Crossover Earth '98
THE BATTLE IN SEATTLE
by Scott Bennie, Christopher Shea & Mike Cocker
Below the streets of New York, a special task force sat before a monitor, watching images transmitted from a computer database. The elite group had gathered in what was a sophisticated conference room, surrounded by a shining floor and ceiling and walls covered in banks of consoles. A few industrious technicians stationed themselves amongst the state-of-the-art equipment and paid no heed to the team at the center of the room.
Old Glory rose from his chair and addressed the members around the table. "What you see before you is a montage of various members of the Mockery Brigade captured by surveillance cameras. As you can see they're not exactly your run-of-the-mill fundamentalist faction."
Clad in the patriotic stars and stripes, the hero looked like the very personification of his namesake. Since the late fifties Old Glory championed the American ideal, fighting the likes of urban crime and national terrorism. And after a fifteen year hiatus, the very powers that created the living symbol have brought him back to fight for everything that is noble in the United States, everything that the Mockery Brigade aimed to tarnish.
Old Glory began passing out manila folders to everyone. "I know you're all familiar with the Mockery Brigade, and that's one of the reasons why I've asked for you to help with this assignment, but I'm passing out dossiers on the group's various members and affiliates as a formality."
"Well, aren't you the Eagle Scout," a young man's voice emanated as he drummed his fingers on the table. Like Old Glory, the man donned the patriotic colors. But that's where the similarities ended. "Don't expect me to be formal 'cause everyone's favorite All-American's just here to strut his stuff."
Old Glory grimaced inwardly. The All-American was a far cry from his idea of a hero, and he loathed the idea that the FBI would even assign him with such an egomaniac. He was a loose cannon who shot his mouth off as readily as his high-tech arsenal. He was, frankly, an obnoxious, selfish oaf, but as long as he worked with the task force, the team could conceivably keep him reined in.
When he finished handing out the dossiers, Old Glory returned to his chair and continued speaking. "A few months ago, while I was taking a tour of Virginia's Quartz detention facility, Vivian the Sorceress and Flagstaff freed Brigade members Klash and Greyskull, as well as the monster known as Skein. After viewing the surveillance tapes, I've deducted that they were assisted by Spectrum. Now, whether both Spectrum and Skein are new recruits of the Brigade remains to be seen, but officials are preparing for such a possibility. And this is another reason why I've requested for your help in apprehending these known criminals."
Dr. Milo Tagelohn, known to his distaste as the Gnome to some, barely glanced at the dossiers, setting them aside on the table for later. "I shall of course be glad to assist however I might," he said in his soft, faintly accented voice. "Do we know where these people are located?"
Old Glory cleared his throat before replying. "A reliable source has informed my officials that some of the Brigade members have been located in Seattle. Why are they in Seattle? That's the sixty million-dollar question. As far as my officials can tell, Seattle is dead. Supervillain activity has been extremely low. It's just the place for a team to hide out and make plans. Perhaps they have a reserve base there."
Mark surveyed the room closely. The All-American sat slouched in his chair with his boots on the table and his hands locked behind his head. The young man was big, like a college running back, and he carried his physique with an obvious air of arrogance. Mark had heard only the vaguest rumors of the All-American, and on first glance he wasn't particularly impressed. The Gnome, however, was another story; there was a natural intelligence in his relaxed posture, a maturity that demanded respect. And then there was Old Glory. Tall, strong, and for some odd reason, Mark thought, he was permeated with that especially cruel pathos, like a prizefighter who kept entering the ring long past his prime, a man who survived a life that was beyond his control, mostly through the strength of his pride. Mark put down the dossier and put on his skeptic's face.
"So let's see if I understand the situation," Mark said. "We don't exactly know where the Brigade is -- in a metropolitan area of two million people. We don't know if Spectrum or Skein are with them, we don't know their next move, and we're going after them with a group of individuals who have no training as a team, and what little intelligence we have is attributable to a source you're not willing to name. Sounds par for the course for superheroes."
Old Glory pursed his lips and nodded to Mark. But before he could reply, a voice came from the far side of the room.
"The Brigade members are like fish in a pond."
Everyone turned to see who had just spoken. A sleek, shadowy man just seemed to appear from behind a nearby console. He wore a tight, black combat suit and ski mask, both clinging to him like a second skin. He walked towards the table with such pride and nonchalance. He moved like a cat.
"Ah, I was wondering when you would make your presence known to us." Old Glory smiled. "Everyone, this is Blackjack, his expertise is infiltration and espionage. He was hired for this very operation."
"As I said," Blackjack continued bluntly, "they're like fish in a pond. Elusive, collective, but most importantly habitual. Totally anti-government, they're crimes revolve around humiliating political organizations and figures. I haven't even looked at the dossiers yet, but we have enough intel to bate 'em out. Granted, Seattle's one helluva big pond but I think you catch my drift."
"Exactly!" replied the All-American, slamming his fist down on the table. "Let's go fishin'!"
"If you prefer to use that simile, yes," said Old Glory. My God, and the Feds want me to promote this hothead? he thought. "We have to somehow lure them to us. We need something -- someone -- to pique the Mockery Brigade's interest. That's why I've requested for Hillary's itinerary, so we might work around her schedule. Perhaps we can have a special Seattle appearance fitted in."
Old Glory then brought his attention back to Mark Battle. "I understand your concerns and skepticism, Mark, and I apologize for not naming the sources of my intelligence. It's come to my knowledge that you and the FBI don't exactly see eye to eye, so I figured it would be best if I refrained from referring to them. I know we haven't worked together but the Brigade has to be stopped. Even though it's slight, we do have a window of opportunity here."
Old Glory looked at the team before him. "So, do any of you have any further concerns or perhaps even suggestions?"
Dr. Tagelohn nodded. "It occurs to me that I should be able to provide us with some form of early warning. I usually carry a small token useful for detecting the presence of demons, and it will be no great effort to adapt the process to create something that will alert me to the presence of magic. It will have no great range, but I hope it will prove useful."
"Excellent, Doctor Tagelohn," Old Glory replied. "With the presence of Vivian, there's no question that your skills in the arcane will be needed. She's definitely a challenge that you're best suited for."
"Yeah yeah yeah, all this talk of hocus pocus is driving me nuts," All-American added. "If this Vivian poses to be a threat to you guys I'll take her. In fact, bring her on! I'd love to get my hands on that sweet ass." He then favored the group with his best sneer.
Mark Battle shook his head. "I was like that once. Overeager, not wanting to listen about magic. Chariot called it lack of experience... but he was being kind. It's just stupidity."
The All-American's eyes narrowed. Mark caught the gesture and smiled. "Magic exists. It's weird, it's powerful, and it's out there. And Vivian's no slouch. Deal with it. It's gut check time. And if Skein's there, you'll be checking your guts another way. Like looking at them hanging outta your spandex."
"Don't you ever say anything positive?" The All-American asked, almost ready to take a swing at Battle. The bounty hunter had gotten under his skin from the moment they'd met.
"We're dealing with at least one of the most dangerous people on earth in Vivian," Mark responded. "And if Skein's managed to surface out of the deep blue sea, that's two of the most dangerous. I can't emphasize enough how unfun it is battling that guy. And if Viv has found a way to use Skein to her advantage, things are gonna get uglier than anyone here can imagine." He looked at Dr. Tagelohn. "Even you, sir."
Mark rose to his feet and circled the room. "Spectrum's a whiny crybaby who gets off on being clever, just if he's there. Bloody his nose, and he'll run away. As for Fagstaff, Gayskull, and Klash, they're all losers, but even they're dangerous in a fight." He stopped over the All-American and put his hand mockingly on his shoulder. "This ain't an adventure, it's a job. Think about it that way, and you'll live long enough to tell me how much I underestimated you after the fight.
"Just one thing, and I'll shut my hole. I think Viv's dislike of Clinton is just her way of baiting Flagstaff, I think she enjoys yanking his chain and making him her bitch. She may not take this whole politics thing seriously. If I'm right, she'll cut bait and run early in the fight. It'll make it easy for us to collar the rest of them, but getting Viv should be our highest priority."
Mark sat down and began to light a cigarette.
Agreement flickered in Old Glory's eyes, a subtle shifting of lines around his mouth that said yes. He pushed a button on the table's console. Immediately, the table top pulsed to life, a large detailed map of Seattle lighting up across its surface.
Old Glory faced the four members and said, "Okay, here's what I had in mind..."
Seattle was a town that had seen its highs and lows -- and right now because it was the home of so many rock bands, professional sports teams, and the huge Microsoft corporation, Seattle was thriving.
Beginning as a small lumber settlement it received first uncanny growth with the coming of the railroad after the Civil War. Seattle boomed into the turn of the century via the Alaskan gold rush, serving as chief port of supply and support during those fevered times, establishing itself as a major seaport for all times.
Seattle was a town with a brave past. There were very few obvious signs of a troubled city; the people wore pleasant faces even if their guts were strained a bit -- and Old Glory liked the town. Built on seven hills and containing within its own boundaries four lakes and forty-five parks, nearly two million inhabitants enjoyed its unique geographical location. The people worked hard to achieve a high standard of living and low crime rate.
And that, in stark counterpoint with the Mockery Brigade's impending presence, disturbed Old Glory.
Today, hundreds of Democrats and Republicans alike had gathered in Pioneer Square to witness a special appearance by Hillary Clinton. For forty-five minutes she stood on a raised stage talking to the people of Seattle, occasionally being relieved by one of the guests seated beside her.
"Thank you for being here today," the First Lady of the United States said, her voice ringing out across the plaza as she spoke into the podium's microphone. "It is such a pleasure to be back in Seattle and doing something with Habitat For Humanity..."
One the edge of the plaza, Old Glory sat in a surveillance van and watched closely as the throngs of society stood around Pioneer Square. His mask barely hid the concern etched across his features. He had hoped for more manpower, for tighter security not only around the First Lady but also around the public at large. And now with Hillary's speech almost at its end, Old Glory was beginning to wonder if he underestimated the Mockery Brigade.
On the monitor, he watched as Liberty continued its slow, calculated, almost leisurely circling flight. The cybernetic eagle dipped low, then rose high, gliding on the lofty air currents. All its instincts were tuned for seeking, ever seeking.
Old Glory then thumbed a button on his wristwatch. "How's everyone's position?"
"Friggin' rank," replied the All-American. "Why the hell did I get posted in the sewer?"
"I'm here." Battle said. "And I ain't whining."
"All seems well," came Milo Tagelohn's quiet voice next.
"And how are your sight lines, Blackjack?" The patriot asked.
The shadowy soldier lay sprawled on a nearby rooftop, looking at the streets below through the sight of his rifle. He responded in his headset. "From up here, I have a good line on 1st, 2nd, and 3rd Ave, Main and Jackson Street, and King Street Station. But I can't see the Brigade anywhere."
"This was what I was afraid of. They might be on to us" Old Glory said. "Alright, maintain visual perimeter and keep this line open for further instruction." He then returned his attention to Hillary.
The First Lady continued the speech, gesturing a man sitting beside her. "And I am especially pleased to be here with your mayor. You know Mayor Schell has a national reputation for coming up with common sense solutions to difficult problems and bringing people together to work on behalf of the common good. I personally wish we had more people like him in Washington with that attitude because he has worked hard to improve the lives of the residents of this city..."
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, a man appeared on the stage, and grabbed Hillary. Placing a pistol to her head, he smiled at the crowd. "If everyone will stay calm, we can conclude our business without any undue bloodshed."
Old Glory immediately flipped a switch on the control board and the video monitor zoomed in on the stage. The man wore a combat blacksuit that covered his athletic frame, belts crossing the chest to support a variety of pouches stuffed with god-knows-what. A black mask exposed his dark hair and revealed the craggy, determined features of his mouth and jawline. Across his forehead rested a pair of goggles, most likely some sort of next-generation eyewear.
Old Glory's eyes dwelled and expanded upon the modified Glock with oversized snout that seemed carved into the man's big fist. "Where did Flagstaff come from?!" he simmered.
On another monitor he noticed Liberty, circling high above the stage, hunting, overhead. Liberty, the gun, he said inwardly.
With a diving attack, steely talons outstretched, Liberty managed to rip the gun out of Flagstaff's hand. Flagstaff, cursing, disappeared along with Hillary.
"Damn it!" Old Glory hollered. "We've lost them!"
At the same time, a metal door to a shop on opposite side of the street exploded outward, sending the few Secret Service men stationed within flying for several meters. The exploding door was followed a second later by a male rocker suited in a matte gray exoskeleton. Coiled armatures along his forearms gyrated as he closed his hands together, pointing them at a distant police cruiser. The air in front of him buckled as a cacophonous boom pulsed from his hands, totally obliterating the car. Pedestrians scattered in all directions, screaming in panic as the villain continued his assault on the city's infrastructure.
Suddenly, the panel of guest speakers leapt off the stage, and quickly stepped before the armored man with drawn guns. Another half dozen Quartz officers moved in from the edges of the crowd, stunners pointed. Within moments, they created a physical split between the attacker and the civilians.
Across from the armored rocker the ground suddenly shook with a muffled thud. Another parked sedan lurched crazily to one side. The driver's door flung open, shrieking, as a tall, scantily clad strongman lifted the car up over his head. A few frantic citizens had a chance, a fleeting moment to see monstrous sinews bunch beneath the taut flesh of the man's legs, back, and arms before the sedan then went sailing, landing in a mangled heap against a now warped lamp post, just missing the strewn Quartz agents.
"Stand down, Quartz!" Old Glory hollered into his wristwatch. "Let the task force handle the Brigade members. Just get the people out of here!" The federal agents carried out the hero's command, frantically trying to drive the public safely away from the imminent war zone.
"I'm on Klash!" Mark said, rushing out with a force-field streak to engage his armored opponent.
"And I've got Greyskull!" claimed the All-American as he emerged from a nearby manhole and charged at the he-man, his assault rifle at the ready.
"Knave!" Greyskull let out an iron-hard warcry, withdrawing a massive sword from the scabbard on his back, and engaged the All-American.
Milo jumped onto a folding chair as the chair's previous occupant, a city councilman, dove for cover. He said nothing, but his blue eyes narrowed as they swept the crowd, glancing down at the golden medallion he held cupped in both hands.
Klash welcomed his challenge with a big grin on his face and a roll of his long hair. He began to play an air guitar, making a Hendrix-like riff, which was heightened by his power-armor -- it was actually rather disturbing, and finished his chord by aiming a sonic blast at Battle. The bounty hunter, stoic-faced, threw up a concave force-field and sent the shockwave back into Klash. He was caught dead-center in his own attack and was sent hurtling back six meters and slammed into the ground.
"Feedback." Klash snapped, somewhat disoriented.
"Your music sucks, and so do you." Battle said, closing with his opponent, scanning the battlefield as he approached.
The medallion in Milo's hands flashed green, its aura suddenly extending into a teardrop shape. His gaze followed its point, and he saw a hard-faced girl standing in the midst of a milling crowd of high school students. Vivian. Milo studied her for a moment, trying to read something of her personality in her sharp glance. He wondered again about her father, Sebastian...
The distraction was almost fatal. Vivian, realizing that she'd been spotted, raised her hands. Space seemed to twist around them, as if she was drawing the sky into her grasp, and then burst forth in a spray of fiercely colored beams that shrieked toward Milo. He leaped from his perch just in time, as the beams cut the air overhead. Digging into his belt pouch, Milo produced a smoothly rounded stone of a particularly dull gray.
He addressed it in Latin, and it leaped from his palm and zipped toward Vivian. She ducked, but the stone still bounced off her forehead, with no force. "Is that all you can do?" she sneered, straightening again. "And you call yourself a sorcerer!" Again, her hands curved into position to summon the destroying beams again.
But nothing happened. Despite himself, Milo smiled at the look of astonishment, almost fear, on Vivian"s face. The mundane stone had not been meant as a physical blow. Vivian caught her breath and wet her lips, her eyes wide, and then another man in the thronging crowd rushed to her side and both of them disappeared in a kaleidoscopic whirl of light.
"Who the Hell was that?" Battle wondered. He knew Vivian would find some way to escape, but he hadn't counted on outside help. Was it Spectrum, or some summoned servant, or was someone more powerful than Vivian, providing assistance?
Meanwhile, the fight was not going well for the All-American. Greyskull ignored the All-American's rifle shots with a shake of his gold colored locks and a flash of displeasure in his azure colored eyes.
"Remember kids, guns are for losers," the muscle-bound villain proclaimed, swatting the weapon out of the All-American's hand.
The young hero tried to do a backflip roll and recapture the weapon, but caught a red boot to the torso and a hard elbow to the top of his head that smashed him to the ground. Greyskull hammered away at the All-American as he fought the spots that swam in his head. Painfully, the All-American rolled over to look up at his opponent's massive torso, which was framed by a X-shaped metal chest harness. He was beaten.
This is sick, the young patriot thought. I'm going to be offed by some goddamn no-neck that thinks he's a cartoon character?
Greyskull stood over All-American's prone body, the point of his massive blade aimed at the young hero's chest. "I'm Eternia's mightiest hero. I've been summoned by the Sorceress to protect this world from you and the other minions of the masters of evil. You are no match for my might. Repent now and I will send you to the palace in the clouds." The blue steel of Greyskull's blade now brandished high above his head.
In an almost breathless voice, All-American said, "Huh... I bet Skeletor is givin' that bitch She-Ra the bone right now..."
A last word of defiance. Greyskull snarled and gave the All-American a swift kick in the head. The young hero felt his consciousness ebbing away. The swordsman's eyes lit up, and in a voice like thunder, he echoed, "BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL!..." The sword plunged toward his chest...
But as quickly as the masterstroke fell, the warrior's blade careened off the limp body in a flashing arc. Stunned, the All-American stared at it, at the slight translucent sphere that shielded him. The young hero strained to see who had come to his rescue, but blacked out before he could make it out.
Mark Battle glared at Greyskull, his fists tightening around the bending alloy plates of the unconscious Klash's exoskeleton. "Hey, big boy!" the bounty hunter cried. "Let's cuddle!"
Greyskull smiled and put down his sword, forgetting about the execution. "The Horde's champion!" Greyskull shouted.
Mark rolled his eyes, Vivian must have enjoyed toying with this one's mind. Not that anyone who patterned himself after a cartoon was particularly stable.
Greyskull continued his rant, "I have long wished you'd find the courage to face me, slime! I will never fall to the likes of you! I'm going to tear your heart from your chest and show it to you as you take your final breath." Greyskull added.
Mark dropped Klash and stepped on his head as he turned. He rubbed his hands together, then put them on his hips, his chest swelling in a muscular pose to mock his opponent. "Okay, show me what you've got," Battle said.
It was obvious that a clash of titans -- or hardbodys -- was about to commence. Greyskull's eyes were wide and wild, anticipating an epic struggle. What a geek, Mark thought. The bounty hunter glanced around the battlefield, seeing Milo heading toward a returned Flagstaff. Hope he's got something in his bag of tricks that'll work against a super-soldier, Mark thought, then he turned back to face his opponent.
Greyskull struck the first blow, connecting with a solid punch that sent Mark flying back several meters, making a cracking sound that rattled over the battlefield. Mark rolled into a crouch, then sprang on Greyskull when he advanced, catching him with a left to the ribs and then a right uppercut to the jaw. The villain's eyes crossed, but he managed to keep his composure long enough to avoid a finishing blow, and countered with a head butt.
From the parked van Old Glory surveyed the battle, his eyes shifting from the melee between Greyskull and Mark to one between Flagstaff and the Gnome. If the Brigade leader thought he was merely fighting a Tolkien-like alchemist, he could hardly have been more wrong. Milo Tagelohn showed skill in hand-to-hand combat and was swift on his feet despite his squat size. Old Glory knew he wouldn't win in the long run, but he might distract the terrorist.
Had Milo known of Old Glory's appraisal of his combat skills, he would have snorted. With Vivian now out of the picture, Milo headed for the leader of the Mockery Brigade.
Unfortunately, Flagstaff was only too eager to join the battle. Milo had prepared the amber-headed hammer just in case he found himself in a brawl, but the various old gods it was consecrated to apparently had other things on their mind at the moment.
Milo did what he could to occupy the leader of the Mockery Brigade. Flagstaff dodged and rolled with the blows of the hammer, leaped away when Milo turned the air around him to chlorine, and returned an eyeblink later to batter Milo with a rapid-fire stream of punches and kicks that left him breathless. It was all too reminiscent of the beating hed gotten from A. Paco Llypse not long enough ago. Karate lessons if I survive this! Milo promised himself, barely evading a jab that would have crushed his nose.
"Okay, Blackjack, take Flagstaff out," Old Glory ordered.
The only response he received was static, however.
"Blackjack?!" Damn. The All-American and the Secret Service men are inactive, Quartz is too busy occupying the civilians, and now Blackjack seems to be out of commission. Old Glory was quickly running out of agents to coordinate.
Suddenly it was over in a blackened blur of movement, and Milo was staggering. Flagstaff seized the doctor, took him down, and whatever happened then was blocked off by the Brigade leader's larger physique. When he stood again, Flagstaff pointed his pistol at the prone Milo.
"Good night, Gnome..." he said, mockingly. But just then a shadow grew over Milo, and Flagstaff looked up, stepping back with a smile. "Ah, I see you've decided to get off your recliner."
"Are you all right, Milo?" Old Glory asked, helping him back up to his feet.
"I have been better," Milo said through his teeth, a few of which were feeling far too loose.
Old Glory turned towards the leader of the Brigade, his eyes hard and unmoving, like stone. "Okay, Flagstaff... Now it's you and me... The way it should've been from the start!"
"Vainglorious fool!" cried Flagstaff, and thundered off a round from the ventilated barrel of his gun.
Lightning reflexes and split-second timing saved Old Glory as he spun out of the bullet's path, the round punching a hole in a nearby phone booth. Jesus! If a civilian was in there... Immediately, he whipped a hand outward, disarming the terrorist with a bola.
Flagstaff seemed to take Old Glory's riposte in stride, however. His voice actually sounded smug as he said, "You've got spunk for an old guy." But Old Glory ignored his swagger.
The terrorist's hands quickly retrieved another weapon from one of the belt pouches, revealing a pair of metal rods linked together by a small cord. Holding one of the rods, he sent the other end spinning at the end of the cord, executing tight circles so swift that all Old Glory saw was a bleary motion. The ends of the rods immediately began to ionize, coruscating with wisps of nebulous energy, so that the twirling produced halos of white fire in the air. His gloves must be insulated, thought Old Glory as Flagstaff advanced toward him with the energized nunchakus.
Taking a step back, Old Glory unclipped his golden eagle belt buckle. His hands gripped the hilt that retracted from the base of bird, the outstretched metal wings becoming a hand guard. A split second later a three-foot blade of condensed light erupted from the head of the buckle.
Flagstaff smiled as he flailed his weapon in a vicious arc at Old Glory's stomach. Old Glory pivoted, took the brunt of the attack on the edge of his energy saber, the force turning, and there was a sharp crackling sound. A shiver raced up his arms and his fingers went momentarily numb.
The leader of the Mockery Brigade stood, feet wide apart, his deft hands spinning the nunchakus about him in a plasmic blur. "I've been so looking forward to meeting you like this," he said. The glowing rod came whistling at Old Glory again. "Uhnn! -- Today America's gonna finally see how quaint and naive they are -- haw! -- 'cause by taking you down, I'm finally gonna show this country that the American Dream is dead." Old Glory continued to defend himself from Flagstaff's pressing attack.
"Ungh! -- Just think of what the press will write. You, the symbol of the beliefs upon which the United States was founded, versus me, the standard-bearer of revolt and treason. Ha! -- ungh! -- Christ, the poetry's enough to make even E. E. Cummings puke."
Old Glory said nothing, retreating under the frenzied onslaught, first one step, then another, feeling the hot wind generated by Flagstaff's weapon. Yellow and white sparks flew upward and the constant crackle of harnessed photons clashed with plasma. A predatory grin split the open part of Flagstaff's mask as the terrorist bore down even harder, grunting and panting with effort, sensing that the end was near.
And now Old Glory saw it in Flagstaff's eyes and he timed his counter perfectly, abruptly holding his ground as Flagstaff, intent on the retreat as a gauge for his victory, flailed again forward and down. He came up on Old Glory instantly, nunchakus descending in a streak, an eye just beginning to open in amazement, as Old Glory lunged forward, shoulders twisting at the last possible moment. Flagstaff, his body made ponderous and overbalanced by momentum, rushed past him. The patriotic hero followed through his movement, pivoting, right foot forward and extending, left behind him. He held his energy saber out at stomach level, point significantly lower than the hilt. There came a metallic clatter as the two rods of Flagstaff's nunchakus fell to the ground, the weapon's cord now severed.
The leader of the Brigade turned around to face his opponent.
Old Glory deactivated his energy saber, returning the golden eagle to the magnetic faceplate on the center of his belt. "You've left me no other choice." He beckoned Flagstaff with his hands. "I'm going to knock that cursed smile off your face."
"What? You, me, hand-to-hand combat?" Flagstaff sounded amused by the very thought.
Not far from the super-soldiers, Mark continued his brawl with Greyskull. It looked like some grotesque scene from professional wrestling, the two strongmen grappling. Mark seized the warrior by wrist and forearm, breathing hard with the effort. Close combat with a brickhouse -- Mark knew a mistake when he made one -- but a skilled fighter need not only rely on the physical aspects of combat, there was the psychological to consider, and against Greyskull, a mistake could be turned to his advantage with the right taunt.
"I am stronger than you, Hordeling," Greyskull half-grunted.
"Oooo, let me kiss your biceps," Mark mocked.
Distended, serpentine veins pulsed over their Herculean bodies. Greyskull snarled as Mark gritted his teeth. Their boots dug into the street, marking the asphalt with tiny, inscrutable cracks. Eyes locking, arms struggling, pectoral muscles grinding against each other, biceps pumping, swelling to ridiculous proportion, both men were groaning loudly as tears of sweat and effort were running down their cheeks.
Inch by inch, Mark felt his force-field brace slipping. He's not as strong as Chariot, the bounty hunter thought, but he didn't need to be. Let's hope he's not smart enough to cinch the hold.
Finally, after a few long seconds, Greyskull overpowered him and threw him to the ground. Exhilarated by his victory, Greyskull raised his arms and shouted over the battlefield. "I HAVE THE POW -- URP!!!
Mark Battle had thrown his fist, full force, into his opponent's groin. Greyskull fell to the ground, cradling his genitals. "You don't have any muscle there, do you?" The bounty hunter smiled.
Greyskull rose from the ground, legs awkwardly splayed. "You have earned a slow death, Horde-scum!"
"I earned that years ago. Tell me something new." Mark smiled. For the first time in the fight, Greyskull looked intimidated. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's have that slow death. C'mon Gayskull."
Greyskull opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. "It figures," Mark continued. "You know, Skeletor was the only dude on that show who wasn't a complete dork."
Greyskull screamed and charged wildly at Battle.
Old Glory's fight with Flagstaff had moved onto the stage. The hero's head rang from several unavoidable blows, but even his limbs ached from the attacks he was able to block. I don't know how, but he's able to ignore the personal force-field generated by my costume's microcircuits, Old Glory said to himself. And at this rate I can't see myself being a very durable punching bag.
Fists and feet lashed out, with Flagstaff on the offensive and Old Glory relying mainly on his agile defenses, having little opportunity to launch a counter. Old Glory had fought many master combatants in his past, but none on par with the likes of Flagstaff. While his other opponents were formidable fighters, holding black belts in whatever martial arts style they trained in, Flagstaff, on the other hand, used no single style. Like Old Glory, he had developed his own personal style, completely unique, incorporating all the training he acquired through his lifetime. Combat, to the well-muscled Flagstaff, was second nature, a lifestyle. And keeping Old Glory at bay was testament to his martial arts skills.
Flagstaff backed up to the curtain, and Old Glory must have imagined he saw an opening for he thrust then, left hand up to parry and right hand crossing toward the terrorist's jaw. Flagstaff sidestepped, the punch glancing his shoulder. He reached out and laid hands on Old Glory, forcing him to continue his momentum, straight into a line of folding chairs.
The patriotic hero tumbled out of the twisted mess of chairs, bouncing end over end to the edge of the stage. Incredible! I've never fought anyone with his native cunning. Some of his moves are straight out of vale tudo and savate. If it wasn't for the T-pills he'd surely surpass me in raw physical prowess.
A Cheshire smile was tacked to Flagstaff's face. "What's a guy like you doing working for a draft-dodging President who mocks the office he holds by his very presence?"
"I'm doing exactly what the President's doing -- serving the people," Old Glory said, his hands knotted into tight fists.
"You serve the people?!" Flagstaff glared at the star-spangled hero. "That brainwashed bunch of cattle. What this country needs is strong leadership. It's quite obvious that the democratic system has failed completely. Freedom is a farce. That age-old notion of truth, justice -- and all that bullshit -- that you and so many others cling to is nothing more than romantic spin doctoring rolled off the propaganda assembly line. Why do you continue to live in such denial? The government doesn't serve the people -- the people serve government. It's always been that way."
The terrorist approached his opponent, pushing the toppled chairs out of his way. "Hell, if you want something done right you've got to do it yourself! Join me and we can set up a government that works!"
Old Glory moved in, feinted several times, then kicked Flagstaff's chest hard enough that the hero heard a rib crack as the terrorist fell, rolled and sprang back to his feet. "If you could just see yourself, Flagstaff," he said to the leader of the Brigade. "Strong leaders don't threaten the citizenry with violence. What you and the Mockery Brigade are doing isn't only opposing our government, but also opposing the civil liberties of every good man and woman in this country. You're turning into a tyrant! You're threatening the very backbone America has strived for."
Grinning, Flagstaff swung the leg of a chair he'd procured, impacting solidly with Old Glory's jaw, sending him backward over the edge of the stage and down onto a wooden table. "Ha! Spoken like a true relic of a forgotten age," the terrorist laughed. "Get with the times, old man -- better yet, stand down. It seems that you're not going to be rational, so save yourself whatever dignity you have and give up." Above the downed hero, Flagstaff leaped off the stage.
"Never!" hollered Old Glory, catching the falling Flagstaff in the abdomen with a well-placed foot, sending the terrorist through the air and crashing onto a case of stairs. Old Glory got into a crouch atop the table, his eyes flashing towards where the Brigade's leader had fallen. "You might beat me, Flagstaff. But so long as even one American stands vigilant against the loss of liberty, despots like you will never claim rule over this country."
Flagstaff rose. "How cornball and quaint. You're not only outdated -- you're outclassed."
"No, you're the one that's outclassed. You and the Brigade!"
The leader of the Mockery Brigade unsnapped his shoulder holster and was drawing another gun.
"What's the matter, Flagstaff?" Old Glory asked, sarcasm punctuating his words. "Is the truth so much for you to handle that you have to resort to cheap shots?"
"Chivalry's dead, you goddamn moron!" Flagstaff shrieked, pulling the large pistol and taking aim. "Everything that you preach is dead!"
Old Glory dove forward, making himself a smaller target, the .45 Desert Eagle splintering the table top. He slammed into the terrorist, hugging his waist and taking him down hard. He was kneeling, like a neighborhood bully, sitting on Flagstaff's torso, feet behind him preventing Flagstaff from using his legs to pull him off. Under other circumstances, Flagstaff would have thrown his opponent off easily, but Old Glory's chemical-induced strength was too encumbering. The patriot produced a truncheon from his utility belt, batting the .45 from Flagstaff's grip, and as the man fought him, Old Glory simply started pummeling.
"Go get him, old man!" Mark shouted from nearby, ducking as Greyskull, fighting close, tried to grab him in a headlock. Mark responded with a knee to Greyskull's groin, and then turned back to Old Glory and shouted with friendly mocking. "Catch and disembowel him, zis boom bah!" He traded punches with Greyskull again, getting the better of the exchange. "Old Glory, Old Glory! Rah! Rah! Rah!"
Old Glory stopped punching, feeling ashamed. I actually started to enjoy that, he glowered at his inner self. Flagstaff was not unconscious, but he was disoriented, even delirious. As Old Glory's adrenaline level started to return to normal, he began to feel the rawness in his knuckles. Detaching a set of reinforced handcuffs from the back of his belt, he began to shackle the battered super-soldier's hands behind his back.
"Lucky for you this is America, where even known felons have rights," Old Glory said, forcing the slack-jawed Flagstaff to his feet. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you..."
"You don't need to worry about Greyskull." Mark smiled, hauling the unconscious supervillain over his shoulder like a 400 pound bag of hammers and throwing him on the fallen Klash. "I think we all know who the champion 'roid-monkey' was in this fight." He smiled as he spat on the villain. "Better get back to the gym, loser."
A Quartz van soon appeared to the scene as federal agents properly detained the members of the Mockery Brigade, loading them into the back of the vehicle. Paramedics also came and looked after the All-American and Blackjack.
"I'm okay." Mark said, rotating his shoulder. "You did pretty good, old man. Why you'd want to hang around with a pack of fascist losers like Quartz, well, I ain't gonna go there."
A slight smile surfaced on Old Glory's exhausted features. "No, you can be forthright with me, Mark." The patriot's smile then faded. "I'm here to fight the good fight, to do what I can to right the wrongs within our society... Don't tell me that's gone out of style."
"Style sucks. Just watch yourself. The problem with loving your country is that it's one-sided. If Quartz ever screws you over, let me know. I'll do what I can to help, that's a promise."
"Ahem." Milo Tagelohn joined the group, now sporting a golden headband etched with a pattern of dancing flames. He removed it, sighing. "I regret not being more of a help, but I was able to use this to look into Flagstaff's mind." A flicker of a smile crossed his face. "What there is of it. In any case, I believe I know where he took the First Lady. Shall we go?"
The Mockery Brigade's hideout turned out to be a small, run-down house on the outskirts of town, between a junk-cluttered vacant lot and a tire dealership. The heroes approached it cautiously. Old Glory rammed open the back door with his shoulder, tumbling in and coming up in a combat crouch. Milo raised himself up to one of the second-story windows on a column of earth, dissolved the glass, and leaped inside. Mark merely sent the shattered front door pinwheeling down the hall with a flat-footed kick and sauntered after it.
But the dramatics were for nothing -- the house was empty. Neither Vivian nor her rescuer was to be found anywhere. There was nothing in the house that suggested where they might have gone. Searching the house turned up only a variety of trivia. A collection of empty cash sacks from banks in half a dozen states, a broken "atom gun" that had been taken from the body of a would-be hero in Kansas City, a thick file of newspaper and magazine clippings about the Brigade's past exploits, a large wall map of the United States, covered with lines and scribbled notes detailing a planned "reorganization," a half-finished game of Squad Leader on the kitchen table, and a large, well-worn stack of Masters of the Universe videos.
The only thing of real significance in the house was the First Lady, whom Mark discovered tied up and stuffed into the hall closet.
"I was wondering if you guys would ever show up," Hillary said.
"We stopped to watch the impeachment hearings." Mark quipped as he led her into the kitchen, where Milo and Old Glory were gathered. Her voice had a clipped New England accent, completely unlike her normal speech. Flopping into a chair, she peeled off her blond wig and tossed it aside, revealing cropped black hair. She began to pick at the nearly invisible seam where the plasti-skin mask was bonded to her own flesh. "Did you get them?"
"Most of them," Old Glory said. "Vivian and Spectrum have given us the slip."
"That's still pretty good. I bet the director will be happy." The Quartz agent stripped Hillary's face off her own and dropped it into the sink, where it promptly began to fizz and dissolve.
"Well, I wish I could say this is over and done with," Old Glory said. "But Vivian and Spectrum are still out there -- somewhere -- most likely already plotting to free Flagstaff and the others." He hammered a gloved fist into his other hand. "Dammit, my plan was nearly foiled entirely. It was like they knew what we were doing, like they had a mole on the inside."
"As the young lady says, it seems to have worked well as it is," Milo said." My great-grandfather Karl used to say that no plan ever survives contact with the enemy ... "
"Well, I'm going to find Spectrum -- and that's a promise," Old Glory claimed. "And with any luck, where ever Spectrum's at Vivian will be close by. What about you, Dr. Tagelohn? I'm not sure what your schedule's like, but I could surely use your help in apprehending Vivian and Spectrum."
"I will be glad to help however you wish. I am certainly interested in finding Vivian, if I can," the little man said.
Old Glory then looked at Mark Battle. "And I suppose you're still on pursuit of Mastiff?"
Mark shook his head. "I don't have time for your witch hunt right now. Heck, even Mastiff's on the backburner until...," Mark took a deep breath, "...I ain't forgotten about Jake, and when I'm ready to go after him, I will. But when I do, it's gonna be personal -- no task force, no interference, and only one of us will be walking away. On the other hand, if you get your hands on the creep first, I wish you luck. And if you find out anything about the Truant, let me know. I'd be real interested."
Old Glory nodded. "Yeah, I've got some unfinished business with Mastiff. And as long as he's on the loose, I'll be after him. I'll see what kind of intel I can gather on the Truant for you. But I'm curious, why would Mastiff break into a Quartz facility to try and free the likes of the Carver?"
The question wasn't rhetorical, but it remained suspended, unanswered. And while Mark and Milo began to head toward the front doorway, Old Glory stayed back, took one more quick glance around the Brigade's lair, finally following suit.