Issue #007 – – – – – controlled by Frank Devocht – – – – – Credits 7

“Wake up, sonny boy,” Beast Nelson growled.

The teenager’s eyes flickered open.  He peered at them from between two black rings, the bruising from his broken nose and swollen head beginning to show already.
“Huh?” he muttered.  Then realisation filled his countenance as he took in his surroundings.

They were in Wild Thing’s secret base.  The boy was firmly secured in a chair and – though his wounds had been tended to  – no attempt to make him feel comfortable had been attempted.  “You can’t keep me here,” he told them.  “I have rights.”
“You have the right to be flattened by a girder,” Beast Nelson told him.
“Take it easy,” Wild Thing said.  “My friend here isn’t going to hurt you.  Well, not any more than he already has, as long as you give us the information we need.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” the young man who had been Death, Esquire said resolutely.  But the way he was looking at Nelson suggested that his resolve might not remain as long as he hoped.

“You will talk,” Nelson said.  “Because if you do not,” he crunched his furry black knuckles, “I will see if I can convince you.  The hard way.”
“Just explain,” Wild Thing said, “Because I don’t understand why you targeted me with this horror campaign.”
“It wasn’t personal,” He replied.  “I was simply doing as instructed.”
“It felt pretty damn personal!” Wild Thing assured him, angrily.
“Who asked you to do it?” Beast Nelson growled, red eyes flashing.
The young man seemed to consider his position before saying: “Okay.  If I come clean, do you let me go?”
“I don’t think so,” Beast Nelson laughed, “We might lock you away with no further broken body parts.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Wild Thing took a gentler note.  “Depends on how clean you come.”

“Okay, look,” he said, glancing fearfully around despite the fact that they were in Wild Thing’s base.  “There’s a group, a union if you like, of super criminals in Helix City.  They are big hitters, shakers and movers.  Compared to them I’m pretty grass roots, you know?  Lower tier.”
“Now that we know you’re just an energy manipulator, we feel much the same,” Nelson said.
“Hah!” Death, Esquire laughed, “But you didn’t before did you?  I spun my little undead yarn and you went for it!  You have to admit, it’s a good front!  Much more effective than making giant yellow boxing gloves or casting half-hearted illusions in shadow on alleyway walls.”
“True,” Wild Thing acknowledged.  “It was convincing.  You had me jumping at my own shadow.”

“So look,” Death, Esquire said.  “These guys.  They call themselves The Hidden.  They’re into everything.  The police, the city council, the government.  They own stuff and they control people.  They’re Players.”
“What has this to do with me?” Wild Thing asked.
“No idea,” Death, Esquire said.  “They don’t say and I didn’t ask.  To be honest, I’ve been waiting for a proper job to do for them for a while.  They’ve given me runarounds, but I’m not some feeble C-Lister, I’m Death, Esquire.”
“I’m sure they’re very impressed,” Beast Nelson indicated the villain’s smashed face and bound condition.
“I never expected another hero to be involved,” The young man said, defensively.
“So you have no idea why they wanted Wild Thing dead?” Beast Nelson asked.
“I’m not sure they did want him dead at all.  They just wanted me to scare the shit out of him.  Which I did.”
“What about all this stuff about him not supposed to be alive?” Nelson asked.
“That’s what they told me to say.  I met this guy, Nightblade is his name.  You know the sort?  Ex- special forces.  Black ops.  Scars and gravelly voice and terrifying even though he doesn’t need to threaten you at all?  The kind of guy you just know has been killing people since he was about ten?”
“You paint a vivid picture,” Nelson agreed.
“Anyway, he tells me to say that stuff.  Then he says that they want you too terrified to think of anything else.  But nobody said you had to be dead and so I just kept sending stuff to keep you running.”

“Okay, look,” Wild Thing said.  “I don’t know why this Nightblade, or this group The Hidden want to mess with me.  But I’m a government-sanctioned hero, I can call this in.  I can get the help I need.  Now that I know this isn’t some supernatural freak I can get action taken.”
“What are you saying?” Nelson asked.
“Well, you’ve been a big help.  I owe you.  But you don’t need to remain involved with this now.  In fact, since you aren’t legally supposed to be active, it’s probably better if you aren’t.  I don’t want to get you in trouble, Nelson.”
“Oh yeah,” Nelson laughed coldly.  “Considerate is your middle name.”
“No, listen,” Wild Thing said.  “Really, man.  I owe you big time.  I wouldn’t have got through this without you.”
Nelson shrugged, “No big deal.  They brought this to my club.  And besides, it was kinda interesting to be active again.  Sort of like old times.”
“Well thanks anyway.  But you can leave him with me.  I’ll make sure he gets locked up.”
“He deserves more than being locked up,” Beast growled.
“I know.  The two young ladies his monsters killed might not think that his casual obedience to The Hidden justified his crimes.  But don’t you worry about that.  I’ll explain the, uh, situation to the Bullies running the City Jail.  They know how to deal with his sort.”

Beast Nelson walked home.  It was a dark night in the city.  The wind howled between the buildings like some demon loosed on the world.  The moon could not be seen as black clouds gathered portentously across the sky.  Two blocks from his apartment, which was atop the club in which he worked, Beast stopped on a street corner.  His heart was hammering in his chest.  He felt … exhilarated.  He felt alive in a way he had not for many months.  Maybe years.

“What is this?” He asked the night, but the night did not answer.  There in the pool of lamplight he watched the shadows dance on the edge of the ring of baleful illumination.  He felt a rush of adrenaline.  Something was happening here.  Within him, some desire was making itself known.  How long had he been sleeping?  Just drifting through his life without questioning his purpose?  It didn’t feel right.  Here, in the cold night air, Beast Nelson was rediscovering himself.  He was more than he seemed.  He was a hero.  There were bad people out there in the city.  It was his job to smash them, pummel them and put a stop to their activities.  He didn’t know where these new/old feelings were coming from – but they weren’t going away.  Helix City criminals were in for a surprise.  Beast Nelson was back.

Issue #007 – – – – – controlled by Sarah Saunders – – – – – Credits 7

I’ve always been fairly good at the information gathering side of the business.  But working with two wizards was a real eye-opener.  To be honest, I’d have to be careful it didn’t make me lazy, because all the leg-work I’d normally do seemed to be as simple as muttering a few strange words and weaving their hands in the air.

“We need a layout of his building,” I said.  “And we have to go back soon – he wont be expecting another assault so quickly.”
“Particularly not after you were defeated so easily last time,” Melderact sneered.
“You’re welcome to join us next time and show us how it’s done,” I pointed out.  Imo rumbled his agreement.
“Were I to get directly involved,” Melderact said, “They would be rebuilding three city blocks for the rest of the year.”
Drake laughed, a little unkindly.  “Yeah.  Right.”
“You doubt me, little man?” Melderact’s voice raised dangerously.
Drake waved dismissively at the old wizard, “Blah blah blah,” he said.
I stepped between them quickly.  It was not wise to let their antagonism gain pace.  “The layout?” I prompted.
Drake produced a long sheet of parchment upon which magical lines had formed into a diagram.  “Your wish is my command.”
“Bah,” Melderact puffed, producing his own vellum.  “Here is a list of his associates and firepower.”
“Wow,” I grinned.  “This is great!

“Okay,” I said.  I stood looking over the papers with Drake and Melderact looking over either shoulder and Imo’s huge shadow looming behind them.  “I think we go in tomorrow morning.  Let’s take the rest of today and tonight to prepare.  We need the tools of the vampire-slaying trade.  Wooden stakes.  Holy water.  Garlic.  The whole shebang.”
“I’ll go out and get what we need,” Drake said.
“Good.  We also need some other assistance.  Melderact, have you any spells that can help us more more stealthily?  Maybe protect us from any magical or super-powered scrying that is going on?”
“I can come up with a spell,” the Wizard confirmed.  “It will make you invisible to most modern and ancient detection devices and methods for about ten minutes.”
“That will help a lot,” I thanked him.
“Why the morning?” Drake asked.
“I presume Knight will be sleeping in the daytime?  Being a vampire and all.”
“They aren’t in a coma though,” Drake explained.  “He can wake up.  As long as he’s not exposed to direct sunlight he’ll be a little groggy for a while, but otherwise fine.”
“Hmmm,” I said.  “If there was some way to drag him outside we could be done with him easily.  But I guess he’ll be somewhere deep in his base?”
“Yes,” Drake pointed at the map.  “My best guess is here, in the sub-cellar.  That’s where I’d sleep if I was a bloodsucker.  As far from the light as I could be.  And look, there are guards here, here and here,” He pointed at access points to the deep room.  “No reason to protect the room so heavily if it isn’t to keep himself safe while he rests.”
“Maybe,” I agreed.  “Or maybe that’s where the Joy drug is made?”
Drake raised an eyebrow, “Yeah.  Possible.”

“Okay,” I said.  “So we go just after sunrise.  Make our way into this back entrance here,” I pointed at the map.  “Take out the guards quickly, then move through the building with the non-detection spell in place.  Head down this flight of stairs here, into the basement.  Deal with these guards and whatever this is,” I pointed at the red cross at an intersection.
“That’s an enhanced guard,” Drake explained.
“Enhanced?” I asked.
“Yeah.  An Abnormal.  He’s called Flipside.  Some kind of gravity manipulator.  Between us we should be able to take care of him.”
“Okay,” I nodded.  “If you say so.  Then down these stairs and go through this secure door as quickly as possible.”
“That secure door is heavily-reinforced steel.  We might not be able to get through it at all,” Drake noted.
“Can’t you magic it open?”
“I don’t know,” Drake answered honestly, “Until I see what I’m up against.  What sort of locks.  What the walls are like.”
“The walls?” I asked.
“Sure.  If the door is tough sometimes its easier to just go through the walls.”
Imo grunted and I grinned.  “Sure, we can probably help with this if its necessary.”
“Then,” I continued.  “We stick a stake through Knight’s black heart, smash his Joy laboratory up and destroy the remains of his stock.  Easy.”
“Yeah,” Drake sighed heavily.  “Easy.”

“There is just one small thing that has not been considered,” Melderact said carefully.  Something is his voice seemed uncharacteristically uncertain.  I looked over at him and waited for him to clarify.  “There’s some sort of magical presence,” He said.
“What does that mean?” I asked, while Drake scoured the maps trying to ascertain what Melderact was referring to.
“Here,” The Wizard pointed to a section of the map on the ground floor, but directly above the sub-cellar they planned to aim for.  “Look.”
Drake frowned.  There was nothing on the map.  It was featureless and boring.  Then, slowly, he nodded.  “There’s not enough detail.  Compared to the other rooms we’ve uncovered almost nothing here.”
“That’s not good?” I asked.
“No,” Melderact rumbled.  “There should have been something.  A guard.  A weapon stash.  Something.  But there’s nothing.  This indicates that the area has been protected from magical viewing, much as you have asked me to do for you.  Something here is being secured against our investigations.”
“How significant is that?” I asked.
“It takes an enormous magical investment.  You’ll remember I could only shield you for ten minutes?  This is a near-permanent enchantment.  This is expensive both in time and energy.  Knight has gone to quite some effort to stop anybody being able to see what is in this particular area.”
“Why?” I asked.
“That,” Melderact said.  “Is the question.”

Issue #007 – – – – – controlled by Bill Treadwell – – – – – Credits 18

To somebody else, an angry five hundred pound man charging at them with intent to injure would probably be terrifying.  Cassandra stayed absolutely calm.  Stepping to one side she pivoted on her foot in order to be precisely where Ralph was not.  The huge man crashed into the wall behind her, bringing down three wooden shelves loaded with ornaments, a hanging painting of a clay pot and a glass vase full of yellow flowers.  He left a huge man-shaped dent in the plaster wall.  The noise was immense.  That was too much damage, Cassandra thought.  That wasn’t just his weight.  There were powers at work, here.

“Kill you!” The giant man roared, struggling to rise from his crush against the wall.  Cassandra kicked one arm away causing him to fall onto his gut.  Ralph’s wife screeched, which was a little irritating but was somewhat lost amidst all the other noise as he floundered around trying to get back to his feet.  “Stay down,” Cassandra told him.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Kill you!”
“Yes,” Cassandra said, “I think you mentioned that already.”  She stepped forwards and planted her foot in the middle of his back, pressing down so that he was pressed hard to the floor.  Clearly, Ralph could not understand how this woman was able to exert such force onto a man his size.  It must have seemed like an amazing feat of strength, but there was no trick to it.  He had no leverage and his own weight was working against him.  She could feel his raw power, enhanced and impressive, but his angle made it impossible for him to use it effectively.  She planned to keep it that way.

Again Ralph tried to rise, bellowing his anger at being denied.  Cassandra stepped across his body and stamped on his right elbow with her foot causing him to buckle to the floor again.  She dropped a knee into the small of his back and punched him in the back of the neck to take some of the fight out of him.  It was like hitting a rhinoceros.   “Really, you should just stay down.  I can keep this up all day, can you?”
Ralph tried once more to rise.  Shielding her hands from view with her body, Cassandra used her speed to strike him a dozen times with the flat of her palm about the sides of his head.  To Ralph this was probably like a fly batting against his skin, but it sent a message about her ability to both keep him down and strike him as and when she wanted to.  She wasn’t doing him any damage, but she was making a point.

“Stop hurting my Dad,” Tag said, rising from his huddle on the armchair.  “Stop it!”
“I’m not hurting him,” Cassandra told the boy, “I’m stopping him hurting me.”
Ralph, whose massive size was equalled only by his catastrophic lack of fitness, ran out of steam.  Puffing laboriously and sweating buckets, he collapsed onto his face and lay still.  “Okay!  Okay!  Let me up.  I wont fight you.”
“I don’t believe you,” Cassandra said.  “Stay where you are for a minute and let’s all take a breath.”
“My Dad hasn’t done anything,” Tag told her.
“Sure he has, son.  He attacked an officer of the law.  That’s definitely something.”
“It’s not him you want,” the mother cried from the doorway.
“I know,” Cassandra agreed.  “It’s your son who is the abnormal.”  She looked at Tag.  “My question is – are you just unlicensed, or are you a misfit?  You aren’t to blame for your Dad’s bad behaviour.  I just want the truth.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tag said, but he looked terrified.
“I think you do,” Cassandra took her foot from his father and helped the massive man rise to his feet, keeping a close eye on him.  “Easy now, Big Man,” she said.  “Let’s stay relaxed this time, huh?”

Ten minutes and two cups of coffee later, Cassandra was sitting with the family in the front lounge and had gained considerably more information.  It seemed that both the father and the son were unlicensed Abnormals.  Ralph had some limited strength and agility which he had largely destroyed by years of over-eating.  Still, he was considerably more able than somebody else his size would be.  He explained that his rage was tied to his use of his powers, such as they were.  He needed to get angry to access them.  Tag was more reticent about his powers, though he did admit both to having them and to using them to keep an eye on his neighbourhood.  He denied being part of any disturbance, but Cassandra was not worried about that since she had invented the disturbance as a premise for entering their home.
“We don’t want any trouble,” his mother said.  “You hear stuff, you know, about The Institute.  We don’t want our boy experimented on by those people.”
“He ain’t got any powers worth writing home about,” Ralph said.  His face was still florid, but was beginning to return to its natural shade.   His wife gave him a look that led Cassandra to think maybe he was lying about the extent of his Son’s powers.

“If you’re going to patrol your neighbourhood, people are going to see you,” Cassandra said.  “That’s a recipe for getting caught if you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I’m careful,” Tag said.  “Well … I thought I was careful.”
“Look, you don’t need to worry.  I’m not going to hand you in to the authorities.  I’m not here with the police today, anyway.”
“Huh?” Ralph frowned.  “What do ya’ mean?”
Cassandra held up one hand.  For a moment it was wreathed in flame, the flickering fires dancing between her fingers.  She winked.
“You?” Tag gaped.  “You’re an abnormal too.”
“Yep,” Cassandra said.  “No license here either.  A friend of mine sent me to see if you might want to help us out.”
“Help you out in what way?” Ralph asked, looking concerned.  Cassandra decided she had misjudged him.  What seemed to be a dangerous violent man actually appeared to be a concerned and caring father.  At least, beneath the violent power-induced fury.
“It’s like this,” Cassandra said.  “So far, your Son has avoided identification, but if my people can find him then other people can find him.  The authorities have their own detection methods.  Sooner or later the knock on your door is going to be for real.  Depending on his powers it will be somebody who wants to enlist him for government use, or take a close and personal look at bits of his brain, or lock him up and throw away the key.”
Tag’s mother nodded.  She looked like she was going to cry.  “We’ve expected this.  I tell him to be careful.”
“With great power comes great responsibility,” Tag said.
“Spider Man?  Really?” His Mother cursed.  “This is real life!  You could get killed and you’re quoting comic books?”
“Why don’t you let me take him to meet my friends?” Cassandra said.  “We can help him hide, help him learn to use his powers without being detected, offer him support when he’s in trouble.”
“How do I know we can trust you?” Ralph asked.  “This is our son!”
“I’m a police officer and a super-hero, apparently,” Cassandra said.  She was still a little surprised about it herself.  “If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”
“If you’re a super-hero, what is your name?” Tag asked.
“Vermilion Widow,” She answered.  The name fit her like a glove.  It felt right.
“Nice to meet you,” Tag said.  “I’m Fantastic.”
“I’m sure you are,” Cassandra said, taken aback by the sudden boast.
“No,” Tag blushed.  “I’m not saying I am fantastic.  I’m saying that’s my hero name.  Fantastic.”
“Oh,” Cassandra grinned.  “We should probably get you somewhere to check out your powers then.  Find out if the name is suitable.”
“It is,” Ralph told her, putting one arm about his Son’s shoulders.  “Trust me.  It is.”

Issue #007 – – – – – controlled by Keith Nixon – – – – – Credits 105

Probably it was a terrible idea for Got Gal to go out what with all that was going on.  The police, a Brain, and everything else this crazy twisted version of her city might throw at her.  But a hero is a hero and she wasn’t going to start picking and choosing who to help and who not to.  Dumping her sensible clothes in favour of her bikini costume (in for a penny in for a pound) she wrote a note for Looking Glass: “Got a date with a Devastator. BRB. Love GG!”  Then she ran out of the door and leapt into the air.

Careless, or perhaps care free was a better way to describe it, Got Gal was nevertheless not crazy.  Instead of blasting high overhead she streaked from building top to building top.  Staying low, maxing out her flying speed where possible.  It’s not easy to identify a blur.  As she made her way towards the city center she tried to remember what she knew about Devastator.  Huge guy?  Big muscles.  Really, really strong and mostly invulnerable?  She was pretty sure it was something like that.  Her memory was coming back in fits and starts and she seemed to remember him being one of those bad guys who left a lot of property damage in his wake.

The site of the battle was easy to find.  Got Gal navigated by following the trail of destruction and then identified Devastator’s current location when an eighteen-wheeler went spinning up into the air like a child’s toy.  “Oh,” She said to herself.  “I think he’s probably a little stronger than me.”
Below she could hear sustained gunfire, screaming, wailing sirens – the usual signs of a massive superhuman battle.  She arced down to the nearest building top and landed for a better view of what was going on.

Below – an enormous muscular man in a dark purple spandex suit and half-mask stood amidst a ring of police cars.   He was atop the wreckage of a large fountain which was now little more than a pile of rubble in a large puddle.  Three of the police cars were on fire.  There were uniformed bodies scattered around the area.  Two costumed people, who she presumed were Dragonfly and Hummingbird, were crouched behind a wall of police officers who were advancing on the villain behind a sheet of riot shields.  Got Gal shook her head.  What were riot shields going to do?  Heavy plastic versus a guy who could casually throw trucks over skyscrapers?  Crazy.  The heroes didn’t look like they were a whole lot of use either.  Hiding behind the cops?

Got Gal flashed down to the ground and landed between Devastator and the police with her hands on her shapely hips.  She tutted at the forces of law and order.  “Do I have to do everything myself?  Where are your big guns?  These licensed heroes?”
“Who the hell are you?” Devastator roared.
“Hey sweety,” She grinned.  “I’m Got Gal.  Now how about you calm down a bit and let me take you into custody?  This doesn’t have to be a huge battle.  Your rampage has probably already got every insurance broker in the city cutting their wrists.”
“I am going to smash you into pancake,” Devastator told her.
“I like pancake,” She replied.
“And then I’m going to smash you some more.”
Got Gal sighed.  “Yes, I thought you might take that approach.  Okay then.  But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Devastator started towards Got Gal and then stopped, mid-stride.  His eyes went blank, as though he were staring at something far away.  Then they rolled up in his head and he toppled to the ground.  “Wow,” Got Gal breathed.  “I really am good.”
“Don’t move, miss,” one of the police called out.  “We have you in our sights.”
“Hey!” Got Gal complained.  “How about a ‘thank you’?”
The police line parted and the man in the flimsy Dragonfly costume stepped forwards and pulled off his mask.  Got Gal swore when she saw the bald head and pasty white face beneath the mask.  The penetrating eyes.  The severe pinched features.  She knew a Brain when she saw one.

“Bloodhound, I presume?”
“At your service,” the fake Dragonfly grinned.
“Let me get this straight,” Got Gal said.  “You deliberately released Devastator and did possibly millions of dollars of damage simply to draw me out?”
The Brain smiled.  “We think you’re worth the effort.”
Knowing she didn’t have much time, Got Gal leapt into the air.  She was sure she could fly away before his powers could get a grip on her.  She fell to the ground, her ability to soar skyward apparently absent at this time.  Bloodhound laughed: “Powers not working the way you expect?” He asked.
“Don’t need to fly to kick your ass,” Got Gal said and ran at him.  The police opened fire.

It must have been Got Gal’s lucky day because the bullets zinged to her left and right but none hit her.  She reached the Brain and tried to punch him in the face – but the other costumed person – Hummingbird? – intercepted her and blocked the blow.  Very, very fast.  Although she kept her most confident grin in place, Got Got was now very worried.  A Brain, a whole load of police and now a tough speedster?  The Brain laughed again as her second and third attacks were also blocked by the lightning fast opponent.  Still, it was one thing to block blows aimed at somebody else and another entirely to block them aimed at you.  Got Gal kicked Hummingbird in the stomach.   The woman went over double, breath blasting out of her as the attack caught her off guard.  Got Gal turned back to Bloodhound only to find two police pistols in her face.
“I’ve got rather more backup than you,” the Brain chuckled.  “Hummingbird may be down, but you can’t dodge a police bullet.”
Just then both the police seemed to levitate.  For a moment they hung there in the air and then they went flying over a nearby building.
Behind them, Devastator’s stood, his massive girth blocking out the sun and dropped both Bloodhound and Got Gal into shadow.
“I ain’t nobody’s ruse,” The massive villain growled.
“But you shouldn’t be awake yet,” Bloodhound looked shocked.  “You should be out for hours.”
“Underestimating somebody like me is stupid,” Devastator said, coldly.  Then he turned to Got Gal.  “They had me locked up and made the mistake of giving me a way out.  I’m takin’ it and leaving.  You got a choice, girly.  Side with these guys that wanted to capture you and slice up your brain or whatever.  Or throw in with me and let’s teach them a thing or two about what real Abnormals can do.”

Got Gal looked from Devastator, to the line of nervous police and the shaken Brain.  There were too many guns and she couldn’t fly at the moment.  Until her drained power returned she wasn’t able to escape this without help.  But Devastator was a stone cold killer.  A rock and a hard place.  As she tried to decide which way to go she heard a distant crash, like a clap of thunder.  “Sonic boom,” Devastator said.  “We have to go.  He’s coming.”
“Who is coming?” Got Gal asked.
“Captain Courage.”

Issue #007 – – – – – controlled by Wayne Gildroy – – – – – Credits 84

“Well, that does it,” Oakheart thought.  Something came over him.  Perhaps it was the woman’s power, or perhaps it was just the idea that his actions had played at least a part in all this violence, but for a moment his normal calm and considered manner gave way.  He saw red.

The sight of a tree, uprooted and walking along the road, caused many of the rioters to gape in open-mouthed awe.  Even in a city like this, where the unusual was commonplace, a walking tree was a spectacle to behold.  Cops, gangers, members of the public, took a collective moment to halt their attempt to beat one another senseless in order to see the steady, purposeful stride of the oaken hero.

The old woman should have seen such a huge predator stalking towards her.  But she was so caught up in the wild expression of her powers that she initially did not.  By the time she absorbed that there was a tree marching her way it was much too late.  Oakheart snatched the woman off the ground and lifted her up into the air.  Instead of screaming, she gazed flatly at the hero and he could feel the low, terrible waves of her power washing over him.  Unlike the rage that she had been projecting earlier, she now switched tactics and Oakheart felt ripples of soothing calm trying to sweep into his mind.  “No,” He rumbled simply. With one massive swing of his branch-like arms, Oakheart smashed the old woman into the concrete sidewalk.  Then again.  And again.

Still caught up in a rage, Oakheart carried the woman along the road.  Pedestrians and police scattered out of his path as the hero marched back through the gated entrance and into the city park.  Behind him, people were screaming.  “That monster is killing that old woman!” somebody screamed.  Oakheart had made up his mind and was not going to be stopped now.  As he reached the treeline he hefted the body of the old woman, broken and buckled though it now was.  She groaned feebly, somehow clinging to consciousness despite two broken arms and a dislocated collar bone.  Oakheart smashed her through a few tree branches to shut her up.  Permanently.

Oakheart felt a sharp pain in his back, as though somebody had punched him.  He spun about but there was nobody there.  Instead, on the roadside, one of the cops stood with legs apart holding his pistol in a firm two-handed grip.  At his side, one of the young men who had been fighting the police had a gun out too.  Oakheart felt woozy, but realised things were going bad.  He began to back away, but was shot in the chest by the youth.

Another shriek from the roadside and the cop was trying to push away a hysterical young mother.  She held her little girl in her arms, a knife protruding from the child’s arm.  Oakheart vaguely remember that one of the gangers had been approaching the youngster with the knife.  The hero had a moment to wonder why he hadn’t stopped that?  Too busy concentrating on the perpetrator.  Except nobody but him knew the old woman was anything other than what she appeared.  And what she appeared now was a smashed and broken rag doll, buckled and twisted on the ground at his feet.

“Freeze monster,” Said a second cop.  And then there was a third and a fourth, but Oakheart couldn’t worry about that because his vision had grown frighteningly dim.  “Not bulletproof,” He croaked.  Nobody was listening.  He could hear footsteps around him.  Curled up on the floor, the world going dark, blood rushing from wounds in his tree-like body in a most unsettling way.  Oakheart’s last thought was: “How did this happen?”

Later:

The pain was a constant throb at the back of his mind.  Oakheart’s eyes opened and even though the light was dim, it still felt like daggers.  Something was very wrong.  Aside from the fact that he should be dead because he had been shot twice and that he was in a messed up world with almost no memories of how he got there – this was even more wrong than that.  He looked down at his body.

Human.  He was human.

His trunk was gone.  In it’s place a heavily-bandaged chest.  His arms weren’t branches anymore.  Just normal human arms.  His legs were just like any other adult males legs, if a little more muscular.  He appeared to be sitting in a small stone-walled cell with a tiny barred door keeping him here.  There was a young man sitting on a chair by the side of his bed.  “Where am I?” Oakheart rasped.
“Helix Penitentiary,” the youth replied.  “High security Meta wing.  Welcome to the The Keep.”

Issue #003 – – – – – controlled by Junius Stone – – – – – Credits 4

As entertaining as all this smashing stuff had been, Iron Maiden knew it wasn’t getting her anywhere.  She flipped the bird at the four oncoming helicopters and then took off at a jog through the trees, angling for the city.  Let them come, she thought.  They’d regret it.

The helicopters pursued her for a while as she loped downhill amidst the greenery but a few boulders hurled at the sky deterred them from getting too close and in short order she lost them in the denser woodland.  Twenty minutes later she emerged from the shrubbery near one of the upmarket housing estates that were a feature of Madden Heights.  She glanced back and could see the aerial pursuit searching for her in the woodland.  She took off along the road, staying near the edges as she headed for town.

The big problem, of course, was that Iron Maiden couldn’t stop looking like Iron Maiden.  She couldn’t turn off her metal skin.  It was how she was, twenty-four seven.  Given that she was in a city that looked nothing like it should, with vague memories and being hunted by the authorities, this was going to be a big problem.  As she left the area of landscape gardens and opulent housing and moved into the streets of Helix Point her appearance began to garner her far too much attention.  She tried to stay away from the busier streets, but the city layout had changed.  It was like being in a completely different place to her old home, except that enough landmarks and familiar things remained to prove this was not the case.  “Something really weird has gone down,” she decided.

She remembered that there used to be a bar towards the back of The Point which was known for its super-powered patronage.  What was it called?  Crucible.  That was it.  She hoped it was still where it used to be.  Only one way to find out…

The bar proved to be something of a let-down, but simultaneously rather useful.  It was indeed still there and it was very busy, but its customers were no longer abnormals or costumed heroes.  They were normal people with a superhero fetish.  The cosplay crowd dressed as characters from movies, comic books and the real world.  They were colourful, their make-up and even prosthetics really quite convincing.  Which was no use whatsoever for making connections and finding out what was going on, but very useful indeed for the purposes of blending in and moving without attracting undue attention.  Iron Maiden pushed her way through the door and elicited many shouts of approval.  “Great look, babe!” one young man assured her.
“You have no idea,” Iron Maiden grinned at him.

Iron Maiden sat at the bar sipping the bloody mary she had ordered and considering her next move.  She was going to need a better costume than this doctor’s coat she was wearing.  She was going to need a place to crash.  She was going to need food.  But first she was going to need to pay the tab she was accumulating – something of a challenge since she was naked under the coat and had not a dollar to her name.  “Do any real supers come in here?” she asked the barman.
“Once in a while one of the licensed guys do,” He said.  “We had Wild Thing in last year.  Unlicensed wont come in though.  There are agents all over the place.  They’d be arrested.”
“Agents?”
“Sure.  You know.  Bullies.  The government.  Whatever.  There’s always at least one hanging out in here.”
“Why?  If no real abnormals come in?”
“I guess they think this is the sort of place somebody with real powers could blend in.  That’s what they’re looking for.”
“So is there an agent here now?” she asked.  The barman indicated a woman sitting at the end of the counter, sipping what looked like a Coke and eyeing the crowd.
“How do you know?” Iron Maiden asked.  “She might just be on the prowl for a guy.  Or a girl.  Or whatever.”
“Seen her before.  She’s got that Fed look about her,” He grinned.  Then he moved off to serve some customers who were dressed as Ewoks.

“You okay?” A young man approached her,  wearing a white costume with diaphanous insect wings on the back.  He was painfully skinny, almost emaciated and the tight spandex accentuated his unflattering physique.
“Why do you ask?”
“You just have a vibe about you.  I can sense strong emotions sometimes.”
“Sense them?” She asked.
“Yes.  I am an Abnormal.  I overheard you asking the bar staff about people with real powers.  I am one.”
“Ri..ii..ight,” Iron Maiden grinned.  “Sure you are.  I’m told you need a license to be a hero in the city now.  You have one?”
“I’m unlicensed.”
“But you haven’t been arrested?”
“My powers aren’t significant enough to need a license.  I’m what they call C-Class.  They know about me, but they don’t really care.  I guess I’m insignificant.”
“What’s your name?”  Iron Maiden asked.
“Peter Garner.  Dragonfly.”
“And what are your powers, Dragonfly?” Iron Maiden asked, unsure if she was humouring him or not.
“I can float gently on warm air currents.”
“So you can fly?”
“Not really, no.  I have to start quite high, like off the top of buildings.  And I don’t really have much control over where I go.  It’s not flying.  More kind of drifting.”
“I see,” Iron Maiden drained her drink and looked mournfully into the empty glass.
“Can I get you another?” Dragonfly asked.
“Sure,” Iron Maiden grinned.  “You can get my tab if you like,” she tried hopefully.
“No problem, I’d love to,” he smiled shyly and blushed. “Then maybe you’d like to meet the others?”
“The others?” She asked.
“Yeah.  The other Imperceptibles.”
“Say again?”
“It’s my group.  My team.  We’re all C-Class abnormals.  We hang out together, you know, just for fun.”
“You have a whole team full of people with vague super-powers?”
“Sure,” Dragonfly said.  “Come meet them.  They’ll love you.  Your costume is so awesome.  It almost looks real.”

Issue #004 – – – – – controlled by Ewan Farris – – – – – Credits 6

Stay calm, stay calm, Dark Star was thinking as he backed slowly towards the door.  The demon cockroaches were scuttling towards him and he readied his spectral energy to deter them.  But he wanted to find the Gate and since it wasn’t here he presumed it must be somewhere else in the church.  The thing was, since most of the internal walls seemed to have collapsed the only other place he could think of was under the church.  A basement of some kind.  But he couldn’t see an entrance anywhere…

The cockroaches came at him fast and all-at-once.  It felt co-ordinated.  Dark Star was ready for it, turning a cartwheel and then a flip to avoid the first surge, he kicked one of the bloated bugs mid-air and sent it spiralling into a wall.  Landing delicately, poised on his toes with perfect balance, the hero cast a pool of spectral light out to identify the movements of the bugs.  Like a black wave they were undulating across the floor on his left and he put a stop to that by sizzling the area with a potent blast of energy.  The smell of fried insect – not at all pleasant – filled the air.

“Ouch,” Dark Star snapped as he felt a sharp pain in his right calf.  Behind him cockroaches had scuttled up and one had bitten him.  Pointing a finger, he charred the thing black with a high-intensity spectral laser.  Then he leapt past his unpleasant attackers, landing on one foot and pivoting elegantly, while spraying the area with a wide blast of searing power.  Those insects who managed to creep past his curtain of power received the bottom of his boot with the full force of his superhuman strength behind it.

Nevertheless, there were too many.  Despite burning and crushing dozens of bodies, there were hundreds of the creatures.  Dark Star determined that he would need to retreat out of the church soon if he didn’t find the cellar access.  But at that moment he spotted it.  Behind the place where the altar had once been was a wooden stoop, beneath which he could make out a low door.  “That must lead to the cellar,” Dark Star told himself.  Kicking two bugs clear he leapt through the air, pivoted on both the horizonal and vertical axis as he flew, landed perfectly on the black mark where the altar had once been.

Immediately, the bugs swarmed again, en masse.  “Ah,” Dark Star smiled.  “Protecting this entrance are we?  Good to know.”  The insect’s desperation to stop him getting down to the cellar was good news because it seemed to indicate he was on the right track and also because it brought them together in such a perfect pack rather than being spread all over the place.  “Not your best tactical move,” He informed the chitinous swarm.  His power reserves had recharged since his earlier battle and the mild usage he’d given in this fight had not depleted them much.  With a roar he let out a massive burst of spectral energy that lit the church up like the Fourth of July.  Had anybody outside been watching it would have looked like pure bluish starlight had exploded from the windows into the night.

When the dust settled, most of the insects were dead.  Their fat black bodies lay all over the church floor, some twitching, others sizzling unpleasantly.  A couple of dozen had survived but seemed to have lost the will to fight, choosing to retreat to dark corners on the walls and ceiling.  Taking a moment to check his bite, Dark Star was confident that it was a minor wound that he could take care of later.  There was no sting of poison, nor burn of infection that sometimes came with injuries caused by supernatural opponents.

Opening the small door, Dark Star revealed a tiny flight of stone steps leading down.  The hero lit the area before him with a soft glow from his hands and began to descend.  The steps were steep and the cellar was deeper than he would have expected.  When he entered the room he had to stoop to avoid bashing his head on the ceiling.  The air here was musty, mildewy and old.  He could see a pentagram on the floor with the obligatory candles on each corner.

Against the far wall, four women and one man hung from manacles.  They were naked, their bodies streaked with dirt and blood and some kind of green slimy ichor that Dark Star didn’t care to identify right now.  For a moment they all appeared to be dead, but then one of the women opened her eyes.  “Help,” She croaked.  “Please help us.”
“Is this pentragram the True Gate?” The hero asked.
“It was,” gasped the woman.  Her voice was raw and hoarse.  “He closed it.  The gate is gone.”
“Who closed it?” Dark Star asked.
“The gate is gone,” The woman repeated.
“That’s good.  It was stupid to open it in the first place.  But I asked you who closed it?”

Just then the darkness on Dark Star’s left seemed to move.  To shift.  The shadows parted, almost like curtains being drawn apart.  There was a man there.  He was slight in stature, wearing jeans and (inexplicably) a black “Grateful Dead” T-Shirt.  He didn’t look like much at first glance, but there was something about his presence that commanded attention nonetheless.  “I closed it,” He said.  Dark Star looked at the young man and readied himself.  He did not know who this was but the whole situation was already extreme enough that he knew to tread very carefully.  “And you are?” Dark Star asked.
“I am Merihim, feal to Malphas, sixteenth duke of Hell, commander of 30 legions, bringer of pestilence, known as The Wasted One.”
“Oh,” Dark Star said.
“You have come too late, human. For the gate is closed and my servants are here in your world.”
“Why did you close the gate?  Don’t you play well with others?” Dark Star asked.
“I have these five,” Merihim laughed, indicating the coven chained to the wall.  “I can reopen the True Gate for my brethren later if I so desire.  But this new world is so full of darkness that I see no reason to share.  At least not yet.  Once I have turned this world to my will and installed myself as its Prince, then perhaps I will allow more through.  Perhaps.  We shall see.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult,” Dark Star said, his hands glowing more brightly.  “But I may have something to say about that.”
“Indeed?” Merihim chuckled.  “That might provide some brief amusement.”

Issue #006 – – – – – controlled by Ken Thompson – – – – – Credits 30

The Midnight Runner took a deep breath and counted quietly to ten.  It was always best to approach situations calmly, but it was not always easy to do so.  When he felt ready he spoke, slowly and deliberately, to the computer system:  “Xara, access the back up files.”
“Yes, Sir,” Xara responded.  “I have opened the files.”
“Do whatever it takes, no holding back this time.  I want to know everything.  Including the names of the other six escapees.”
Xara paused.   “There is a password, sir,” she said, as apologetically as a computer is able to be.
“Bypass the password.  I have ultimate authority over my own system.”
“You installed the password,” Xara reminded him.  “You must have had a reason.”
“Things change,” The Midnight Runner said.  “Brute force.  Break the block and access the data.”
“As you command, sir.”

The computer whirred and lights flashed.  Then, abruptly, all the system lights went out.  For a moment the control room was plunged into darkness and then the orange emergency lights blinked on as the backup generator was accessed.  “Xara?  Status report!”  The Midnight Runner said.  There was no response from the computer so the hero walked over to the main power console and checked the readings.  Everything looked normal with the exception of a data block in the central mainframe which appeared to be dead.  The Midnight Runner retrieved a fusing kit from his store and plugged it into the board, smiling as the power came back and the screens in the room began relaying information again.

One year Ago:

The Midnight Runner did not know why a number of deep storage units containing living people were floating in a void outside reality.  But neither could he simply leave them there.  Upon his return to the lab with the orange globe he instructed the scientists to leave the building using a ruse that some powerful entity was about to enter through the rift and kill them all.  Hurrying them out and promising to bring them back when all was safe he cleared the area quickly.

Retrieving the pseudo-coffins took some time.  There were fourteen of them of varying sizes.  Each a futuristic design that he did not recognise.  Although The Midnight Runner did not recognise any of the people he could see sleeping beyond those glass lids, there was definitely something familiar about them.  Once they were safely through he made some calls to people he trusted – people his security company had employed before – and arranged for transport from the back of the lab building to his own base of operations.  Once that was done, he summoned the scientists to finish the job of securing the rift they had inadvertently opened.

Once the units were secure in his basement storage area, The Midnight Runner began to ponder the situation.  He realised that it was entirely possible that these were dangerous individuals who had been stored outside reality in order to protect the world from them.  Perhaps his intervention was a bad idea?  But they could also be innocent victims.  He resolved to store them securely under high security while he investigated their origins.  In this way he would be fully informed before taking any further action.  He did consider handing the whole thing over to the government – but he had seen first-hand the sort of job they tended to do of security.  It did not fill him with confidence.

Over the next month he tried to investigate the individuals.  Other than the mysterious names on the coffins, he struggled to find anything about them at all.  It was as if they did not exist.  Given where he had found them, The Midnight Runner had to assume that perhaps they did not.  Another concern was that as his investigations progressed, so the hero began to feel unwell.  At first this was merely headaches, but then he lost his appetite, began to suffer from strange inexplicable panic attacks, became forgetful and started making foolish mistakes that were uncharacteristic.  It was really affecting his work.

The first escape changed everything.  One evening he returned to his base to see warning lights and alarms flashing everywhere.  Xara informed him that the Deep Storage area had been compromised.  Given that all conventional readings he had taken suggested the people in the boxes were dead, or in a state so deeply catatonic that they may as well have been dead, The Midnight Runner had not expected one to wake up, break free and then escape his high security containment area.  But the individual known as Virus, a pale white kid who looked about as unthreatening as it was possible to be, had managed to do so.

After the breakout, Xara began finding pieces of information about the individuals in the coffins.  Midnight did not know where she was finding this stuff, since the computer would always respond: “Web Search” to queries about it, but gradually he began to discover bits and pieces.  Some were heroes.  Some were villains.  Occasionally he would get a news report about them, or details of their powers.  When he checked this information, there were often holes or irregularities.  Once, a town that didn’t even exist was named in a news report.  Another time, a team of super-villains was referred to which not only didn’t exist – but was the name of a team found in a comic book!

At first The Midnight Runner suspected data corruption.  But gradually, he grew to believe a different scenario was more likely.  He suspected that these people in his basement must come from another reality entirely.  One similar to, but not the same, as the real world in which he lived.  Still he continued to get more and more sick and his symptoms grew both more severe and more numerous.

It was Xara who finally helped him wake up and see what was happening.  The computer pointed out that these individuals were not part of the real world.  For all intents and purposes they should not exist.  The fact that they did was dangerous both for him personally and for the world.  His knowledge, as it grew, was making him sick.  It was a consequence of the forcing together of two parallel realities.  Just the things he had learned already were slowly killing him.  The more he knew, the faster his demise would arrive.  The best solution, the computer summised, was to lock away the prisoners securely forever and to erase his memory of it.  The alternative was that he would die – and soon.

Now:

“Sir?  Are you well?” Xara asked.
The Midnight Runner was not well.  His head was pounding.  His heart was racing.  He felt weak and listless.  Concentrating on what was going on was becoming hard.  His mind kept wandering off to dark thoughts and shadows.  He felt jumpy, frightened.  “This has happened six times before?” He asked.
“Yes.  Each time you erase your memory again to stop the sickness from killing you.”
“But if these people keep escaping, surely they are endangering the world?”
“You can’t do anything about that if you are deceased, Sir,” Xara pointed out.  “Each time you come to the conclusion that the only answer is to remove your memories again because when they return you are sicker each time than the previous instance.  Your heart rate and brain waves are highly irregular at the moment.  You are at high risk of  a stroke, or even death.  One of these times you will die before you get the chance to remove your memories.  This is why you keep increasing the security to prevent yourself from breaking through.”
“Why haven’t I just deleted the information entirely?”
Xara was silent for a moment.  The console whirred.  “I do not know, Sir,” She said.  “You did not share that information with me.”
“Okay.  I want the list.  Who is in those caskets and who has escaped?”
“I strongly recommend you do not access that information sir.  It may well kill you.”

Issue #006 – – – – – controlled by Rene Sawatzki – – – – – Credits 58

“Listen bitch,” The bearded biker roared at the smartly-dressed casino woman.  “You’re gonna pay out.  We all won fair and square.”
“We’ll see,” The woman said with a cold smile.  “What made you all bet on the same number?”
“We wanted to,” Another man, his arms a mass of tattoos, told her.  “Is there a law against it?”~
“There is a law against using super powers to interfere with our equipment,” She replied, smoothly.
“We ain’t Abnormal,” Beard said, pointing a finger at the woman.  “We play straight.  Lucky Sevens don’t cheat.”
The woman turned her gaze on Countdown, who was trying to avoid any attention.  “What about you?” She asked.
“What about me?” Countdown shrugged.
“On the security monitor it looked like you were central to this.  You were talking to the girl when the others joined her for the bet.”
“So?”  Countdown frowned.  “Are customers not allowed to speak to one another?”

“You gonna pay up, or is there gonna be trouble?”  Beard asked.  The other bikers, more of whom were arriving from other corners of the casino by the minute, muttered and cheered and shouted support for their leader.  The two casino guards either side of the woman in white drew paired fighting batons from inside their expensive jackets.  They did look ready to fight.  “How about this,” The Woman said.  “We’ll scan you all for extranormal abilities.  If nobody has them, we’ll pay you plus an extra fifty percent for your trouble.  If one of you is an Abnormal, then you must all leave immediately and no winnings will be paid out.”  Countdown expected the bikers to agree to this and was preparing to make his getaway when, abruptly, all hell broke loose.  The trigger for the massive melee that was to follow was Hell Bitch’s call to arms: “They’re on to us!”

The next thing he knew, Countdown was in the middle of a spectacular fight.  Punches (and glasses) were thrown.  Somebody arrived with a pool cue and bust it over somebody else’s head.  Bullets whined through the air.  People shouted, and bellowed and screamed.  Four bikers had one of the security men by the arms and legs and literally ran him through one of the huge plate glass windows head first, to tumble broken and bloody on the street outside.  The other guard was a blur with his battle batons, striking bikers on all sides (and at least one ordinary punter who was just trying to escape the chaos.)  Hell Bitch’s hands burst into flame and with a gesture of her wrists the carpeted floor in front of her burst ablaze.  Above, automatic sprinklers clicked on, showing everybody below with icy water.

Beard tried to grab the women in white, his arms splitting the sleeves of his black shirt as the biceps and triceps swelled to ridiculous proportions.  But she was quicker, dodging agilely to one side and turning a cartwheel while firing purple energy from her eyes.  All around people were being hit by super-powered attacks.  More security guards arrived, firing bullets into the bikers.  One guard was equipped with a samuri sword, one sweep of which took a biker’s arm off at the elbow.  It was all Countdown could do to reverse so that his back was against an enormous slot machine.  One Millions Chance To Win One Million Dollars the enticing legend above his head promised.  (Ridiculous odds were printed in tiny text on the switch plate of the machine, which Countdown estimated to be inaccurate by a fairly substantial amount.  He then decided he would be better concentrating on not being killed than analysing the mathematical claims of the game.)

To his left Countdown saw a small group of well-armed guards peppering a handful of bikers that were charging them with bullets.  The missiles bounced off the lead biker’s chest, but two others went down with bloody wounds in their chests.  Glancing to the side, Countdown noticed that a guard was coming at Beard at an oblique angle.  The biker couldn’t see his assailant and was about to be shot in the face.  This, Countdown considered, would really ruin his day.  “No!” The hero said and reached back into his fast-depleting energy well to hold time again.  Carefully, so carefully, Countdown plucked the bullet from the air and placed it tip-first against the wall.  Then he let time speed up again and the bullets whine was followed by a cloud of dust as it struck the solid surface it had been placed against.  The guard looked astonished that he had missed.  Countdown was standing behind him, where the timeslip had left him standing.  He struck the guard over the back of the head and watched him slump to the ground.

“Come on!” Hell Bitch grabbed him by the arm and Countdown could see the Lucky Sevens were making their escape.  A number of them had grabbed items of value including armfuls of chips.  (Not much use to them, Countdown thought, but now didn’t seem the time to point this out.)  Nodding, he followed the woman out into the night.  A number of the gang’s members did not emerge to climb aboard their bikes.  Fallen to bullets or still fighting, Beard didn’t seem to care.  As soon as he was astride his mechanical behemoth he signalled that the others should follow and accelerated down the street.  Hell Bitch grinned at Countdown.  “Coming?” She asked.
“Where?” Countdown wanted to know.
“The open road,” Hell Bitch laughed.  “Or stay!”  She pointed at the armed guards which were spilling out onto the street.  “And have them shoot you because they think you have superpowers.”  But I do have superpowers, Countdown wanted to say.  But this was another thing now probably wasn’t the time for.
“Okay,” He said, climbing onto the bike behind the girl.
“Hold tight,” She said.  He wrapped his arms around her waist and then the engine was roaring and the wind was blasting into their faces and the bikers – Countdown included – were screaming off into the hot city night.

For about an hour, the Gang roared along roads.  Out of the city and onto the main interstate towards San Francisco, with the traffic parting before them as though the very presence of the gang were like a hot knife and the other road users merely butter.  Finally, when it was clear they weren’t being followed by casino security or by the police, the gang slowed and pulled off the highway and into a rest stop parking lot.  Above, the moon shone between the clouds and lit the area with its baleful silvery luminance.  When they had stopped, Countdown climbed off the bike and watched as Beard approached him. The other bikers fell in around what definitely seemed to be their leader.
“You saved my life back there,” Beard said.  Countdown was surprised the biker knew that he’d done anything at all.  “I know a thing or two,” Beard explained.  “I’ve been fighting Abnormals all my life.”
“But you are an Abnormal,” Countdown said.  “I saw your arms grow.  You’re really strong.”
“Not really,” Beard grinned, “Poundcakes is much stronger than me.”  He indicated a woman biker.  Not Hell Bitch.
“You all have powers?” Countdown asked.
“No,” Beard laughed.  “Only a few of us.  But Douglas over there, the one with the brown goggles?  He makes super gadgets.  So even those without powers can be pretty effective in our gang.”
“The security thought you were cheating” Countdown said.
“I know,” Beard laughed.  “And it was you!  But don’t worry, we were cheating too!  Had been all night.  We’ve got two clairvoyants in the gang.  Though we only have one now,” He said sadly.  Countdown remembered the dark haired man who’d gone down in the first burst of bullets.
“Well, I saved you then you all saved me by helping me to get away,” Countdown pointed out.
“Fair enough,”  Beard nodded.  “Well, we’re heading South after we’ve grabbed a bite and some shut eye.  You’re welcome to travel along with us if you want to.  Anybody who fights by our side is welcome.”

Issue #006 – – – – – controlled by Frank Devocht – – – – – Credits 9

Wild Thing took a step backwards as the six glowing forms solidifed.  Each of them was small, child-sized, clearly made out of plastic.  Their painted eyes stared maniacally at the heroes, with the occasional blank actioned by a shutter-like piece of plastic that clicked down and up, down and up.

Puppets.  Big puppets.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Nelson snarled and came at them.  The girder was a big powerful weapon, but these were small agile targets.  As he approached they scattered in all directions, running on tiny legs, spreading out around the warehouse.

“Don’t let them surround us,” Nelson cried.
“On it!” Wild Thing agreed, somersaulting across the room to kick one of the puppets in its hand-carved face.  It skittered across the floor and leapt straight back to its feet.  “Hey!”  Wild Thing complained.  “You could at least act like you felt that.”
The puppet came at him, snapping its nasty little jaws so that the rows of sharpened teeth clicked together, over and again.
“You’re a freaky little fella,” Wild Thing said, snatching the puppet up by its arms and holding it in front of him, restraining those gnashing teeth just inches from his chest.  With a fast rip, he tore its arms off.  The tiny puppet shrieked and flopped to the floor, rolling and thrashing frantically.  But before Wild Thing could stomp on it he heard a movement to the rear.  “Oh crap.  There’s one of you behind me, isn’t there?”

Beast Nelson just kept spinning the girder.  Every time one of the vicious little toys rushed at him, the hero brought the metal length around at such a speed that it was forced to scamper back.  The problem was, there were now three of them trying to reach him.  They seemed to be working together, timing their rushes to attempt to get inside his guard.  He wasn’t able to hit them but sooner or later he was sure one of them would get to him.  He didn’t fancy losing chunks of his anatomy to those razor-sharp incisors.
“Stand still a minute,” He instructed the puppets.  “Just long enough for me to get a clean swing.”  The puppets didn’t seem anxious to humour him and as he brought the girder around for another circle one charged under its arc and came flying at his chest.  With only a split second to spare, Beast Nelson let go of the girder which went spinning across the warehouse and instead grabbed the incoming toy by the head.  Holding its plastic skull in one huge hand he flexed his grip and crushed it.
“One down,” He said, “A couple more to go.”

Wild Thing whirled on the spot and executed a rather smooth spinning back kick.  It had been  a gamble, but it paid off.  Catching the incoming puppet across the jaw it sent the toy tumbling through the air.  The hero didn’t wait to see if it got back up.  Instead he spun back to the front again where the first puppet he had engaged was rising.  He stomped on its head.  Hard.  The splintering crunch suggested it wasn’t rejoining the fight any time soon.
“How you doing?” Wild Thing called across to Nelson.  He was feeling good.  Things were going a lot better as a duo than they had when he’d tried to fight Death, Esquire’s minions on his own.  “Only one?  I’m winning by a clear point,” he called to his giant-sized ally.
“Shut up and watch out,” Nelson shouted back.  Just in time as the puppet he’d kicked away leapt back into action and latched onto his thigh, sinking its sharp teeth into the fleshy meat there.  Wild Thing bit back a scream and began pounding at the creature.  The more he hit it, the harder it bit.

The two puppets approached Beast Nelson from either side.  It was a very coordinated move, aimed to split his attention now that he didn’t have his girder to defend him.   The more Nelson thought about it the more it seemed a little too coordinated.  These were puppets, after all.  Not soldiers.   Other than their tactical actions they showed no signs of intelligence, communication or creativity.  An idea began to form in the heroes mind.  Abruptly, he broke left, charging past Wild Thing to where his girder had landed.  As he passed he tored the puppet from the younger hero’s leg.  Wild Thing shrieked as a large piece of flesh and muscle came with it, but at least the monster was off of him.  Nelson hurled it at the wall.

The big hero just had time to snatch up the metal beam before the puppets were on him again.  But this time he ignored them.  He felt one latch onto his arm and another onto his ankle.  Their teeth, supernaturally sharp, began to penetrate even his immensely tough skin, but Beast Nelson knew he had a minute or two before it got serious.  He used it to stalk along the side of the warehouse swinging the girder in mid-air, ignoring the puppets that he was dragging along with him.  The third toy, which had been biting Wild Thing, jumped up and bit onto his neck.  Nelson ignored it.

“What the hell are you doing?” Wild Thing called, wondering if the big guy had gone crazy.
Nelson ignored him, still walking along the edges of the warehouse swinging that massive metal weapon in giant threatening arcs before him.  As he neared the far end there was a flash of light and purple smoke and something appeared just ahead of Beast Nelson.  That something was a skeleton, in a dapper black suit, carrying a scythe.  As it appeared, the puppets disappeared.  “That’s what I thought,” Nelson said.
“What the Hell?  Death, Esquire?  Here?  How did you know?” Wild Thing ran across the warehouse to join his partner facing down with the undead thing.
“They weren’t being teleported in.  They weren’t even being summoned.  These things aren’t what they seem.”
“I don’t understand,” Wild Thing gaped.
“They are energy constructs.  Very extravagant, colouful ones.  But energy constructs just the same.  This guy isn’t some Grim Reaper from the netherworld.  He’s an Abnormal dressed in his own energy signature.”
Death, Esquire laughed.  “Well deducted,” he sneered.  “Though it will do you no good.  My Darklight Creatures can harm you just as real enemies would.  They are no less real for their origins.”
“But why?” Wild Thing asked.  “What’d I ever do to you?”

Death, Esquire did not reply.  Instead he raised his scythe and let a creepy green glow spread from it.  As the glow grew he began to speak in a low, rasping, deeply unpleasant voice and with each word a strange, glowing army of bizarre creatures began to form around them..  “I bring with me creatures from beyond life, so that each of you may be taken into the long night and your souls suffer…”

“I don’t think so,” Beast Nelson interrupted.

The hero brought the girder down with all his strength and with a huge, deafening, colossal blow – flattened Death, Esquire into the ground.  The green light flickered out.  The spectral army vanished.  All that remained was a skinny black teenager in a tatty cloak.

“You talk too much,” the Hero told the fallen villain.