; I’ve tried to get her to open up to me for fifteen months, and she’s basically looked at me like a cockroach every time I’ve tried anything.

1:08 pm

We only had to wait two hours before he showed up. Mark Battle. His real name apparently (we did the research), no relation to the soprano. He was dressed in denim: worn pants, denim vest, with a white T-shirt. I’d heard Battle was a pretty big guy, but he actually looked a little smaller than I was expecting -- 6’2" is just a little above average for a superhero, not counting the freaks. On the other hand, when it came to muscle, the man was a monster. Even more than most steroid cases I’ve seen, his musculature varied from incredibly impressive to incredibly grotesque, depending on the angle and on your aesthetic ideals. His footsteps were heavy, plodding, contemplatively slow, increasing my initial Frankensteinian impression of him.

His skull was covered by a golden fuzz; he had blond hair but it looked as though he regularly shaved his head, and he had a drooping, blond mustache that made him look Nordic. I raised the camera. Brittany shuffled into position and quickly got beside him. She asked questions to him while we walked.

"Mr. Battle, do you care to comment on your fight with Epee?"

"No." Battle said, not at all happy to see us.

"Do you have any comments on Beguile’s situation?"

"No." Battle declared, adding a Neanderthal grunt.

"Mr. Battle, what brings you to Montana?"

"Fishing." Battle said, without a smile.

"Mr. Battle, do you specialize in bounties on supervillains?"
"No." Battle stopped, looking at me. In that moment, our eyes met for the first time, and for an instant, the world stopped. It was one of those Kodak moments – if you find unbridled testosterone heart-warming.

"Get the Hell out of my face." Battle said. He grabbed my camcorder by the lens and squeezed. The frame snapped and the lens shattered, cutting his hand.

"You son of a…" I snapped as the camera fell to the ground. I drew back my left arm and took a swing at him.

Now I know what you’re thinking: what a fool this guy is, taking on a super. It’s not quite as idiotic as it may sound. For one thing, I’m not some sort of dweeby little sidekick: I’m 6’1", and I work out regularly. I’m pretty strong and tough, as you have to be when you cover the superhero beat. And for another thing, I’ve had martial arts training: kickboxing and judo, I can handle myself in a fight. And sometimes you’ve got to earn their respect, even if it means you spend some quality time taping your ribs and treating your bruises.

Battle grabbed my fist with his clean hand, and squeezed. He’s not one of these incredibly strong people like Armature who could have crushed it into a pulpy powder, but he’s stronger than an Olympic weightlifter, strong enough to crack bone. I winced and froze in place. Battle took his bloody hand, wiped it on my clean shirt, and then shoved me on my ass with a jerk.

"Idiot," he said, almost spitting on me.

Battle finished his assault by turning around and stomping into the sheriff’s office. So much for earning his respect.

"Get up!" Brittany snapped, annoyed at how the interview had turned out. So much for earning her sympathy. "You idiot!"

You remember what I said about not being a fool when I took a swing at him? Forget I said it. Please.

1:19 pm

"So the circus is in town?" Battle and the sheriff were talking in the office with the door open, within listening distance. Fortunately, the office was nearly empty, and both men had voices that carried.

"Yeah." Battle said. "Trying to make me jump through hoops."

They traded an obscene opinion about us, and laughed. I was not particular happy to hear this, as you might imagine. Too bad you don’t want the people to know about you, musclehead. I tried to imagine the right interjection, imagined myself joining the argument and defending our honor.

"So you got any information on Cartier?" Battle asked.

"You better sit down for this," the sheriff said. "He’s a problem."

"Good." Battle declared.

"Not good. Cartier’s best friend and bodyguard is a super. Superhuman strength and toughness. The locals call him Lennie. After ‘Of Mice and Men’."

""Never thought of Montana as a literary crowd." Battle stated.

"One of our deputies was an English major," the sheriff explained.

"Liked the play." Battle said, probably lying. I figured there wasn’t enough porn or explosions in it for his tastes.

"You still interested in the bounty?"

There was silence for a minute. "I don’t want people to think that I’m just another superhero nutcase who goes after anyone with powers. I already got the press dogging my ass."

"Those nutcases save lives."

"Never said they didn’t. I gotta admit the bounty on Cartier’s real sweet. I’ll sleep on it and let you know in the morning. Everything okay on the paperwork with the shotgun?"

"No problems I see." The sheriff said. He didn’t sound like he was looking very hard for any; you see that sort of hypocrisy a lot from law enforcement when they’ve just had their heads handed to them by a rogue super.

"How about the camera guy? He pressing charges?"

"Not so far." the sheriff said. "I wouldn’t push them around again."

"If Princess Di had done it, she’d still be alive." Battle snorted.

"That’s it!" I declared to Brittany. "I’m pressing charges!"

"If you do, don’t expect the network to cover your expenses." Brittany pointed out. "You know the cutback situation."

I counted to ten, and was still pretty pissed. Battle got up out of the sheriff’s office and walked past us. Brittany tried to flag him to stop, but he kept walking. He did turn his head at me and flashed me an evil looking grin.

"Son of a…" I got up and cocked my fist.

Fortunately, Battle had already walked away. The sheriff came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "You’d better watch that temper, sir."

"We do." Brittany snapped back before I could respond. "We watch it all the time."

"Thanks for the support." I mouthed back.

"Maybe one day I’ll get someone mature and professional to cover these things with me." Brittany sparred back.

5:27 pm

The footage wasn’t damaged, and we managed to mail it back to the network without too many problems. Our return flight was in the morning, so we remained at the hotel room. It took about four hours for our last argument to cool down, and then we made our way to dinner.

I chose a dinner and dance joint on the main drag; I figured that if I was lucky I might get her on the dance floor, and after the dance floor, who knows?

It was a country and western place, the food was traditional but well done, and the portions were huge. I made mental notes about the calories I was consuming, then ignored them as I smothered the mashed potatoes in gravy.

"You like country and western?" Brittany asked.

"Can’t stand it." I said.

"I like Garth." Brittany answered. "And the hats. There’s something about a man in a cowboy hat, that’s… well…"

"Makes you horny?" I countered with an obnoxious smile.

"You pig!" Brittany answered. I wasn’t sure if she got the joke. I was going to agree, but sometimes you gotta cut your losses.

We continued our meal, not stopping to talk again for awhile. The dessert was apple pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, served by a waitress who was fat, loud, late with the food, and told jokes that were less funny than Pauly Shore… good lord, could it have been more rural American if it tried?

The dancing started shortly after we got our pie. The second selection turned Brittany’s head. I guess it was Garth Brooks.

"Are they doing ‘My Achy Breaky Heart’?" I asked sarcastically.

"Don’t be an idiot, this is Garth Brooks. ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ was… hmm… I can’t remember who did that."

"Billy Ray Cyrus." I replied.

"Achy breaky heart probably describes how he feels about his career right now." Brittany laughed.

"It could be worse…"

"Spice Girls!" We shouted at the same time. It was probably the first time we’d ever laughed at anything together. I rose to my feet.

"You wouldn’t feel like dancing, would you?" I motioned with as much gallantry as I could muster.

Brittany got to her feet, and we held hands. For the first time, I’ve been counting. The first number was a line dance, and it was kind of fun, though I fell out of step at least four times. I was waiting for the slow number.

"I didn’t realize you were Gene Kelly," she said, mocking me.

"Kelly was a showoff," I snapped back. "And about as romantic as Rosie O’Donnell over there." I motioned with my head at the waitress who had served us.

"Surprised they took her away from the pasture," Brittany snorted, and we laughed again.

"Now I prefer Astaire," I said. "When it came to someone who knew how to sweep a woman off her feet. Grace Kelly, Cyd Charisse…"

"I always liked Ingrid Bergman."

"She wasn’t a dancer." I replied.

"I bet she could have been." Brittany said. "She was the most beautiful woman ever. I always wanted to be her when I was growing up."

"I always wanted to be Sylvester Stallone." I said. "I never appreciated the classics until college."

"Idiot." Brittany wrinkled her nose as she said it.

"Hey!" a loud voice came from behind me. I felt a big hand on my shoulder, and something yanked me back. "Cutting in."

I suddenly impacted against something that was a cross between a gorilla and a brick wall. It was, of course, Mark Battle.

"What the!" I mouthed. I was expecting Brittany to shove him away and scream, but instead, I found her surgically attached to the steroid king in less than two seconds. And that, of course, is when the slow music started playing.

Watching Battle and Brittany dance was like receiving acupuncture from the world’s most sadistic Chinese doctor. It was like being in a downpour of acid rain without the rain. I seethed. The worst thing about it was that they were enjoying themselves so much. They barely moved to the music. Their crotches were jammed together so tightly it looked like they were already having sex.

I began to have fantasies. I imagine that the Conjunction decided to choose me as its host. I imagine myself in that ridiculous costume with the stars and comets and ringed planets flying around me, calling upon Universal Justice, leaping onto the dance floor, beating the stuffing out of Mark Battle. At each backbeat, a punch was thrown. At each twist of the lights, a blast of cosmic fire. As he swayed gently, I imagined him tumbling through the wall, rubble scattering, powder rising. As he whispered into her ear, I imagined him begging and pleading with me to stop beating him and watched my fists get bloodier.

But nothing changed. After about ten minutes, the daydream wasn’t cutting it. I turned and decided to sulk outside in the cold air.

Battle was going to take Brittany up to his hotel room and screw her. I knew he would. He’s that kind of guy. And she’d enjoy it, too. She’s that kind of girl. And I’d be sitting alone in my hotel room watching lesbians go at it on some cable channel, getting completely wasted, and still knowing it was no substitute for the real thing.

It was then that I spotted the car. Some Dodge from the late 70s, kept in decent shape. It had Florida plates and its license place was MBATTL. I noticed the trunk was open, held open with a rope. I wonder what Battle kept back there – a dead body perhaps?

Much to my disappointment, there was nothing dead back there, just miscellaneous crap and tools. I gave his car the once over. He kept his gunrack in the backseat. He probably wouldn’t check the trunk for awhile. I decided to stow myself and wait. Perhaps if I followed Battle, I could catch him doing, well, anything.

7:18 pm

About a half hour passed. A cold, cramped half hour later, I could hear Battle and Brittany approach the car, talking.

"I wish I could invite you back to my hotel room. But I got work to do."

"I wish you would invite me back to your hotel room, Mark."

"Heh. If I finish early, can I call you?"

"Sure."

"Your boyfriend looked pissed."

"I’m afraid Leonard doesn’t take rejection very well."

"Too bad. The guy needs to learn his limitations. You deserve something better than some vulture with a camera."

"Leonard’s not so bad. He just needs to loosen up a little. He was even starting to sound like a human being tonight."

"Why settle for a human being when you can have… a superhuman being."

Yes, I was on the verge of exploding. What a line of bull!

"You really are so full of yourself, Mark." Brittany laughed, sounding like a teenager.

Battle laughed. "It’s just a line. Nothing to take seriously."

"What do you take seriously, Mark?"

"My work." Battle answered. "And this."

There was a slight rustling sound, and then I could hear them breathing hard and softly sucking. The sound of a long, passionate kiss. It’s really an odd sensation, to hear a kiss without seeing it, and yet knowing what it is, hearing the subtle flavor of passion.

"Hope to see you later. And if Romeo has a problem with it, send him up too, maybe slamming his head into a wall twenty times will teach him a little respect."

"Stop it." Brittany was laughing.

"Hey! I’d enjoy it!"

"Good night, Mark."

I could hear the car door open and felt the car lurch as Battle’s considerable mass entered it. He paused for a minute before starting the engine. The car was an unstable ride with bad shock absorbers, and I had no idea where we were going. After ten minutes, it was rather obvious that Battle wasn’t heading back to his hotel room.

Twenty minutes into the ride, it started getting rougher; we were no longer in Hellhole, but on some godforsaken mountain road. Forty minutes into the ride, we were dancing on slick, unstable gravel.

I won’t even try to describe the discomfort I felt. My only consolation was the blanket that kept me from freezing to death as the rain turned to snow as we climbed to higher elevations.

9:26 pm

After another hour, Battle stopped the car, shuffled around in the back of his car, and left. My frozen fingers struggled to loosen the rope, which I had pulled a little too tight.

I managed to get out of the trunk. There was about two inches of fresh powder on the ground, and underneath it was ice. We were still well below the treeline, in some sort of dense winter woods that made the place look like Redneck Central, complete with a log cabin about a quarter-mile down the road. Battle’s tracks went off in the direction of the cabin. I decided to follow.

About halfway to the cabin, I heard a gunshot and a loud male scream. I didn’t know if it was Battle’s, although it was certainly in the lower register. There was a continuous sound of thumping, and five seconds later, Battle came flying out the window. Not by his choice.

Lennie came crashing through the door, which Battle had probably kicked open on entry. Man, what a monster. He looked to be six-ten at least, and if I wasn’t mistaken (the cabin provided only limited illumination) he had powder burns all over his face. It was obvious that Lennie was having trouble seeing. Battle rolled to his feet with a homicidal grin, surrounding himself with a glowing force field.

"Kill you!" Lennie shouted in a voice that sounded like a distraught victim of Down’s syndrome.

"Whatever." Battle said, and then he threw out his hand. A force field formed around Lennie’s head, and Lennie’s cries were muffled. Battle was suffocating the guy.

Lennie took eight steps, fell to his knees, then collapsed head first into the snow. Battle took something out of his pack, and wrapped it around Lennie’s hands. It looked like security cord, police issue, probably on loan from the sheriff. It’s certainly not standard bounty hunter issue; the only reason the sheriff had it was probably because Hellhole’s a state capital and needed unusual security measures.

"You’re next, Cartier!" Battle shouted.

It was at this time I noticed the movement in the trees. There was an unusual number of shadowy figures moving. Squirrels. Dozens of squirrels. But since when did squirrels have glowing red eyes?

Two of the squirrels jumped me. I tried to knock them away, but I’m afraid Chip N’Dale were a little too fast for me; I felt their rodent teeth puncture my leg, and almost immediately, I felt woozy. It felt like getting really wasted… no, worse, like being drugged. But since when did squirrels have poisonous bites?

"What are you doing here?" I could hear Battle shout as he finally noticed me. But I was too busy falling to my knees to answer him.

"Squirrels!" I finally managed to blurt before I lost consciousness. I could see the animals jumping on the bounty hunter.

10:18 pm

I awoke in shackles. I was in some holding cell, arms chained above my head, wearing some incredibly uncomfortable and heavy leather outfit that almost felt alive. Battle was beside me, in the same position but without the leather contraption. He was bare-chested and looking mighty pissed.

"What in the Hell are you doing here?" he shouted.

"Following you." I said, groggy.

"Son of a bitch! You were stalking me!" Battle fumed. "When we get out of this, I am going to beat the crap out of you."

"Yeah, right." I couldn’t really think of a witty retort. "You break my camera, push me around, insult me, take my lady…"

"I didn’t see a ring on her, pal." Battle snapped back.

Our argument probably would have continued indefinitely, but it was interrupted by the enemy. A short slender man with dark hair entered the room. "Hey Battle. Lennie’s really going to enjoy tearing you apart."

"Shut up Cartier. Just tell us what you’re going to do to us."

"Actually…" a new voice rasped. "Mr. Cartier will do nothing except what I tell him to do."

It was an old man’s voice, a voice so old and soft that it could barely be heard. There was the loud tapping of a wooden cane on a concrete floor, and an old bent man approached us. He wore white from head to toe, and had wild hair and a long white beard. He looked like a wizard out of some novel by JRR Tolkien.

"Dr. Cronos." Battle whispered, somewhat in awe.

We both recognized the sight of one of the world’s most dangerous supervillains. Cronos was a geneticist. Some Neo-Nazi who had been Mengele’s lab assistant. He cared little for the Nazis, but was fascinated with the concepts of breeding superhumans. His most noteworthy creations were the Suprenauts, superhumanly strong human beings who could give even the toughest superhumans a good struggle, but who often suffered brain damage during the transformation process and who had a lifespan of only three years. Five years ago, he bred an army of three hundred Suprenauts and tried to take over Washington DC. It took an alliance of a lot of superhumans to stop that one. Cronos was believed dead in the explosion of his secret base… no, no one really believed it, especially since His Body Was Never Found.

"Mr. Battle. Good evening sir. My apologies for your discomfort. You are a beautiful man."

"Thanks." Battle said, sarcastically.

"I see that you have covered your body with pigments and tattoos. I do not approve. That is the custom of savages."

"Wasn’t it Hitler who said ‘We are barbarians, we want to be barbarians, it is an honorable title’?" Battle spat back.

"I see you are better read than I expected. It is good that you have filled your mind with more varied thoughts than those the popular media propagates. Suffice it to say that I never met our Feuhrer, nor did I have a chance to discuss our differences of opinions. In those days, one did not presume to disagree with such a man."

"Still doesn’t answer the question. I take it that the paparazzi is going to become one of your stiffs?"

"What!" I shouted.

"I examined him, yes. His body is capable of withstanding the challenge of the Giants." Cronos answered.

"You’re making me into… into a…"

"The Suprenaut process has several stages." Battle explained. "The first stage is rapid muscle expansion. The suit that he’s wearing injects your rapid muscle growth serum into key areas of the body, and has a supply of nutrients that is continuously absorbed into the body. Over the next hour, he’ll experience cramps, nausea, and probably put on thirty pounds of muscle. In an hour, the suit will be completely absorbed and he’ll be physically primed for the next stage."

"Remarkable. I had no idea you were so learned." Cronos whispered.

"Funny what you can find on the Internet." Battle smirked. "But enough about the loser, what about me?"

"I want to make you an offer." Cronos said. "I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. You’re a mercenary. Join my service. The benefits should be obvious."

Battle began to laugh. "Sorry, old man, but if I wanted to work for some power-mad maniac with dreams of world conquest, I’d have joined the Army. Or Microsoft. The only benefit I’d get working for you would be a long prison sentence when you’re caught. I’ll pass."

"Why haven’t you done the Suprenaut thing to him!" I shouted at Cronos.

"Because I’m already genetically enhanced." Battle answered. Cronos nodded. "The mutation is real unpredictable when you start combining anomalies, right?"

"Magnificent. In spite of your attitude, your enhancements must be mental as well as physical." Cronos said.

"Nah. I just watch the Discovery Channel a lot." Battle retorted.

"I will give you an hour to change your mind. You can watch the Suprenaut transformation in action. I believe you will find it more informative than television."

"No. Please." Battle snapped. "Not the ‘leave the hero alone so they can plan their escape’ Batman sort of bull. This is just too damn comic book."

"I am sorry you do not appreciate my hospitality." Cronos replied. "I do have other things that I have to do. You were an unexpected interruption, and as I get older, the stability of routine becomes more important to me. There will be no escape. We will talk again in an hour, and if you do not agree… well, it would hurt me deeply to mar such a wonderful tapestry of Aryan magnificence as your body, but one does what one must do."

"Pig, heil!" Battle spat back. Cronos seemed very annoyed by the insult, but turned around and hobbled away, helped by Cartier.

"What’s the plan?" I asked Battle.

Battle rolled his eyes. "My plan. Let’s see. First, you’re going to say a lot of stupid remarks. Second, I’m gonna get so pissed with you that I’ll break out of these shackles, rip your head off to shut you up, and then escape! Could you cut the superhero crap? I don’t have an escape plan! If I’d known this was Dr. Cronos’s sanctuary I’d have waited until Cartier came into town before I grabbed him. This is Cronos, dammit! I don’t want to be within a hundred miles of the guy!"

"Where’d you learn so much about the genetic stuff?" I asked.

"When I was a teenager, I was interested in where my powers came from, so I researched a lot of the transformation processes that make supers."

"This priming process, how dangerous is it?" I asked.

"The good news is that as long as you work at it, you’re going to keep the muscle. You’ll probably be able to bench press six hundred pounds at the end of this stage."

"Strong enough to kick your ass?"

"Nah, I bench twenty-two hundred, more when I use my force fields to support myself. The bad news is that you’ve now got a fifty percent chance of contracting terminal cancer within ten years. Ninety-five percent in twenty. And that’s if we get you out of here before you get to stage two."

"Damn." I was too shocked to even use stronger language.

"There’s a reason even the military’s never gone into this process. And if you want to look at the later stages, look at Lennie. You probably have a pretty lousy fever now, but the second stage stimulates certain organs necessary to produce the biochemical reactions that are responsible for superhuman feats. Unfortunately, it also causes extreme high fever and chemical imbalance, which causes brain damage."

"I want to get out of here!" I shouted. I was on the verge of a breakdown.

"Yeah, me too man." Battle said. "I’d like to be some place safe, like, say, Australia."

10:46 pm

I spent the next half-hour wracked by increasing pain. I threw up twice on the shrinking leather outfit. The regurgitation quickly absorbed itself back into the suit, and would reenter my body as nutrients. Gross. I could, however, start to feel my muscles swell. I wondered what I’d look like if I survived the process.

"Gotta admit it. The man’s a genius." Battle said.

"Let’s nominate him for a Nobel…" I said sarcastically, still sick.

"Hell, he deserves one." Battle admitted. "For medicine, if not for sanity."

"No. Definitely not sanity." I joked, coughing. The suit was definitely feeling thinner. "Hey, ‘roid monkey! You ever find out what caused your powers?"

Battle actually seemed pleased by the insult. "My dad was in the military. He got involved in some 70s genetic engineering experiment called Project Lion. It was considered a failure, at least until the subjects started breeding. It took a generation for the results to start showing."

"I think I heard something about it. You a cancer risk too?"

"Probably. Not as bad as you, I bet." Battle started laughing.

I began to squirm, ripping the fabric of the suit. "You know, my dad died of cancer." I said. I didn’t understand why I said it.

"Sorry to hear it, man." Battle replied.

"I was only 14."

"I never knew my dad. He was a one night stand for mom, though she remembered him." Battle said. Funny, maybe there was something about imminent death that made people want to talk, even to people they didn’t like. "Probably explains a lot about my life."

"Mine too. Freud would agree, I’m sure."

"You probably researched the rest." Battle said. "I grew up bigger and stronger than the other kids. Killed a kid with my bare hands when I was 10. Schoolyard fight went wrong. Spent a lot of time in reform school."

"And at 16, you apprenticed with Chariot."

"Yeah, I know Charred Riot. What a big goof. One day I’m gonna kick his ass all the way from Florida to Cuba."

"What’s wrong with being a superhero?" I asked.

"It’s such a fake, all of it!" Battle answered. "It’s grown men and women trying to be something they’re not. Maybe we need superheroes. But those outfits, my God! They look like a pack of queers."

"And you don’t, ‘roid monkey?" I taunted.

Battle flashed me a grin. "Wishful thinking, loser. No wonder Brittany doesn’t want to do you."

I tensed, heard another tear. My chest, stomach, and arms were now exposed. "Damn! They must have taken off my clothes."

"Wait a minute. Do that again." Battle said. "Tense yourself and then jerk."

"You want to see me naked?" I asked.

"Shut up and do it." Battle’s voice was totally serious. It was an oddly commanding tone. I tried to duplicate the motion. There was another tear.

"Okay." Battle said. "Do it again."

I had no idea what he was up to, but I did. Suddenly, I felt something warm and sharp against my wrists, inserting itself into the openings that were created as Cronos’s nutrient suit tore, digging itself painfully into my flesh. It was Battle’s force fields.

"Now, do it! Break free or we’re both dead!" Battle shouted.

I strained and struggled and screamed and felt the force field pry itself on the suit, up through my arms, and under my manacles. With a simultaneous motion, I broke out of the suit, wrenched myself through the manacles, and fell free to the floor. Battle’s force field broke one wrist, and if I had twisted the wrong way, it could have severed both my hands.

"Get me out!" Battle shouted. But Cartier, who must have been monitoring the situation from just outside the door, came into the room armed with a pistol.

"Take him!" Battle shouted, struggling. I hesitated, and Cartier leveled the weapon at me. A force field went up around Cartier as he fired. It bounced off the force dome.

"If you don’t get me loose before Lennie arrives, we ain’t making it outta here alive!" Battle declared.

Fortunately, Cartier was an even bigger idiot than I was. He must not like confined spaces; he continued firing into the dome until he ran out of ammo. When it became obvious Cartier couldn’t hurt me, Battle dropped the dome. I advanced, ripping more of the suit. Cartier, however, held his ground, and as I approached, he gave me an expert kick to the knee that nearly busted my kneecap. This was followed by a thrust to the solar plexus that left me gasping.

I wasn’t used to moving around in what was essentially a new body, but I wasn’t going to let this punk beat me. I went into fight mode. I blocked his next kick, and then threw my hand pretty much threw his face. His nose shattered, his right cheekbone shattered, and there was a lot of blood. Cartier collapsed in a heap.

"Cool." Battle said. "Now get me down."

Our shackles were automated, making it relatively easy for me to release him. "Somewhere, someone’s putting a list on the Internet about how not to imprison the heroes."

"You’re really asking for it." Battle said. "Cut the hero crap."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you’re an ingrate?"

"Yeah. Mom does. Now take a position by the door. We ain’t outta this yet. By the way, nice abs."

I stopped. I didn’t realize it until now, but I was completely naked. I did my best to ignore it. Battle grinned, took off Cartier’s trousers, and threw them at me. "Here," he said. "Cover your vagina."

I was caught with my pants down when Lennie rushed the room. Battle stacked the floor with a force field, then did an adroit force field switch to an shin high force field in front of Lennie’s legs as he charged. The drop and switch sent Lennie flying forward onto his stomach. With a surge of adrenaline, I jumped Lennie, driving a knee into his spine. It was hard enough to hurt him. Battle smothered his cry of pain with another suffocating force field. I continued to beat on him. In seconds, Lennie was unconscious on the floor.

"Next." I said, offering my hand to Battle. Battle looked at me like I was offering him a handful of rotten fish. So much for male bonding.

"Take Cartier," he said. "We’re getting out."

"What about Cronos?"

"Leave him for the professionals. I ain’t messing with him. I got what I came for." Battle answered.

"Man, you suck!" I shouted back.

"I ain’t stupid. The guy’s major league. He’s gone up against teams, the best ones in the world. We have no idea how much force he’s got, or what we’re going up against. We pull out now, and we send a message to the authorities to get a strike force here ASAP."

"You suck! He’ll walk and you know it!" I was nearly ready to tear him apart.

"You know I’m right. This ain’t the comics, or the movies." Battle grabbed Cartier and began to leave.

"Where are you going?" Dr. Cronos asked, entering the room.

I immediately jumped Cronos, and bounced off an invisible reflection field, landing on my ass. "Child," the mastermind sneered at me.

"Yeah, we can’t all be geniuses." Battle smiled.

"It’s been a long time since I killed someone." Cronos said. "A pity it’s not Captain Infinity." He held up some sort of control device.

I was waiting for him to explain how we’d die, but Battle didn’t. He concentrated hard, and something happened around Cronos. The protective force field appeared again, and then wildly fluctuated. Something told me that the force field had been neutralized: Battle’s force field powers interacted with other force fields. The old game of superpowers paper, scissors, rock had struck again. I leapt at Cronos and grabbed the control. Cronos had no superhuman ability to defend against me, and I pried it easily enough. I was tempted to pummel the man to death, but Battle’s hand on my shoulder restrained me.

"You finally did something right." Battle said.

"Screw you." I snapped back.

"In your wet dreams." Battle sneered and turned to Cronos. "Now Doctor…"

"I will never surrender to children." Cronos vowed. "Especially foul mouthed adolescents."

"That’s not what I have in mind." Battle said. "Here’s the deal. We get Cartier and Lennie. You accompany us to our car. When the engine’s started, and if there’s no sign of Rocky and Bullwinkle, we leave. We take our prisoners, and you can stay here. And no hard feelings. I want your word that you won’t go off on some sort of stupid vendetta against us. I don’t need that crap, and neither does he."

"You’ll tell my enemies about this base!"

"Of course I will." Battle said. "And you’ll have activated your escape plan and moved onto the next base. And the heroes will realize that you’re still around, and try to hunt you down, but you’ll do your next master plan… ah, who cares! Just keep me out of it!"

Cronos began to laugh. "Mr. Battle, you’re already far more heavily involved in this than you suspect. You don’t understand the truth about Project: Lion at all, do you?"

"Yeah, sure. So do I have your word? One Aryan nutcase to another?" Battle asked.

Cronos nodded. And that was that. We had to help the old man back to the car, not to mention carry Lenny and Squiggy with us. Something nagged at me while we were walking, and I turned to the doctor.

"Cronos, if you’re such a brilliant biochemist and geneticist, how come you haven’t found a way to restore your body?"

Cronos gave me a look that would have given the Mortician pause, and said nothing.

"Fear of cancer, I bet." Battle said. The oddest look was passed between Cronos and the bounty hunter, and I suddenly came to the horrible realization that Battle was right.

"We’ll meet again." Dr. Cronos said. "Even when don’t want to, even when do our best not to. We always do."

We managed to use more of the sheriff’s restraining apparatus to keep Lennie and his little pal asleep. Cronos jammed all radio signals, but the jammer failed about ten miles away from the cabin, and we called in to the local authorities. About fifteen minutes later, supersonic jets made a pass over the area; I couldn’t tell if they were the army’s, or whether they were a hero team’s; it was a little too soon for the Guardians to arrive, I suppose. We didn’t stay for the fireworks. We both knew we were damn lucky to escape alive.

We found a gas station halfway between Helena and the cabin, and filled it up the car. Instead of heading back to town, Battle motioned me away from the car and took me into a field. There was a big farm, a cattle farm, next to the gas station. It was huge pastureland, covered in wet snow.

"What’s up?" I asked him, a little nervous.

Battle gave a slight smile. "I said I was going to beat the crap out of you when this was over. It’s over. Are you ready?"

I nodded, cocked my fist, and threw a punch. It was a good one, landing square in Battle’s face. Battle licked the blood from his lip.

"Love that taste," he said, grinning.

We had a fight, Mark Battle and I, in the snow. He didn’t use his force field powers and we kept it man against man, although it was about as dirty and mean as any fight that I’ve ever had. And, after about forty seconds, I slumped into the snow, beaten, bloody, and unconscious. I spent two days in the hospital afterwards (fortunately, with Cronos’s reappearance, the network was more than happy with me), and I nursed my broken ribs for about six weeks. I don’t know whether it was the newly acquired muscle or whether it was the story, but Brittany warmed up to me a little after that. A little, not a whole lot, at least not yet. But I’m still working on it.

The oddest thing about the whole experience is that I get a phone call from Mark about once a month now. He asks me how I’m doing, whether I’ve heard from Cronos, and how’s my health (I’m getting regular check-ups now). And I ask him about his cases, and I get long (usually boring) anecdotes about the petty criminals that he’s been tracking, and we trade a lot of insults and we spend a lot of time laughing our asses off as we call each other cruder names than you’d reserve for your worst enemies.

Sometimes you’ve got to earn their respect.

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