Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by Supermaxx
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Supermaxx dumbass

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"The Demon of Japan" | Issue #2 | ♬ Tunes ♬

Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters
Salem's Center, New York
January 1st, 1968


Blood dripped onto the hospital bed. The wound was like a leaky faucet: not enough to signal serious damage, but enough to make a mess. Logan had wiped it up with a towel three times now. Every time he thought it had stopped another droplet raced down the side of his finger like an errant tear. "Gimme a minute," he grumbled, running the clean corner of the towel over his knuckles.

"Its been three," Ororo Munroe sighed.

"I swear it usually doesn't take this long. This's very embarrassin'-"

"Could you hold off on being a clown for one moment of your life?" She snapped. Not that long ago she and the other X-Men had been celebrating the New Year with the rest of the school when Wolverine came trudging out of the forest with a half-dead man slung over his shoulder. That vexing grin on his face hadn't left since, even now.

Storm swiped a tangle of stark white hair out of her face and back behind her ear, her brow set in a deep, worrisome furrow. She turned away from Logan and to the bulky monitor she'd hooked into his arm. It was state-of-the-art medical tech, not even on the market- Hank McCoy had seen to it that the team had the best of the best before he left. Ororo triple checked the machine to make sure it was working correctly, but the information it was feeding her still didn't make any sense. It was perplexing. "I'm worried about him, Scott."

Scott Summers paced across the room behind her, arms crossed over his chest. "And you're sure this has never happened before?"

"My engine's missin' a couple'a bolts, Slim, but this is new," Logan shook his still-bleeding knuckles in Scott's direction.

"This happens just after those men attacked him?" Ororo shook her head. "It is no coincidence."

"Let's not jump to conclusions." Scott warned. "We'll know more when Kitty and Kurt get back."

"The elf's comin.'" Logan declared after sniffing the air.

Not but a moment later a puff of blue and black smoke filled the room, followed quickly by the scent of sulfur. A blue-furred, three toed figure rose up out of the smoke, a bright grin on his face as he held something into the air. "Triumph!"

"And there's the other one." Logan pointed toward the opposite wall just as a ghostly hand passed through it, a girl following close behind. Kitty Pryde stepped into the medical ward with an armful of katanas and a sour look on her face.

"What the hell, Furball?! We said no powers!"

"You said no powers, fräulein. I agreed to no such sing."

Scott approached the two of them with a click of his tongue. "That's enough, you two. Is that the gun?"

"I've got it!" Kurt nodded. "Ze feuerwaffe in question. Vas kind of hard to find, zhou. Quite dark out zere."

Scott took the weapon from Kurt and began going over it, popping the last cartridge out of the chamber. "That's a...strange round." He set the rifle aside, spinning the bullet between his fingers. The metal was an odd bone white, and there were green tinges of energy running throughout it, almost like veins. Its tip was shaped more like a syringe than any round he'd ever seen. "The rifle is late World War Two era, but it looks heavily modified. Modern scope, expanded barrel and chamber fitted to whatever this round is supposed to be."

"There's some of that slime on the edges of these swords, too." Kitty shoved one toward Summers, as if he wouldn't believe her otherwise.

Ororo took a turn looking it over as well. "I would wager this is the substance that's suppressing your abilities, Logan."

It was hard to read Scott with that visor blocking half his face, but his jaw locked and his nose crinkled. He was nervous, angry. Someone had invaded this school- this safe haven for their kind- and attempted to kill one of them. They were just lucky it'd been one of the X-Men, and not one of the kids. "So there's someone out there that can suppress mutant abilities and they're gunning for us."

"Somebody else lose an eye that I'on't know about?" Logan scoffed. "Call it a hunch, but I get the feelin' they were after me. This was personal. Nobody else on the grounds got hit, n' those were the only four schmucks we found on our sweep. That gun's important. Part of'a message they were tryin' 'ta send. Only thing I'on't know is what'n the hell I did to earn it."

He hopped off the table and started forward. "Think I oughta find out. 'N maybe I oughta send a message back while I'm at it."

Storm took Logan by the arm, stopping him. She pulled him to the side and forced him to look at her. "If that poison had acted even a little faster you'd be dead, Logan. What you 'oughta' do is rest."

A gloved hand took each of their shoulders, bringing both their heads swiveling back to look at Scott. "Let's go have a conversation with our guest, first. I have a feeling the professor's made progress that he'll want to share with all of us."





The rising dawn splashed pink across the sky. It reflected on the still water of the lake just north of the school, where the kids would go swimming during the summer. Charles and his guest had an incredible view from where they sat on the patio. They were alone, eerily so- not even a morning bluejay dared to interrupt them.

Charles turned to look at the man, a twinkle of curiosity intermingled with the worry in his eye. "...I can't read your mind."

His 'guest' was the intruder Logan had spared. He was unassuming in his appearance: middle aged, relatively short in stature but built like a gymnast. Strangely, though, his face was covered by a mask Charles could not remove. It was black and featureless, but its construction was nonsensical- shaped less like cloth and more like shadow, twisting in the light.

"You should not tread where you are not welcome, professor."

"Sound advice. Perhaps your friends would be alive if you had followed it." Xavier pursed his lips. "Was the bloodshed really necessary? This place, it is meant to be..."

The man raised a hand to stop him. "We were aware. We respect what you're trying to do here, professor, our intention was never to harm any of your students. I apologize most sincerely for any stress we may have caused."

Xavier shook his head and turned away from the shadowed man. "You never answered my question."

"I'm afraid it was." He walked the length of the patio to stand just in front of Charles, turning away from him to look to the sunrise. "The so-called Wolverine must pay for his sins. A pound of flesh, as you Englishmen say."

"He isn't the same man he used to be. He doesn't remember anything before he came here."

"It does not change what he did, or what he is. You can put the monster in a suit and trim its hair, but its soul remains wicked all the same."

"People can change, my friend. You just have to give them a chance." Charles smiled. "Tell me what he's done and he'll do all he can to fix it: that's who Logan is. He may stumble, at times, he may even lose his way, but he will always seek to make it right."

The man turned around, and the shadows were gone, replaced with a most horrible face woven from nightmare. "We are what God made us, professor." He approached Charles slowly, seeming to float forward more than walk, and he leaned down to whisper in the professor's ear. "Tell the Wolverine to go to Agarashima. There he may face the man he dishonored. There, he may find redemption at the edge of a blade."
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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Asura
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Asura bitch you almost got blood on my timbs

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The Blue Beetle


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I S S U E
#1: First Contact VI

L O C A T I O N
Bayonne, New Jersey. 12:19 AM

T A G S
@Hero@DocTachyon
The awkward few seconds that ticked by in the interim were like torture. He couldn't exactly blame her for looking surprised—he had the same reaction when he managed to revert back from the hellish appearance the armor made him take on and saw his own face again. It only then occurred to him that her earlier hostility had probably been the result of that same appearance. Note for later: make the mask disappear before trying to conduct interplanetary diplomacy. Of course, he had more important matters to attend to at the moment than scolding himself for ill-considered first impressions; the fact this 'Tamaranean' was inspecting his face rather closely.

Before he could try and articulate anything, she suddenly let out a kind of squeal, and the teen found himself yanked into the now grounded alien in short order. His yelp of surprise was quickly muffled by the alien's own mouth—she was kissing him! Caught like a deer in the headlights, Jaime could only remain frozen and wide-eyed as his new acquaintance seemed content to acquaint herself to his lips. Was he supposed to do something? Grab her in return? Was that impolite? The closest he had ever come to kissing a girl was giving his abuelita a smooch goodbye, and this was not the kind of kiss one gave their abuelita. He wasn't even sure how long the kiss lasted, though it seemed to linger for quite some time before the girl decoupled from him and released him back to his own devices, rosy cheeked and frazzled.

Perhaps the only thing that could have baffled him more than their little embrace was what followed it—she was speaking Spanish? Was that all he had to lead in with? She quickly dispelled that notion by following up in a mixture of English and Spanish, but that only served to dumbfound him more.

"¿De nada?"

It was about all he could manage at that point. Had she somehow discerned his language through that kiss? All the stories about aliens probing people for information seemed a lot more uncomfortable than what had just happened to him.

<<Host's pulse: Significantly above standard levels. Detecting metabolic arous->>

Never mind. It was uncomfortable. It was very uncomfortable. Focus on the situation at hand, and not the little blue pendejo.

Luckily, it seemed the visitor from afar was more than ready to exercise their newfound ability to understand one another. Shaking off his stupor, Jaime listened intently as she explained her earlier actions. He supposed that made sense. Certainly more sense than just randomly pounding the side of a building after crash landing on a distant world. Of course, it occurred to him to inquire as to why she seemed to be shackled in the first place, but that could come later—he didn't want to waste what goodwill had been cultivated.

"Right, uh, don't worry about it too much. I'm sure whoever owns this building has insurance or something," he said, peering past her shoulder towards the now dented wall. "As for the cuffs, I think my suit can probably take care of those? I haven't really tried anything like that, but-"

He hadn't even tried manifesting the armor when the pressure between his shoulder blades returned. The metal plating that he had so painstakingly withdrew moments before came crawling across his body, encasing him in black and blue once again.

"What the heck, man? When have you ever been this willing to help out?" Jaime asked, ever so slightly alarmed by the scarab's sudden reappearance. He didn't want it trying anything rash now that it was clear the redheaded girl proved to be friendly.

<<Tamaranean: inconsequential. New threat approaching. Danger level: extreme. Deploying lethal countermeasures.>>

Before he knew what was going on, the suit's arm seemed to morph. Where there had been once black metallic chitin was some kind of gun barrel. No, that did it a disservice. It was some kind of friggin' cannon. Complete with a snazzy blue glow at the tip that told him it was gonna be firing something more dangerous than a shell.

"What the heck are you—sorry about this—what the heck are you so worked up for?! What new threat?!" Jaime exclaimed, stopping himself mid-way to apologize to the Tamaranean girl before returning his ire towards the weapon jutting out of his arm.

<<New threat descending upon host coordinates. Danger level: extreme. Green Lantern Corpsmen approaching. Prepare for imminent battle.>>

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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Hound55
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Hound55 Create-A-Hero RPG GM, Blue Bringer of BWAHAHA!

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1902...


"Orson!"

The boy kept swinging. "HAAAAAIII!" He focused on form, smooth angles, no wasted movement, all energy condensed and focused through the strikes. The Thunderer preached form until form came without thought.

"Boy! Listen to me!" The old man called out again in a barking tone. However it wasn't the ageless immortal of K'un L'un who had been calling him, but the boy's father. He'd long been growing resentful of the Martial Arts master, but the boy had never picked up on it. After all, how could he when so many adults in his life communicated like that? Perhaps they felt it resonated better in the growing minds of young boys? Perhaps that resonance was why he was called 'The Thunderer' in the first pl--

"ORSON! Boy, come here!"

The young boy trudged over to the old man's workbench. Phineas Randall sat working away with a small pair of tweezers at a pocketwatch, that shined of gold. "You spend all day learning that celestial barberism, for a night at least you can look here and learn from me."

"Why? What's there to learn from you..?" Orson asked, not intending the sass that the question seemed to be loaded with.

The old machinist turned and glared at him through a telescopic monocle. "Do not try me, boy, or we'll see how much he's taught you..."

The older man cleared a place for the boy to sit. "Now sit there and learn." He forcefully demanded, as if the words would now be imprinted just through blunt force trauma.

"Now, do you see what I'm holding, Orson?"

"Yes. It's a watch."

"Good." The father seemed to calm, as if relieved that this place hadn't driven that Western knowledge out of his son. "Now do you know how it works?"

The boy thought for a few moments. "Well, the astronomical clock outside of the Central Hall of Ancestors, Lei Kung told me is worked by Shaolin monks who collect water from the ceremonial fountains and carry them to the top of the clock tower, where..."

Phineas Randall clipped his son around the ears, more due to the name who he cited for information than the incorrect answer. "No! You don't operate a fine pocket watch like this with water. This is a mechanical watch. Now, do you know what makes it work?"

Orson thought for a few seconds before he dropped his head glumly and shook it from side to side, awaiting chastisement.

"Good!" His father answered with a cheerfully smug grin. "That's a perfectly fine answer. If you're aware of what you don't know, then you know enough to find out, yes?"

Orson thought about the confusing string of reasoning that had just been said to him, and replied with a quiet, "I guess so."

"Alright, every mechanical watch has to have five things." Phineas proclaimed, putting the watch on the bench and digging into it with his tools.

"First, the Mainspring. The mainspring is the source of the watch's mechanical power. Keep it well wound and it'll run. Understand?"

Orson looked down at the watch and nodded.

"Next you have the balance wheel. The balance wheel maintains steady pace. Like a pendulum or metronome, understand. That's what keeps the watch true."

The boy had never heard of a metronome, never having been musically inclined, but nodded his head. He seemed to understand from the swinging arm gesture his father made.

"Next, you have the gear train. Now the gear train sends power from the mainspring to the balance wheel and adds up all the swings of the balance wheel, getting you your seconds, minutes, hours... days depending on the watch. Understand?"

Orson looked down at the string of complicated looking cogs with a furrowed brow. But quietly nodded.

"Then you have your escapement mechanism. Now the escapement is what allows the gears to progress by a set amount with each swing of the balance wheel. It's called the escapement because... well, look, see how the gears seem to 'escape' by a single jump? Before it seems to rest, waiting for the next swing?" Phineas picked the watch up and held it to the young child's ear.

"The escapement process is also what leads to the ticking. You hear that?"

Orson said "Yes, father." With a growing sense of confidence. This much was clear for the young boy, even if he'd struggled with following some of the rest.

"The escapement also gives the balance wheel a very slight push with every swing."

"The escapement mechanism seems very important. Like it does a lot."

"They're all important. All vital. Like I said at the start, you don't have a watch without any one of them. And they all allow the other parts of the watch to do their job. To play their part."

Phineas Randall closed up the back of the watch, with a few precision screws.

"I suppose it's not too dissiilar from what mystical, Eastern dance-fight carry-on you were just pursuing there. Show me again."

The boy beamed with joy. His father NEVER took any interest in Lei Kung's teachings and the fighting techniques which were so starting to captivate the young boy.

And he never would again.

But for now, the boy got to his feet and started to progress through the forms. He focused on form, smooth angles, until it came time for strikes, and eager to show off for his father he thre strikes beyond his weight and balance. Looking to give extra to make his father proud.

But as he so often did when it came to his father, his intentions missed the mark.

"Much like the watch. It's about efficiency of movement, precision, constant smooth mechanical response. See when you threw that left there, you overcommitted, the intention behind this form I suspect is for that left strike to then lead to your weight shifting..." He grabbed Orson's arm and pivoted his hip. "THUS-ly so that you could then flow into the right you were supposed to throw after. But your balance was off. Because you overthrew the left."

He readjusted the telescopic monocle, and his jacket. As if trying to restore his own dignity after playing in such uncivilised things.

"Ah*Hem... Well, the escapement mechanism is there to prevent that. As we just said, the gear only moves so much, it then gives the balance a slift push. Keeps the works moving. Efficiency in movement."

The young boy looked up in awe at his father, his mouth agape for quite a few seconds before a question finally occurred to him.

"Father, you said every watch has five things. But, mainspring, balance wheel, gear chain, escapement... that's only four?"

The father grinned wryly with pride. "So you HAD been paying attention." He stepped back and plucked the watch back up from the workbench and walked over to the son.

"And the fifth. The face. The side we all see. The dials which take all of those seconds, minutes and hours and display them on an interpretable dial. So YOU can tell the time on YOUR new watch." He put the pocketwatch in the young boy's hands and clasped them with his own for a moment with a widening smile.

"Mine?!? My new watch? I'll-- I'll wind it every day and--!"

"And much as I appreciate the sentiment, THIS watch happens to be self-winding." The older man said with a sense of pride, realigning the jacket he'd just readjusted less than a minute ago.

"Self-winding?"

"Yes, there's another mechanism within. Regular daily movement 'pon the chain, as it swings by gravity's steady hand, shifts a subtle weight within the watch. That shifting of the weight winds up the mainspring. No hand-winding required. So long as you don't oversleep and miss a while."

"Wow..."




1915...


A trenchwatch hangs on a rung about shoulder height off of a ladder with feet set in the horrendous mud, muck and mire of the region.

"CHORES! You got here! When did you get in?" Orson called out to his old friend from the days of the Confederates of the Curious.

Seamus MacGillicuddy looked up from his transactional business. He was talking with another young soldier who was pointing to a watch wrapped around his wrist. Seamus nodded excitedly and the younger man unwravelled the watch and gave it to the Irishman.

"Oi! Carry!" Some other soldiers down the trench called out towards the young salesman, who waved them off and gestured for them to wait, whilst he wrapped up his sale here first. Seamus pulled out the small packet of biscuits he'd just agreed to trade from his pocket, but quickly grabbed the soldier by the shirt to prevent him going anywhere. He held the watch up to his ear to check he could hear the trenchwatch ticking before releasing the other soldier's shirt and handing him the biscuits.

"Pleasure doin' business with you too! Eh! Lemme know when you get them boots in too."

The soldier quickly ran down the trench to get to the others who were calling him for his next point of sale. 'Chores' instead joined Orson and the pair went for a walk down the trenches.

"And Orson, mate. It's great to see you too! The Irishman said with a big grin.

"Just got in Four Ack-Emma on the latest Omms-N-Chevoos." He said, referring to the trains delivering soldiers to the French front.

"Pretty feckin' tired truth be told. But seems my luck might be turnin' around. I'm situated 'round the corner from my old mucker Orson Randall. And less than five minutes inta my time here I run into that bloke - whadid you say his name was again? Harry?"

"They said Carry, but that--"

"Aye, Carry. and with a spot a luck, he's got some friend called Bill who offloaded a watch onto him, and he's lookin' to do a deal on it. He even said he was able to get a pair of pristine boots offa this boy Bill as well. So how bout that, eh?"

Orson winced, unsure how to tell his old friend the truth as the pair progressed through the trenches, some in various levels of disrepair or flooding.

"Well they said 'Carry' but it used to be 'Carrion', bunch of Australians in - I think it was their fifth - started calling him that and then shortened it to Carry because they thought i was funny..."

"Aye, presumably because he's always carryin' somethin' on him like those watches, lookin' to sell, eh?"

"Well, not exactly..."

"Must meet this boy-o Bill as well. Scored meself a watch and a new pair of boots because of this bloke and it only cost me a half eaten pack of biscuits. Food 'round here must be a bit rough, eh? You know which one Bill is?"

"Well... Not exactly..." Came the sombre reply.

"Well, what's got your goat anyhow? You've seemed pretty morbid since I got in. Haven't lifted that chin a yours once. I'd ask if someone put your dog down, but I know for a fact Barko was fine when I left him. What's happened?"

The pair walked past a collapsed segment of trench. Stray limbs and assorted arms and legs were protruding from the mud. Chores and Orson stepped to the side as they saw walking soldiers coming from the other direction so both lots could pass by. Assorted soldiers called out to the pile in gallows humour.

"Mornin' Bill."
"Holding that salute a tad long, aren'cha Bill?"
"A bitter Bit-a Bill this morning, eh?"

Orson and Seamus stood by the mud pile in solemn silnece. Chores looked down at the leather strap around his wrist.

"Well, Feck..."




Present Day
2 Twelfth Month 1967 (ding-wei), year of the Goat


Orson's pocketwatch sat, long since stopped from lack of movement, on a small crate by his bedding. Orson stared into nothingness. He felt an effervescence in his core not unlike a pregnant woman sensing the new life within, and in a strange way it wasn't far from the course. He also felt something else that he hadn't in a long time. Something that he was trying to kill with the poppy, just like the bubbling within.

He felt fear.

For he knew what this must surely mean.

In the country which discovered fireworks, none were exploding, despite the world around it believing this was the dawn of a new year. Another rotation.

Orson didn't even know what year it was, let alone day. But he knew any failure to observe the celestial mechanics would just be ignorance.

The lifeforce of the dragon writhing within him told him that much.

Far away, on the other side of China. Beyond Tibet, beyond the K'un L'un Mountains worlds were realigning.

New life was bursting forth from it's sacred egg.

Heavenly cities were reuniting in a way none on earth would have ever lived long enough to see.

Those who wished him dead - believed him dead. Believed to AND wished him dead might soon find the contrary to be true.

He needed Feng. He needed the poppy now more than ever. Maybe he could drown out the chi enough to further mask himself. He had doubts, with the closer proximity to a new incarnation of Shou-Lao permeating the celestial walls, the well of chi now seemed to flow like a torrent. He quickly put on pants and staggered to the door without care of a shirt.

He burst onto the street with more cognitive grip than he'd had in years. His mind was clearing so rapidly. His hiding place dissipating like the wisps of a cloud.

He pushed through crowds of people and had almost broken out into a complete sprint at this point.

"FENG!" He called out, as if it could have ever possibly even helped.

Memories flooded back, things he long forgot even played a part in his running to begin with. Names and places. And wisdom.

Lei Kung the Thunderer's words. The culture of a people he had foresaken. The death of a peer.

He pushed through another throng of people and crashed into the wall they had been looking at, he fell to the floor and looked up. He saw what the people had been looking at.



He looked further down the wall. More posters. Onlookers.



"破四旧" Orson read. "'Smash the Four Olds'. You wouldn't be the first to try..."

Orson got back up and continued to Feng's. But it would be his final visit.

He needed provisions to head west. Whether the old world would've wanted him to or not.
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Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by Mao Mao
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Mao Mao Sheriff of Pure Hearts (They/Them)

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WONDER WOMAN

"FATE OF THEMISCYRA"
January 1st, 1968
First Day

Themiscyra, Samsun Province
Winter's cold wasn't going to stop recent graduate Barbara Minerva from arriving early to make first impressions with the world-renowned archeologist, Julia Kapatelis. She spent her time inside the warm jeep, trying to sketch out the ancient ruins of a city gate. Or, that's what she thought based on initial inspection of it. In particular, there was a nearly preserved sculpture above the arch that depicted two deers standing guard. It could have a similar purpose to the sculpture on the Lion Gate in Mycenae, the animals used to represent a god/goddess or showing some sort of hierarchy in power to outsiders. While the answers weren't there, Barbara hoped that they would be found sooner or later. And without having to worry about school or working for an income, she had plenty of time to focus on her dream career.

Barbara spent a few more minutes inside before deciding to get a closer look at the sculpture. She ventured out of her jeep and walked up to the gate. It was made out of stone that remained mostly untouched by humans since it was left abandoned. But, besides time and weather chipping away at it, the walls and gate were surprisingly in decent condition. Then, there was the unusual sculpture made of limestone above the entrance. Upon a closer look, the deers' antlers were missing for one or another. However, her eyes saw faded carvings on a pillar and realized it was words of the ancient language. Barbara pulled out her notebook and examined the page that she kept a copy of the Ancient Greek alphabet in the back.

Then, after a minute, she had a decent translation despite it being nearly unreadable:

"THEMISCYRA HAS BEEN CURSED BY THE GODS. LEAVE NOW OR FACE THEIR WRATH."

"You must be the graduate student that Professor Craft recommended?" Barbara nearly got a heart attack when Julia Kapatelis asked that question. She looked at the notebook and then back at the young woman before chuckling. "I see you've already started working on your first day. What did you find so far?"

Barbara nervously flipped through the pages until she found the translation and handed it to Julia. Then, she started explaining it. "W-well, um... I was inspecting the sculpture when I saw the carvings on one of the pillars. It was written in Ancient Greek, so obviously I translated what was there and wrote it down in my notebook..."

There was an awkward pause as Julia was still in the middle of examining the translation. Then, she handed the notebook back to Barbara and went to the pillar. She stared at the carving and then looked up at the sculpture. "What do you know of the Amazons?"

"The race of highly skilled women warriors and hunters? Nothing more than what was portrayed in numerous epic poems and legends." Barbara approached Julia with a confused expression. "But I don't see how a myth has to do with the carving? It could've been a warning after a plague forced the remaining survivors to flee for their safety."

"Perhaps you're right." Julia nodded as if she appreciated the graduate student's answer and then pointed at the sculpture. "But then, why did the architects of the period used deer as the village's symbol?"

"One of the ways for them to show appreciation to the Gods? Maybe the local population was in a cult that relied upon... pleasing Artemis." It was when Barbara realized that she might've been wrong and immediately got out her journal. She flipped to a blank page and began looking at her notes while mumbling to herself about the Amazons and their devotion to the goddess. Julia couldn't contain her smile at the sight of someone else being as excited about learning the past as she still was. Then, she saw her friends arriving from the sky as Diana was carrying Etta Candy, who was squeezing her out of fear of heights. Julia waved at her friends and then looked at Diana. "You had fun in the states?"

"Besides dealing with the same old nonsense, the party was fun enough." Diana touched the ground and then looked at her friend, whose eyes were still shut, and got her attention. "Hey, we're on solid ground now; you can open your eyes."

Etta Candy was relieved that little ordeal was over. "Remind me to leave with Julia next time."

"Noted." Diana chuckled and then saw the young woman examining the ancient gate. She turned to Julia and asked curiously, "Might I ask who she is?"

"Oh, yes!" Julia felt embarrassed that she forgot to tell Diana about the graduate student before she left for the New Year celebrations. Both of them made their way towards Barbara, who was still mumbling to herself and focused on finding any more information. Julia didn't want to interrupt her, so she gestured at and introduced her to Diana. "This is the graduate student that I told you about a few days ago, Barbara."

Upon hearing her name, Barbara turned around and was caught entirely off-guard by Wonder Woman's presence. She never thought that working here would've involved talking to the superhero. Realizing that she looked awful in front of the hero, Barbara quickly cleaned off any visible dirt from her clothes and stood up to introduce herself while her face was still red from embarrassment. "Barbara Minerva. Recently got my majors in geology and archaeology. Nice to meet you... in person... Hope I can help out in whatever possible!"

"Nice to meet you, Barbara." Diana replied with a gentle smile, which caused Barbara's face to redden even more. Then, she started to examine the ancient ruins herself while asking Julia a simple question. "You sure this is the place?"

"Based on the surviving records and that symbol above the entrance, I am positive. The only thing left to do is to find the palace and see if anything remains." Julia answered honestly, which left Diana feeling confident that they were standing at the former home of her mother, Queen Hippolyta. Her mother always told the story of how the Amazons were driven out of Man's World by men themselves. However, even at a young age, Diana sensed that she was hiding something else from her. Something much more sinister. But, the only way to find the truth was to venture inwards to the ancient city of Themiscyra and find any evidence that had been left to be forgotten from history.


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Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by DocTachyon
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DocTachyon Teenage Neenage Neetle Teetles

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“I told you when I met you Hal, part of being a Green Lantern is this, doing daring things in dangerous places, so quit your bitching. Besides, this one should be a milk run for us.” Kilowog said.

“But why’d it have to be New Jersey?” Hal grumbled.

They flew over the ocean, high enough to be beyond the fogged out vision of any passing fishing trawler, but low enough to see the blooming fireworks that crackled above them. They were somewhere over the eastern seaboard by now, tracing the hazy outline of the coast until they reached Jersey.

“At least it didn’t land on Mars,” Kilowog said, “MPs there like to get their grubby mitts on everything. Jurisdictional nightmare.”

“There are people on Mars? Really? You’re not yanking my chain?” Hal asked.

“Used to be, anyway… I think we’re getting close,” Kilowog said. Hal could tell he was right from the sky, the infinite space of the open ocean waned into pure black sky before the lights of New York, broken up only by swells of light and color exploding above them.

“Clue me in on the sitrep one more time?” Hal’s shifted the ring on his finger as he asked, it felt tight today. This was the first time the Corps expected him to do something that wasn’t training. And there was Carol’s Ferris Air New Years Bash that he was missing, again, but at least this time he was giving a raincheck for a real reason instead of a killer hangover.

“Scans show a civvie-class vessel entered Earth atmosphere in the past few hours, with one life form aboard. Ship is of Tamaranean make, so we’re probably looking at a refugee situation, on account of some deep space politics, which is why the Corps didn't blow it out of the sky. But we need to take a look in case those boys figured wrong, and hope whoever it is doesn't pitch a fit that they’re stuck planetside until the current shitstorm subsides.” Kilowog reported. He still hadn’t shown Hal how to use the ring to tap into Green Lantern frequencies, leaving Hal to drift beside Kilowog as he thumbed at the holographic computer console emanating from his ring.

“So, we rock up, fish them out of whatever hole they landed in, and tell them to settle in for a nice long stay?” Hal summarized. They were over Newark by now, the teal ocean waves yielding to the stout grey of the city before it.

“That’s the gist.” Kilowog started their descent, guiding them down steady, like he expected them to come into a runway. It was how Hal had been landing, without the control to swoop through the air and stop on a dime like Kilowog could.

“Shouldn’t I have a real combat construct going into this? Just in case?” Hal said. Refugee or not, everything Hal had met from space so far had proven capable of putting him out on his ass.

Kilowog’s ears flitted down, like a cat’s, which was apparently the Bolovaxian equivalent of an eye roll. “Remember, milk run. If things go sideways I’m always here as your security blanket. And you’ve got that eyeball thing to rely on.” Kilowog said, which prompted Hal to roll his eyes.

“It’s really more of a parlor trick.” He said. He’d been tinkering with it since his encounter with Sinestro, mostly focusing on making sure it didn’t hurt so damn much when he put it in. But Kilowog had taught him a thing or two about the capacities of his ring, assorted scanners and meters and bits and bobs. Now the ring’s data was overlain with his view of the world, reporting air pressure, coordinates... Hell, it was like being back in the cockpit.

“Mhm. Speaking of, you named it yet?” Kilowog asked.

“No. Do I have to?” Hal looked back at Kilowog, incredulous, but his warthog face remained stoic.

“Everything’s gotta have a name,” he said. He had a point, Sinestro had called that ball thing something… Ganthet’s whatever-it-was. Which surely meant the lightning trick was called Sinestro’s Forehead Size Ego.

What’s in a name, anyway? He picked Highball as his callsign because they called dad Martini back in the war, and Hal though it’d be right to name himself after a drink, too. He didn’t figure out that the Highball was just a kind of glass until later, but Hal thought it was the sentiment that counted. What was wrong with Highball, anyway?

“I’ll call it The Highball,” Hal decided.

“Eyes up, we’re here. Ring’s reading something extraterrestrial in the bay down a ways, but… I can’t see for shit. You got anything?” Kilowog asked.

“Well, now you mention it,” Hal stalled in the air, letting the focus of his energy concentrate in his eyes, shifting the shape of his lens until the light filtered just so, and he finally had the magnification to see the surface in all its detail.

There were two figures below, one a woman, wreathed in a curtain of fiery locks, the other wrapped in deep blue chitin armor. They were an odd pair to be sure, but certainly no stranger than Hal and Kilowog traipsing through the sky. He might’ve taken the blue one for a bug, but they looked… Human, more or less. Maybe the big bad galaxy out there wasn’t so different. They stood across from each other on a patch of gravel rooftop, close enough to the bay that the girl’s hair listed in the sea breeze.

The ship, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen out across the rippling water, light up with the booming echoes of the fireworks above. Maybe the new alien packed camouflage.

“I’ve got a, uh… Orange hippie and a blue guy. Ship’s not in sight,” Hal reported.

“Sounds like our Tamaraenean found a friend. You talk to them, I’ll see if I can’t find the ship,” Kilowog said.

Me talk to them? Alone?” Hal stopped, the edges of his flight construct wibbling in the wind. So far, Kilowog had been with him every step of the way, and having someone that big, ugly, and pink on his side had done a thing or two to allay his worries.

“Ha! You think they wanna seethis poozer’s mug instead, do ya? Time to fly the nest, Jordan. Catch you in five. And Hal?”

“Yeah?”

The Highball sucks, we’ll brainstorm when I get back.” With that, Kilowog rolled to the right, disappearing in the night’s haze.

And just like that, Hal was alone, dipping lower and lower in the sky until he didn’t need his lens to see the detail in the hippie’s clothes, purple and green that moved as easily with the wind as her hair. If Kilowog said he could do this, he could. Right? They couldn’t kick his ass worse than Sinestro.

His gaze flitted to the blue one, tracing the inlays and patterns of his armor, and the slope of his arm down into a… Was that a cannon?

Milk run, milk run, Hal repeated to himself. Maybe it was just a sign of Tama-whatsit greeting. He’d drawn close enough that he could hear their voices echoing below each snapped explosion above. It was his time to say something, something profound. These weren’t just more Corps boys, but real honest to goodness visitors to his earth from the beyond. This could be their first contact with humanity. It had to be good.

“Hey, this, ah, sector is on lockdown by the… Esteemed Green Lantern Corps,” Hal jerked his thumb out to the bay, “and I can’t let you park there.”
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What is insurance?

It was strange that the first question that came to mind for Koriand'r was the mention of it. It seemed the idioms of this planet still left some holes in translation, although the blue one made it clear that this was not his home. Good, she now had a clear conscience and was no longer concerned at potentially damage property belonging to a (now) friendly face. More importantly, she was more than glad to hear he would help her! Until he decided to put on his shell once again. Even he seemed surprised; perhaps he too was an adolescent of this world still learning what he could and could not do. This planet started late on honing their natural abilities, it seemed.

What really got her curious, however, was that now that she could understand what he was saying, she noticed that he talked to himself a lot. Perhaps vocalizing their thoughts was a common practice here, but that would mean any potential enemies would be able to use that information to turn it against them. It could be some code of honor for them?

Koriand'r watched him with mild amusement (and a touch of confusion), though she was very interested in how his arm had morphed. Fascinating, he could change the shape of his shell on a whim! And into a weapon to boot! She definitely approved, albeit she was just a little worried at the mention of a threat. She should have figured the Psions would follow her here, but she had no intentions of going back peacefully. Just the thought was enough to put her on edge, immediately clenching her fists as she looked around for them.

But there weren't any Gordanians in the sky, instead one sole person clad in green. She found it very interesting that the people on this planet had an affinity for one color each. Still, a threat was a threat, and Koriand'r was more than eager to fight if need be. The symbol on his chest looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn't until the man spoke that it clicked in her mind. It was a long time ago, but she definitely knew that he did not belong. It was possible that things have changed during her imprisonment, but she was certain that news would have reached the Citadel immediately.

"I believe it is you that cannot 'park there'," Koriand'r told the newcomer. "The Green Lantern Corps is expressly forbidden from entering the Vega star system. What business have you here?"

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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Asura
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#1: First Contact V

L O C A T I O N
Bayonne, New Jersey. 12:19 AM

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Jaime's eyes directed themselves skywards once he was sure the weapon that was his arm wasn't going anywhere funny. Normally, he wouldn't have been able to make out the approaching figure through the hazy night clouds and smokey firework residue. But with the Scarab deployed, the outline of the approaching Lantern was highlighted clearly well before he was within speaking distance. It was... just a man? He had expected some kind of alien, something real big and mean and dangerous to have put his mechanical compatriot into such a tizzy. This just looked like a guy in black and green tights! Although, Superman was also just a guy in red and blue tights, and the news never stopped talking about how potentially dangerous he was...

<<Targets have separated. Opportunity present. Eliminating lone Lantern.>>

In his momentary reverie, the Scarab seemed to have forced his arm—and the cannon it was host to—into the air. He could hear a whirring within it, a charge in the air as it prepared to fire on the new arrival. But he grasped it with his other arm before it could discharge, and forced it downwards towards the pavement below. The hum died down soon after.

"Sorry about that!" The teen called nervously, directing his whispered ire towards the gun-limb once more. "What are you doing? That guy isn't an alien, he's just some... green gringo."

<<Species irrelevant. Lantern Corps: enemy of the Reach. Priority: Elimination of enemy elements. Redirect plasma cannon towards target and fire immediately.>>

"I'm not gonna shoot somebody who hasn't done anything wrong! Besides he doesn't even seem to be here for us... and why do you have a plasma cannon?!"

In all the chaos, it was easy to forget exactly why he and this Lantern fella were in the middle of godforsaken New Jersey to begin with—the alien girl. Who seemed to have an idea of just who their new friend worked for. Granted, he himself had no clue where exactly the Vega system was. Or who the Green Lantern Corps were. Or why they seemed to think an alien crash landing was the equivalent of parking without a meter... but, until five minutes ago, he wasn't entirely convinced alien life truly existed: tonight was a learning experience.

He opted to wait and listen, if only to keep his attention on subduing the Scarab in the face of its unusual aggression.

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Issue 2: "Swiss Mist"


SHING MUN RESERVOIR
Shing Mun, Hong Kong
Christmas Day, 1967


我没看见他 !

I have barely escaped and now I am on the run. The path I'm on is dark and treacherous. Men have died along this way, whether it was decades ago or even a few hours earlier today. Mud weighs down each step I take and rock breaks my skin and stride. Yet, I must continue. Even as my bones tire and my will gives in to despair, I must continue to run like a scolded rat being chased away by a mad dog in the cold, howling rain. The monsoon season masks their gunshots with its torrential rainfall and booming thunder, yet I can still clearly hear the commissar's chilling commands.

传播;传播!找他!

But I do not panic even as my hand's phantom pain sets in. For the moonlight has abandoned the heavens and only the shadow of the night reigns over the sky. In its fickle mercy, it has given me sanctuary. My captors have lost sight of me for they have followed me down to this damned, winding path and only those that have escaped the labyrinth before can navigate its desolate trenches and abandoned redoubts. I have done so once. Against my will and against the fanatical. But like now as before, I cannot help but smile. A bloody, wheezing chuckle escapes my mouth as I recall that the fools commanding the defence during the war had named this position the Gin Drinker's Line.

安静!我听见他了!

My mouth betrays me but my memory does not. In those decades before, the British dared to name this dugout I find myself in the headquarters of the Oriental Maginot Line. They were right to do so but all for the wrong reasons. Like its namesake, it fell so easily to the enemy... I will probably fall to the same fate, to die in this miserable hole chased by as prey.

Yet, I must continue. The Dragon must know that the Snake bares its fangs at him, readying to strike.

我找到他了 !




THE AMERICANA HOTEL
New York City, New York
9:04PM, December 31st, 1967


"You're dead, lady!" yelled an overweight oaf in a karate gi as he charged at the correctly addressed Lady Shiva. By doing so, he gave away the element of surprise and traded it in for the element of disappointment as his disinterested opponent used what struggling momentum he had to judo flip him flat on his back. His comrades telegraphed all their moves too, as if it was the first lesson the Marquis D'Maq had drilled into their heads. Regardless, it made for an interesting spectacle as Shiva made short work of each martial arts mook, drawing enthusiasm from the crowd.

She knew that the true target was getting away though but had entrusted that her former and once-again ally Richard Dragon would subdue him. The arms dealer Guano Cravat and his bodyguards had used the commotion to sneak out through a narrow service corridor leading to the kitchen. Still hot on the pursuit, Dragon had decided to call in for backup through his ear-piece communicator.

"Ling, have the local PD converge! Target's making a break for it through the back!" However, this escape wasn't as clean as Dragon made it out to be as Guano and his five goons were held up in the kitchen, arguing with a man shorter than all of them in a sauce-stained apron and drooping chef's hat, completing the ensemble with a wifebeater shirt. The only thing he was missing was a lit up Camel cigarette to complete what Richard envisioned to be that New York working class look but upon hearing him speak, it was pretty much there in spirit.

"Hey yuh can't be here! We're makin' souffles and mistuh Tisch is gonna flip if dey doan come out perfectly! Cah-peesh?!" the chef would say in the deepest, scratchiest voice Richard had ever heard. Instead of coming to a reasonable understanding, which no one expected at all to happen, they all got into a shouting match. Impressively, the short-statured chef was easily the loudest though that old windbag Guano was giving him a run for his money as he slowly turned beet-red from yelling. Not wanting to rudely interrupt, Richard decided to walk slowly to the nearest bodyguard and politely tap on his shoulder.

"WHAT, CAN'T YOU SE-" *bash* *fa-thud*

Before he could finish, Richard's backhand fist had knocked him out cold on the ground. This temporarily silenced the room as Guano and his goons realized they were now in the presence of the one and only, highly decorated, world-famous, confidently smiling Richard Drago- "GET HIM!" Guano would yell before pushing the chef towards Richard. Though this Brooklyn baker stumbled towards him, Richard used his hands to leapfrog off the chef's shoulders and transitioned to a high jump kick in mid-air to knock down a second goon, driving his knee down his chest as he descended. The remaining three were quick to surround him and, unlike the amateurs Shiva had to deal with, attacked at once. Each swinging fist was met with a quick block from Richard, aiming at their wrists with knifehand strikes. Each jab aimed at the Dragon's maw was dodged as with the grace of a butterfly. One of them decided to sweep the Dragon's legs from behind while he was focused on the others but almost as if he had eyes on the back of his head, Richard evaded the strike with a kip-up and followed through with a spinning hook kick in retaliation.

Having enough of it, one of the men decided to grab a nearby kitchen knife and wildly stab at the Dragon. The first stab had Richard sidestep in order to gauge his opponent. The second stab had Dragon catch him by the wrist and twisting his arm, forcing him to release the knife. As tension had stiffened the goon's forearm, a quick elbow strike crashing down on it had audibly *snapped* the knife bearer's limb. After witnessing such calculated brutality, the remaining two goons looked at each other with widened eyes and a synchronized nod. With scowls still on their faces, they slowly backed off... Before completely running away with their arms flailing in the air. With an exhausted sigh, Richard eased his stance and began turning his head back and forth as he tried to figure out where Guano had escaped to.

"Hey mistuh Dragon, dat schmeboygah went out through de fire exit!" the onlooking confectioner stated, pointing to an unmarked door at the back of the kitchen next to the stacks of dishes that miraculously stayed in one piece. With a similar nod as those that had just ran out the kitchen, Richard would grab the knife he had disarmed earlier and bolt out as he continued the pursuit. True enough, it led to an outside ally but it really shouldn't be a fire exit with how little space there was for an organized queue, what with garbage cans and clothes lines taking up most of the area. But now wasn't the time for chastising bad safety regulations for Guano Cravat was getting in to an escape car down the street!

"So long, Dragon! I hate your movies by the way! HAHAHA!" he would yell out from the passenger's seat. This moment of gloating would be the criminal's downfall as Richard took that opportunity to aim the knife at the car's front tire. Before Guano knew what was happening, the blade was already in the air and quickly approaching. Both Richard and Guano awaited in anticipation, the latter's mouth agape with a gasp at what was a very improbable knife throw that could make or break a sting operation that was months in the making...

And of course it missed. It didn't even reach the car. The knife lost momentum about three feet in front of Richard and definitely hit one of those clotheslines he was just complaining about. Plus, his throwing hand was the same he had used to crush the glass way earlier during the night and his adrenaline wasn't making up for his sapped strength. The silence didn't last long though as Guano broke into laughter, turning red once again. But that wasn't only thing turning red as the approaching policemen's sirens alternated between that and blue. They had successfully shut down the street and had surrounded Guano.

Before Richard could apprehend the arms dealer, the getaway driver stepped out of the vehicle. Like the others, he wore round sunglasses and a white tuxedo. However, his skin was paler and almost looked translucent under the moonlight. He would stand across Richard down the alleyway but had a composed stance as he reached into his inner breast pocket. But he wasn't reaching for a gun as out came a thick cigar with a golden seal. The policemen had already cuffed Guano at this point and were already ordering the driver to stand down. Yet, he simply lit his cigar and smoked away.

In one drag, the cigar was consumed to ash. As he exhaled, a cloud of rushing smoke had engulfed him and the alley. Richard had to shield his eyes from this sudden smog but by the time it dissipated, the driver was gone.

"Where is he?" asked Shiva, who had just arrived from the fire exit. "Where is that Swiss snake?!"
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Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by DocTachyon
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"I believe it is you that cannot 'park there'," was the first thing out of the hippie’s mouth, "The Green Lantern Corps is expressly forbidden from entering the Vega star system. What business have you here?"

“I, uhm…” Hal stammered, “tell you the truth ma’am, I’m no navigator, but I don’t think this is Vega.” Hal tried to remember what Kilowog had called their local system. He’d heard him mention it a few times, in the gravelly background of his voice chatting up the space boys over communications. As he reached for it, the ring supplied the missing information over his lens.

“We are in Space Sector 2814, Sol system.” Hal’s ring worked as he spoke, stitching a visualization of the path from Earth to Vega on his retinas, an arcing green line rising from the surface of an Earth in miniature. There was no scale, but as the path grew the Earth shrunk, until there was nothing but a strip of emerald in Hal’s vision, “... and it looks like you’re a long way from home.”

Beside them, the blue guy struggled with his own arm, wrenching it this way and that as he babbled to himself. The surface of his… Skin? Armor? Shifted, unable to settle on a definite form. It reminded Hal of when Kilowog had first taught him about constructs, and the only thing he could produce were wibbling heaps of green. Maybe the big blue’s armor was something like the ring.

"I'm not gonna shoot somebody who hasn't done anything wrong! Besides he doesn't even seem to be here for us... and why do you have a plasma cannon?!" The boy shouted. His accent sounded local, Earth local anyway… But whatever the hell he was wearing certainly wasn’t. Hal put his hands up.

“Listen, buddy, I’m not packing anything but this ring,” Hal waggled his hand, “and at this point the thing might as well be toy jewelry. I’m just supposed to tell you guys you’re not supposed to break the blockade,” Hal gestured up as another chorus of fireworks sang above them. In the distance, Hal saw a jeweled green point of light rising from the surface of the bay. Hal nodded towards it to indicate.

“That’ll be my partner fishing your ship out of the bay, he’ll tell you the same thing… And, sir, I’d really appreciate it if you don’t point that thing at me, dig?”
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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Bounce
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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Hero
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S T A R F I R E

What did he mean they weren't in Vega?! It had been years since she had seen her own planet, but she had assumed that they had been orbiting the Citadel home world, or Wombworld. But this 'Earth' they were on was more than twenty five light-years away! Had she truly gone so far? No, that wasn't right, her flight was much too brief to cover such a distance. How could she be so far away and not notice? Then again, she had been essentially locked away for the better part of a year, she hadn't seen the scarlet sky in what felt like ages.

The news was distressing to say the least, the girl trying to wrap her head around it. "That cannot be," Koriand'r ended up muttering out in complete disbelief. As a thought occurred to her, she shook her head. "But then, what of my people--"

Her words were cut off as an all-too familiar buzzing sound reached her ears. Squinting up at the sky above them, a flash of lights littered the sky, and as they faded, specks of gold appeared to be coming closer to the world revealed to be the occasional flash of their spears' electric charge sparkling. If the Green Lantern Corps was stopping ships, then it made sense they would leave their ships and come flying down to the planet themselves. Typical Gordanians, the Psions must have sent them to reclaim her. Unfortunately for them, she had no plans to go back.

Looking around for something to use, she couldn't help but scoff at the lack of available options. What a pleasant life it must be to live on a planet where wars were uncommon, how were they to react when the enemy decided to spontaneously invade? At least the long pole with the light on top looked malleable enough. It would have to do.

Flying over to it, Koriand'r gripped it to the best of her ability, yanking it out of the ground with a little effort. Its light was lost, but perhaps that was for the better. With newfound weapon in hand, she flew high into the air, having every intention of meeting her would-be captors head on. They had only sent a dozen--an error on their part. Even with her hands bound, she was confident she could take them on. They flew in a triangle formation, the first of the pack flying faster as he spotted her.

Eyes and hair a glow, she grinned as she flew upwards towards him. "¡Habrá una pelea!" She shouted, smacking the first Gordanian upwards. As it was caught off guard, she gained more altitude and smacked it down to the ground below.

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"Splintered" | Issue #1 | Prague

Prague Castle was beautiful. Even for the Winter Soldier who much preferred more colorful buildings. Even with the copper green roof the building was lack luster against it's backdrop. Colorfully painted blue roofs, yellow buildings. But he wasn't here to be an art critic. A small part of his mind pointed out that he knew about this because of a young blonde. He shoved that part away roughly. It wouldn't help him with his job. And it was something he shouldn't think about.

The man masquerading as Dušan entered the Castle. It was still a mild trek through the multiple courtyards. He easily slipped through the clusters of people. Morning business was well underway even at this early hour. He was just rounding the entrance to the second courtyard when he spotted Štefan, another of the aids for Sucharda. An older friendly man who happily took 'Dušan' under his tutalage.

"Hey! Dušan." Štefan greeted as he turned away from Ladislava. She was secretary to Alexander.

"Štefan. Ladi." The Winter Soldier smiled winningly at the woman. She was younger than him and slightly comely, but she fancied him and was a good source of information on Dubček's movements.

"Is the conference room preped?"

Ladi rolled her eyes. "Always with work with you." She swatted Dušan on the arm. "Relax for once. Everything is ready. We're just waiting until the First Secretary is ready to give his speech."

The soldier shrugged a shoulder casually. He was always careful to keep Ladi on his right due to her having less of a concept of personal space. "I care about my job." He grunted seemingly put out good naturedly at her jabbing.

The friendly conversation soon found itself back to politics. The tension in the Castle wasn't suffocating yet, but it was very apparent. All too quickly it was time to file into the conference room. Sets were carefully arranged for staff and press, all facing the long table at the end of the room. Microphones and cameras were places strategically. Dušan and his colleges found themselves standing in the back against the wall.

People were packed in, all waiting for the First Secretary. Notable KSČ members already occupied seats at the main table. Štefan and the spy both pulled out their notebooks and pens to take notes. Soon Novotný appeared in a side door. Men parted the way for him to get to his seat. The sound level rose, then crested as the First Secretary took his spot.



"Esteemed comrades! Dear friends! On behalf of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of Czechoslovakia, of our whole party and of our people, we convey to the Rumanian Workers' Party, the Rumanian people and to you, comrade deputies, the warmest comradely greetings." The orator's warm voice echoed in the room. A few reporters snapped pictures. Blubs flashed and popped. The only other sound to be heard.

The Winter Soldier dutifully raised his pen and prepared himself for some for an hour of drudgery.

"Economic cooperation based on the principles of proletarian internationalism is an important component of our country's accelerated transition from capitalism to socialism. This beneficial and comprehensive cooperation-"

One of the photographer's bulbs popped close to the one who called himself Dušan. Only years of training kept the man from jumping. He turned to glare at the photographer only to find no one. There was no one to the side of him. Slowly he turned his head back to the front only to find an empty room. Vacant chairs were arranged perfectly in front of him. All empty.

The Winter Soldier could feel his heart rate picking up. He turned to where Štefan had been standing immediately to his right but he too was gone. Training whispered in his mind. Assess the situation. Did he black out? No. That had not happened in years. Even if it had he was friendly enough with Štefan that the man would not have just left him. There would have been a scene. Which meant something more sinister was afoot.

The solider went to pocket his notebook and pen only to find himself holding a sniper. He nearly dropped the weapon in shock. This was not his mission. He took a step back to press his back against the wall only to meet no resistance. His foot crunched down on broken glass. The man took a deep breath and turned.

The corridor was long and dark. Lights overhead flickered slowly as if weathering a great and terrible storm. Moaning could be heard from down the hall. It was a long, deep, mournful sound.

The soldier adjusted his sniper and carefully stepped over the shards of glass. The sparse flashes of light illuminated only small halos. Enough for him to not run into any walls. The corridor was endless.

The man lifted his arm to wipe snow out of eyes. The blizzard was making it nearly impossible to see, even with the unreliable lighting. The ground was quickly becoming treacherous. The moaning was the howling of the wind. The flickering of the lights flashes of discharging firearms.

The Winter Soldier dove to the ground in search of cover. He raised his handgun and took aim at the nearest enemy. A sharp crack and a scream. The soldier rolled as a bullet pinged off his arm.

Where was Steve? He was supposed to be here by now. The lone squad of the 26th was no match for the swarm of Germans. They were blocking the alleyway. And if he didn't get home Pop was going to be mad. Again. But what could he do? If he didn't get scratch he couldn't get food. Then Becca.

Then ----?

The Winter Soldier blinked. Who was he thinking about? He looked down at the notebook in his hand. He had to take a few minutes to process the words he had written on the page. It wasn't Russian nor Cezch. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize it was English, let alone his own hand writing. The harsh black letters were pressed harshly into the page, nearly tearing the paper in the process.

I AM NOT YOU
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I S S U E
#1: First Contact VI

L O C A T I O N
Bayonne, New Jersey. 12:20 AM

T A G S
@Hero@DocTachyon
"I'm really trying not to!"

It was about all Jaime could do to reassure the newcomer that he didn't intend to blast him with whatever the heck the Scarab had just conjured up. Of course, it was debatable how much that mattered when the little blue bug in his spine really wanted to smoke whoever this guy was. He could practically feel the Scarab trying to force his hand back into position, like a soreness in your muscle that you really wanted to stretch out and relieve. This must have been what people meant by itchy trigger finger... Although he wasn't exactly sure he felt his fingers anymore. Or could even move them, what with the cannon stuck on his arm like this.

It was a crying shame he was so preoccupied with suppressing the murderous desires of a machine, too. Blockades? Systems? Corps of aliens? He'd always thought they could be a bit hokey, but tonight was honestly shaping up like an episode of Trek! If he hadn't seen it all—was seeing it all—unfold before him, he wouldn't have believed it. But here he was, listening to two flying aliens talk about a crash landing like it was some kind of parking violation.

<<Additional lifeforms approaching from low-orbit. Twelve in number. Preliminary scans confirm extraterrestrial origin. Subjects: Gordanian. Inhabitant of Sector 2828, Vega System. Species renown for hostility. Caution advised.>>

A parking violation that seemed like it was about to get even more interesting. Especially on account of that word popping up again—Vega. It seemed like the newcomers were friends of the orange girl.

"Not to interrupt, but-"

It seemed his words would have fallen on deaf ears regardless. The girl had already spotted the group descended upon them, and before he knew it she had floated her way over to a nearby light post and was wrenching it from the ground like it was a particularly annoying weed. Then she soared into the sky with a Spanish battle cry, of all things. He wasn't sure which one of those was more terrifying.

"Right. Not friends of hers, I guess."

<<Gordanians renown as intergalactic slavers. Tamaranean aggression levels indicate history of conflict. Confirmation: Not friends of hers.>>

"Thanks, buddy."

Jaime wasn't sure whether or not he was even qualified to intervene in this stuff. But he definitely knew he couldn't sit back and let a girl fight off a dozen alien thugs. If the suit was so keen on fighting with this Lantern fella, maybe it would be keen on throwing down with a different kind of green guy.

<<Engaging: Not recommended. Priority: Elimination of Lantern Corpsmen.>>

"The Lantern isn't the slaver here, now is he? Why don't you do something heroic for once and help me save the girl?"

<<Tamaranean: Inconsequential. Green Lanterns Corps: Enemy of the Reach. Presence of Green Lantern Corpsmen endangers life of organic host and accomplishment of mission. Priority: Elimination of Lantern Corpsmen.>>

It didn't seem like he was getting through to it. But that last bit, that gave him an idea. A stupid idea, but an idea! If it was concerned this Lantern guy was a risk to his life, then all Jaime had to do was convince he Scarab these Gorda-whosits were a bigger threat. While the girl was busying thwacking one of the slavers into the bay like a baseball, the wings of the Scarab unfurled with a hiss. With a low hum, the suit's boosters came to life, and half a second later he was hurdling through the sky, racing to join up with the redhead.

"Think you need any he- Look out!"

Even when he was working against its will, it seemed the Scarab was incapable of ignoring threats. In this case, the little 'projectile incoming' indicator that popped up a second before one of the flying Gordanians shot off a beam of something keyed him off to it before the energy had even been discharged. It was half as much misplaced bravado as it was his inability to exactly stop that saw the armor clad teen blasting his way past the Tamaranean and directly into the path of the bolt.

Which—to his surprise—didn't exactly do much. All that remained were a few crackling sparks, which danced along the edge of a large, circular shield that had replaced the cannon on his now raised arm.

"That... didn't hurt as much as I thought it would?"

<<Gordanian weaponry: Suitable only for chattel containment. Inferior to technology of the Reach. Formulating defensive countermeasure: Trivial.>>

So it seemed. Another few bolts came soaring through the air on the tail of the first one, and each one seemed to dissipate against the surface of the shield, like it was just... absorbing them. Jaime was so emboldened by this new toy, he hardly noticed he had managed to hover! Instead of relishing in that discovery, he turned his head towards the floating girl and her oversized, improvised club.

"¿Yo te cubro?"

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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by HenryJonesJr
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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by DocTachyon
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Hal hadn’t prepared for a fight, his one trick was The Highball -- and that couldn’t quite shoot out Superman’s heat vision yet -- but, as he saw the mass and numbers of the enemy force descending on them through the firework cover, he was damn glad that Kilowog had.

Only a handful of the green creatures had broken from formation to attack Hal and the refugees, the rest buzzed like a cloud of hornets, whirling around a green point of light that popped and exploded from the heart of their formation; Kilowog had decided to put on his own fireworks show.

But that meant it was on Hal to help these yahoos against The Wicked Witch’s flying green monkeys. The girl threw herself headlong into the action, jumping straight off the building and swinging her cuffs around like a cudgel. Flying straight off the building, Hal corrected himself. Was flying just a part of the basic space alien suite? The girl managed on her own, but the others were using jetpacks soldered into the winged framework of their armor, and the blue guy’s armor produced propulsion as quick as the surface of its arm rolled over itself to form into a shield. Hal was the only one left on the roof, slack jawed as the aliens traded blows.

It was finally coming true. Everything the old Flash Gordon serials from Hal’s childhood had promised the arrival of aliens would be, but now in technicolor, and happening awful close to him. For a moment he had the instinct to run, a quick seize across his muscles and the memory of lightning splitting the sky. Kilowog and the others could mop it up, give him more time to figure out something with the ring to protect himself.

Protection, that was a new thought, it almost earned a laugh. Before the ring that was his last concern. Screw the FAA guidelines, forget takeoff procedure, and always push the screaming engine a lot damn harder than the techs tell you to, just to prove that you can; just to get your butt into that sheepskin seat cover and fly a little while. Growing up they told him Martini Jordan had his first combat flight in a stolen cessna, with no guns and tissue-paper armor, even without any kind of safety net, he still gave those Kraut sons-of-bitches the what for... Oh, what the hell.

Hal’s feet took him off the structure and his ring brought him into the air, forming the electric lime field around him and slinging him past the bolts of alien energy that rocked through the sea spray. He knew his sheathe wouldn’t stand up to that kind of punishment, the projectiles were as big around as baseballs and hummed like a Coast City powerplant, fancy flying would be the only way out of this mess.

Hal threw a barrel roll, jerking his muscles in accordance with the movement to dodge another bolt by a hair. It still didn’t feel like he could quite move right inside of it, the flight construct sat on him like a lead suit, restricting his motion and keeping his body in flight position. He may as well have been jammed in a cockpit.

Then, The Highball sharpened on the edge of his vision, forcing something to his attention. It was one of the aliens, diving under and back up into the fray, bringing its weapon up for a blaster shot on the blue guy’s exposed side.

“Hey!” Hal was on the alien, cutting over his path and slamming the bugger down. His flight construct buckled and went turgid on contact, shimmering energy pulsed and ballooned as it tried to correct itself from the impact, setting Hal’s teeth to rattle in his skull.

He and the alien tumbled through the sky, Hal’s arms locked firmly around its waist. The creature squawked at him in a language the ring refused to translate, swinging an arm that had to be the size of Hal’s whole torso to swat the human off. Hal squirmed and shifted, forcing his weight up until he could wrap his legs around the monster’s waist and get his arms over its neck. Hal squeezed.

It was like trying to choke a redwood tree. Its skin was like a toad’s, bumped and warted and slimy, Hal could tell even through the layers of his construct, protecting corded muscle as strong as steel beneath.

“Who the hell let you uglies in through the blockade?” Hal shouted, trying to kick at the monster’s stomach only to be met by a plate of gristle, “we’re not having an intergalactic kegger down here!”

Hal’s flight construct was normalizing, returning to hold its shape around its master, but the alien wasn’t having it. Its brawn shifted and it torqued him. Hal’s sides screamed while the alien twisted him, begging him to release his hold or at least the construct squeezing in on him.

What would Kilowog do? Certainly not let go. What would Martini do? No weapons, no armor, no nothing, just his way to fly… His way to fly.

Hal screamed and closed his eyes, keeping his legs locked tight around the alien’s trunk and willing his construct to flow over the creature, no longer keeping him airborne but keeping the thing locked into a new emerald cage.

Wind and spray whipped Hal’s hair and clothes and stung his eyes as he opened them, now wrestling with the sealed pocket around the alien, thrashing and vocalizing as the construct kept it locked within. It was like fighting a sleeping bag. Its jetpack was failing, whining, uselessly pouring plasma and fire into growing bubbles on the construct’s back as the green energy wibbled, barely keeping them in the air.

They were losing altitude, streaking towards the surface of the bay, at least, but at this height it’d feel like kissing concrete, but it was all he could do to even force his structure to keep its coherence, and hang onto the creature for dear life., digging his fingers into little wells in the construct.

“Hey! A little help!?” He screamed at the figures above.
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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Bounce
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Hidden 3 yrs ago Post by Hero
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S T A R F I R E

The thrill of a good fight was something Koriand'r didn't realize she had actually missed. Whatever strength she had had been used toiling away under a hot sun or being little more than a glorified trophy occasionally, but the teachings of the Warlords of Ookara were instilled in her the same way breathing was. It would have felt a little more justified against the spineless Psions, but she had to admit, the Gordonians gave much more of a fight--all the better to release years of frustration and pent-up anger. It felt so good to whack something living, to feel the rush as she dodged an attack.

Of course it was nice to have some allies on her side, too!

The Blue One (whose name she really should have asked by now) managed to surprise her yet again, especially as he was so foolhardy to intercept an attack. But the real surprise was that the bolts from the Gordonians' weaponry did nothing to him. She had a high pain tolerance but the electric charges hurt, so the fact that he could just shrug them off like that astounded her. Perhaps she had underestimated his planet after all.

There was no time to remain in awe, however, as the Green Lantern seemed to not have the ability of flight. It must vary between the colors of the people on this planet, she would need to remember that. "Then you take point, I shall return in just a moment!" She told the flying blue guy before zipping downwards, discarding her makeshift club in favor of grabbing the green one away from the not-friendly green one.

Placing him down on the group, she offered him a grin, though it didn't last as a Gordonian landed on her. It stepped down on her abdomen, speaking in its native tongue as she lifted her hands up, the green energy glowing in her hands until she blasted the thing off her. As she clumsily got to her feet, she made another attempt at breaking the cuffs, frustrated as she was unable to free herself.

"Would you be so kind as to remove these so I may better fight against my former slavers?" She asked the Green Lantern as sweetly as she could. "I would be much more effective with freer hands."

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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Asura
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The Blue Beetle


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I S S U E
#1: First Contact VII

L O C A T I O N
Bayonne, New Jersey. 12:20 AM

T A G S
@Hero@DocTachyon
<<Enemy approaching to the right. Deploying- Target neutralized.>>

So caught up in his new found heroics, Jaime had apparently missed one of the aliens maneuvering past the surprisingly robust defense the Scarab had conjured up. Of course, the Scarab itself hadn't been caught so lacking—or the Lantern, for that matter, as the teen as quick to realize after looking to his right side and seeing the two plummeting towards in a melee. If the Scarab had been so worried about these green guys that it labeled them an 'extreme threat', then it was probably safe to assume they were more than capable of handling themselves against these slavers. Instead, he could focus more on-

"Hey! A little help!?"

Or not. Luckily for Jaime, it seemed the alien who kicked this entire affair off was more than happy to volunteer herself, and swooped down towards the earth below to deal with it. In her absence, she left the job of handling the remaining ten invaders to him. Lucky indeed.

Resolving to be more vigilant, he exercised what control he had over the suit's airborne movement and maneuvered his way between the impromptu allies he had on the ground and the jetpack wielding enemies raining down lightning bolts on them all. It was like trying to play goalie, only the other team didn't have to stay on the field and could shoot at you from any direction they wanted.

The way each bolt flattened and crackled against his shield, he wasn't so worried about himself—terrifying as this all was, whatever the heck Mr. Kord had cobbled together seemed more than a match for these guys. But the other two, well, he wasn't too sure. The girl seemed scary strong and scary fast, but the fact these guys had her in cuffs probably meant her last run in with them hadn't gone her way. The Lantern... well, he was a toss up, but not one Jaime wanted to risk getting hurt on his account.

"I think it's about time we went on the attack," Jaime said as he twisted through the air to narrowly catch a projectile on the very edge of his shield, "I'm gonna regret asking this, but what do you have to put them down?"

<<Potential countermeasures: Innumerable. Suggested countermeasure: Judicious application of thermal energy.>>

"For the last time, no fire! I don't wanna kill these guys, just... knock them out. Can't you do that?"

<<Non-lethal countermeasures: inefficient. Host must eliminate of Gordanian presence before Lantern Corpsmen coordinate.>>

"I swear I will let these guys shoot me in the face if you don't set some kinda phaser to stun!"

There was a short silence, punctuated by another duo of bolts crashing into the surface of his shield.

<<Host: Unacceptably belligerent. Deploying repulsor cannon. Locking targets. Depress trigger mechanism at will.>>

This time, the metal on the left arm began to shift and morph. Like before, his hand was replaced by a gun barrel, although this one seemed much sleeker and less... well, terrifyingly likely to blow up the city. With a duo of the big, ugly looking bastards above zooming down towards him in a hail of covering fire, Jaime didn't have time to question the lethality of the weapon in question.

Following the reticle that popped up in his field of view, Jaime pulled the shield aside just long enough for the Scarab to guide his arm into the proper position. A high pitched whine followed.

Then, in a flash of blue light, Jaime finally got to return a shot of his own. It raced through the air fast as lightning, and struck the nearest Gordanian with concussive boom that managed to rattle him some thirty feet away. The hulking bastard went flying back up into the air for some ways, before gravity took hold and it went plummeting down towards the bay.

The teen scant had the chance to marvel at the kind of power his second skin was able to produce—his arm jerked to aim at the second Gordanian, who had been briefly halted by the force of the first blast. Another high pitched prefaced his fate, and a second blue beam of light sent him packing across the sky and racing towards the water below.

"I am so glad I didn't let you take care of that Rottweiler." He muttered as the remaining Gordanians—apparently realizing the threat he posed—began to focus their fire on him, necessitating him to raise his shield once more.

Mission accomplished.

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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by BangoSkank
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San Francisco, California
9:48 PM, December 31st 1967



Timely.

I always tried to be timely. The military drilled that in to me, but even before all of that it was something that mattered to me. I learned early on you couldn't control it, there were too many variables, all you could do was try to be prepared when things shifted. I wasn't ready when pneumonia took my mother. I disappeared into comics, decided I would be an artist. I wasn't ready when the war came to America. God I was so skinny then. I had no idea what I was getting in to. None of us did. We couldn't have. I was timely though.

My recruiter, when I got rejected for being underage and so damn skinny, he had a motivational poster taped up in that cheap little cubicle on the white turning yellow walls. I can almost see it now. A nature scene, for some reason. I never got that. I did get the message. It put things into words better than I could. It said that Luck was the Intersection of Preparation and Opportunity. I like to think I've been prepared. I like to think I've been timely.

You probably wouldn't believe how timely. Or how lucky.


"So then," the grizzled old man across the bar locked eyes with me and interrupted me from my reverie, "You gonna just keep staring at that mug or are you going to tell me about your day?"

I was distracted, lost in more ways than one, looking back into a once familiar face. Jesus Christ.

"It helps you know," Duggan said as he poured some good whiskey in an old mug and slid it over to me, "We don't talk."

"Irishmen?" I replied over my mug.

"Oh absolutely lad. Especially us Irish. But any of us really. You know how long it took me to get some of these fuckers to talk? That shit it don't come natural, after what we've seen, what we've done. You don't want to remember, you don't want to put that on your brothers. Don't want their sympathy, don't want their pity. None of us do, but you said you'd talk Rogers. It's New Years, it's what we do."

"I was never much for talking about the past. About memories. You know, all those years, it was action. All movement, all action, just one thing after another. Go, go, go."

"Yeah," my suddenly old buddy Dum Dum Duggan replied, with a loud unhealthy sounding exhale "I remember that, remember it better than most. Maybe more than anyone left, but for some of us memories is all we got left. Memories, this shit little bar, and now you Steve. A long lost friend come back. You owe it to us. That day, your day, our day."

"It's a hell of a thing."

Old Dum Dum looked back at me, 23 years older than when I had last seen him. He had been a tank of a man, where had it all gone. Years on years, and it had all been just a few weeks ago. For me. It was a hell of a thing. How one day can change your world.

One Day



It was hard to breathe. You couldn't catch the air. Not here. I was somewhere around 38,000 feet, moving at nearly 400 miles an hour, I was 26 years old, I was a soldier, I was Captain America, and I was scared to death. It was April 14, 1945. In Italy the US Fifth Army was launching it's final offensive in Italy, moving into the Po Valley. High over the North Atlantic my pilot and I were dying and we knew it. It was happening again.

My pilot was 23 years old, from Irvine California, he was allergic to grapes and engaged to the daughter of an architect. Her name was Maggie McMurray, his name was Adam Koslik. We called him Tight Pants because he showed up on Day One in pants that had shrunk in the wash. His pants were tight. He was Jewish, she was an atheist. She was pregnant with a son, Michael after his Uncle. They wanted to keep it quiet until after the wedding to avoid the shame. They wanted a sister for Michael, Evangeline for her grandmother. Probably would have been invited to the bar-mitzvah and bat-mitzvah. He was shot once in the left lung and once through the right shoulder. The plane was smoking, jittering. We were at 27,000 feet now and still coming in right about 400 miles an hour. Still hard to breathe.

Hard to catch the air when you're going that fast. Hard to breathe when every breath hurts. Hard to control the yoke with a bullet in your shoulder and blood filling your lungs but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. We were both young men, we were both about to die, and there was nothing anyone was going to be able to do to save us. I was losing another friend, another brother. Bucky had been lost over the English Channel only a few months ago. I had never really processed that and now Tight Pants, and me with him. It was happening again.

We said the Lord's Prayer together through shuddering breaths as the instrument panel lit up and screeched meaningless warnings to us, I placed my hand on his shoulder, and a moment later the shaking intensified as the plane began to fall apart and we were lost to the skies and the frigid seas.

When I look back now those few minutes with Tight Pants took longer than the next 23 years. I could tell you all kinds of things about the cockpit of that fighter in those few minutes.

Tight Pant's shampoo smelled like apples. His deodorant smelled like that terrible chemically standard issue deodorant because that is exactly what it was. I had a rock in my boot. I still had a blown out blood vessel in my left arm from working out on base. That photo of his wife and him in San Francisco had come untaped and got sucked out the window. A piece of bread launched up from the floor as Tight Pants fought valiantly to save us. Muttering to pull through the pain and it would have had to hurt something fierce with that hole in his shoulder. Tight Pants had been eating in here. Wasn't supposed to. Probably wanted to eat with Maggie. I would have to reprimand him some other time.

All I could tell you about my experiences the last twenty years is that it was cold. Probably.

I woke up on a Japanese ship, the Ishii. I was under enemy control, they had put some serious research into what freezing conditions do to a human body. How to bring them back. It had been 23 years. They weren't the enemy anymore. They did their best for us. Their best wasn't enough to save Adam Koslik. That might have been because he had been hit twice by bullets that had somehow missed me. It might have been because of what Operation Rebirth had done to me. We had been dead for 23 years. We had been dead as long as Tight Pants had been alive and he still was. Adam was still dead. Bucky was still dead. Not me, not old Blondie. I was reborn. Again. Tight Pants and I, we had been found, but I would come to find I was still very much lost.

San Francisco, California
10:18 PM, December 31st 1967



"You said Adam Kauslic?"

"Yeah," I replied pressing my fingertips into my temples.

Dum Dum pulled out a notebook and started scribbling.

"You said..."

"Adam Koslik, K-O-S-L-I-K, Tight Pants from Irvine. He was 23 years old. Engaged to Maggie McMurray, son on the way, Michael."

I took another drink. I needed it, and as I turned to Dum Dum to ask about all this I found him already pouring more into my mug and he started speaking.

"This woman, her husband is missing in action in Vietnam. Commander Hoff. We're doing a thing. Well she's doing it and I'm aiming to help. Take a look at that mug."

It had a small black and white flag. Said POW MIA in a banner above a bowed head.

"That's going to be big for the family. What about the body?"

I told him the body had been sent back with me. Tight Pants and I had taken one last flight together. He was back in America, should be on the way home by now. He told me how much this was going to help. How it would bring closure.

I downed the mug.

"Survivor's guilt." He said, pouring into my mug once more but not quite so full.

"It's different. I'm different."

"No," he replied surprisingly forcefully, "No you aren't Steve. Not in this."

"Sure I am. You were one of the few who could keep up with me Dum Dum. They-"

"I know what they did Steven. That doesn't have shit to do with this."

I tried to respond again. It was different. Luck. Timeliness. Preferential treatment. I was Captain America. When I tried to protest more he interrupted me.

"That's survivor's guilt Rogers. That is what. it. is. Everyone has got reasons they think it's different for them. We all got something we feel guilty for. Someone we feel guilty about. We're survivors. Survivor's guilt."

I looked around. Got about half nods and half folks hiding their faces. I turned back.

"No Steve, take a good hard look."

I did. I was younger than most of them. I was in much better shape than most of them. I was intact. I was alive. Unscarred.

"We're The Leftovers Rogers," he said while I looked.

"You're a Leftover too." he said. Then he told me how he became a Leftover.
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Hidden 3 yrs ago 3 yrs ago Post by Hound55
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Flames lick up the face of an old cuckoo clock. The fire fuelled by wisdom of the words of thousands of years. Suddenly the trap door opens and the bird within finds itself overcome with the rising blaze, paint cracks under the extreme heat, and the clock is crushed under the weight of more books, a phonograph player and a golden Buddha.

The destruction of a trail of unique teachings, stories and wisdom, juxtaposed with the brevity of the new slogan seemingly repeated ad infinitum by the crowd en masse.

“破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新! 破四旧立四新!”

“Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!
Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!
Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News! Destroy the Four Olds! Cultivate the Four News!”










The pocketwatch ticked on once more.

Orson drifted awake from the poppy’s haze with the repetitious chanting from out in the street. His head lifted from the pillow which covered The Book of the Iron Fist, once his legacy, now his burden.

Every day he felt the sharp edges of the book, he was reminded of the day he’d taken the damnedable thing. After the wrath of K’un-Zi had been determined to be righteous. When his fate was to be sealed. His life forfeit.

He’d crashed through a sacred building to steal the tome, a man seeking to bring the cycle of violence to an end.

When he was kinder to himself he would call it the foolish action of a desperate man, drugged out of his mind.

But deep down he knew the poppy never hit that hard, due to the undying essence of what writhed within.

It was merely the stupid action of a desperate young fool.

Wisdom earned through the benefit of time made that much clear to him now. It changed nothing and was nothing but an unpleasant reminder, too dangerous to be left anywhere for just anyone to find, awkward both in size and weight to carry. A true burden earned.

The chanting grew louder. Orson would benefit from tea. Or perhaps something stronger. He sat up with the book in his lap and took the pocket watch from the small crate that functioned as a night stand and put it in his pocket. He’d reset the time on it and since got the hands moving again, it had returned to proper function as he’d begun to move on again. As he’d started his long trip West towards the returning city of his birth.

The chanting boomed louder still and there was a beating at the door. They were going to break his door in with whatever this nonsense was! Still more about these four ‘olds’ and ‘new’s he could make out from the echoing Mandarin.

He stepped to the door with the book in his hand, contemplating the door. For a second his hand glowed as he contemplated ‘unleashing the dragon within’ upon these men, but let his hand fall dim once again just as quickly.

When was the last time he’d taken of the poppy? How close was K’un L’un to realigning?

Whilst the power was his alone to wield, he wasn’t the only one who could sense the presence of the dragon’s life force. And as this world would realign with his old one, it would be quite possible for those who believed him dead to sense his presence if he allowed his own lifeforce to extend into the font of the chi of Shou-Lao the Undying. All the work in hiding himself for years ruined, for what? To halt the progress of a handful of unruly people beating down his door. No. He couldn’t allow this.

Orson turned the handle and the mob burst through, they never stopped chanting, they grabbed at the book, they grabbed at his clothes, his arms. Dozens everywhere! Taking his space!

<”Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!
Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!”>


Orson felt the book torn from him, he had seconds to turn this. He remembered the lessons of his Master Lei Kung the Thunderer. His words would always come when he needed them most. Always when his own nature seemed to be set against him in times of turmoil.

“Be like the water, Randall-Kai. You are so adept in the form of the Earth. Your blows are strong, as your foundation is strong. Punches rooted from the feet, developed in your legs, directed by your waist, and expressed through your hands. You have always taken for granted that the Earth can absorb water. But even with that which flows through your chakras… do you still believe you could best me?”

Flow. It never came to him naturally. But he could master it within himself, if he had the forethought.

The men gripped him and pulled him towards the open door, he stepped willingly, arms gripped and pulled, he twisted and writhed, but not resisting. He twisted to find a comfort in this new reality, his arms turned, hands open. He felt something solid within a pocket of one of the men, grasped it and drew it forth.

He opened his mouth and chanted with the other men, his Mandarin perfect in pronunciation. He drew what was in his hands to the sky. It was a Little Red Book.

<”Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!
Smash the four olds! Cultivate the four news!”>


Orson chanted, the men chanted. The morass of humanity chanted.

The mob hit the street and the book was tossed into the fire. It was the early afternoon, Orson had mostly been travelling by night. He stood on the street holding the Little Red Book aloft and barked until the night came. Riding the flow until the moon presented itself and the crowd dissipated for another day.




Li Hong Jianguo raced home as the school's clock signalled the end of another day. He rushed, desperate to complete another chapter of his latest obsession. He'd found an old copy of some kind of manuscript containing an old tale in amongst his parents things and was desperate to see where the main characters' story would progress to next.

It seemed to be a story of some old monk journeying to the West, with his three servants. One a pig-man of some kind with another being some type of reformed water demon.

But the real character of interest, the real star of the show, was the other 'servant' called Sun Wukong - the Monkey King. He was clever, and brave, and an excellent fighter, and tricky and cheeky in all the right ways. In fact, Li Hong Jianguo could barely even talk about what he'd discovered to his friends without getting overly excited and talking a mile a minute. About this Monkey King who had been kicked out of heaven for being so naughty and wreaking havoc, and almost nothing could be done about him because he was such a powerful force. But now he was being taught a lesson and had to go back West to help this monk bring back these Holy teachings so he could get back in to heaven.

<"He can jump 108,000 li in a single leap! And he's mastered 72 earthly forms! And he can run faster than a meteor! And he can freeze his enemies! And he can avoid water so he doesn't drown! And he can avoid fire so he doesn't burn! And in fact--! In fact! When he was trapped in a furnace from this guy for 49 days he stayed in there safe! And when he came out he had--!>

"火眼金睛!" Which the young boy stumbled over with his immature pronunciation, as "Hy--Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng!"

<"This fiery-golden eye glare! That makes all of his enemies be revealed in their true forms! So he can tell if they're demons--! And-- And fight them with his magical staff!">

Li Hong Jianguo finally got home and called out for his parents, hearing no reply he went to where he'd stored the old manuscript and lay it out on the floor before himself to continue reading. Flipping through the wad of pages in search of where he left off it fell to a section in Chapter 87 where he was barely able to quickly get a glimpse of the writing before it was whisked away...

人心生一念,天地悉皆知。善恶若无报,乾坤必有私。




<"I did not raise you, Li Hong Jianguo, to waste away your time with this sanctimonious old drivel! Of all the things you could be doing, you fill your head with this nonsense! You shame--! You shame your name!> The older man snatched up the manuscript and started marching towards the front door.

<"Father, no! Where are you taking-- PLEASE NO, FATHER! Don't do that! FATHER!"> He chased him out the front door and watched as the manuscript was flung into the flames, rendering the boy speechless and aghast.

There was chanting all around but the boy heard nothing. He was too shocked. Trying to understand why he would be so quick to do such a thing. Why had they had it in the house if it could not be read? Chairman Mao was so strong, and he was helping make China so strong, so why were people so afraid of simple stories? What possible explanation could there be for everything that was happening in the world today? The boy watched it turn to embers before he returned to the house.

He tried to remember something of what he had just read. Hoping the burning words may have left their own scolding mark in his memory, as well as they had in the flaming pile.

He decided to write what he had just glimpsed. In some endeavour to try and cling to some meaning or memory from everything that had just taken place. He'd barely had time to register the characters, and hoped by writing what he could remember perhaps the rest would form some kind of sense.

When he lifted the pen from the paper he looked down at the characters for the meaning the poetic prose revealed:

人心生一念,天地悉皆知。善恶若无报,乾坤必有私。


<"One wish born in the heart of man
Is known throughout Heaven and Earth.
If vice or virtue lacks reward,
Unjust must be the universe.">


He uttered the words, and then sensing their power and ability to get him a thrashing within an inch of his life, he tore the page from his book and ate it. He made a silent vow to himself that he'd never forget the words, nor stop considering them.

Whatever the vow of an eight year old boy means...




Shadows cast a flat matte across all as night had fallen heavily in the town, and whilst the blaze no longer roared, the embers still glowed brightly, giving proof to the will of The People which had been done on this day.

Orson had decided he'd wasted enough time in this township, and under cover of darkness it was time to push on further West - to continue his Journey onwards to the Heavenly City. He'd collected all of his personal items into a makeshift bindle and wrapped the ceremonial mask of K'un L'un around the top half of his face in some small effort to hide his identity for what would have to come next.

A white man wandering around Mao's China already aroused more negative suspicion than he would have liked, without anybody recognizing him for anything actually negative. Which this certainly would be, if he was seen.

But again... this was his burden.

Li Hong Jianguo awoke from his fitful sleep, his cheeks salty dry from earlier tears. He stumbled to his feet and went to the bathroom. On his way back to bed he found himself walking to the front door. He didn't decide to, at least he didn't think he did. He just found himself there, watching on.

Perhaps it was in memory of how the Monkey King had survived Lao Zi's furnace? But that was just a story. Surely a character therein could not survive a similar crucible?

Orson knelt down and hunched over the smouldering embers, as if he were a poor man of the streets looking for warmth.

Li watched on as a hunched figure with something wrapped around his head huddled by the fire. Something wrapped around his head? Could it be the headband the monk Tang Sanzang gave to the Monkey King? Li Hong Jianguo gasped.

The figure turned...



Li covered his mouth as he saw the elongated eyes that seemed to extend as if crackling like fire. He saw the "staff" that held the man's bindle and gasped again, but this time muffled it into his hand.

<"Huǒyǎn-jīnjīng! The fiery-golden eye glare! And Ruyi Jingu Bang! The double golden banded staff! It couldn't be!">

Orson could have sworn he heard something, but couldn't see anyone as his eyes still adjusted to the darkness. Nevertheless, the longer he spent here, the more dangerous things would become as his presence would be more likely to gain attention. Time being of the essence, both for what may lie waiting for him in this world as well as the other. No time to drag out what must come next.

He lets the icy calm flow over him once more, for when the flow of water meets the burning fire in equal proportion no harm can be done, and iron becomes tempered, not damaged.

He calls silently upon the will which writhes within him, heavenly chi which was never originally his, but he has earned by combat. By deed. That which has never left him, which forms the very core of his being, regardless how surpressed - he calls it forth, to flow, meld and merge into a single place.

Into his hand -- until it begins to smoulder and glow -- until it becomes LIKE UNTO -- A THING OF IRON!


Orson plunges his glowing hand into the hot embers of the still smouldering flame pit, and removes the book, glowing as it was reconnected with it's original source. The book remained unharmed, unburned.

For what damage could fire hope to do against pages comprised of the scales of a dragon?

Li was astounded. It seemed very much to him, like the Monkey King had himself managed to survive the burning of the books, and hid, only to return and pull HIS OWN STORY from the flames! Which glowed golden with its power, and now he would continue on his Heavenly Journey West.

Orson gave one final cursory check around, as he let his hand fall dim. He tucked the book under an arm within the thick folds of his clothes, threw his bindle over his shoulder and took off West through the streets at a fleetfooted pace, eager to put some distance between himself, the fire and what had taken place.

The K'un L'un Mountains were still many miles away. The Heavenly City awaited, but would not wait long.
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