An Outsider

Teen Titans: Divided We Fall

Anyone gonna react to GG, or will I field it?

Teen Titans: Divided We Fall

Woot! Reference to an old Young Justice game only Sam and Wraith'll get!

@GreenGrenade

I don't think I got it.

Teen Titans: Divided We Fall

I'm waiting on the other guy. *cough*@BlackSam3091*cough*

@GreenGrenade

Fuck that Sam guy, and his lax as hell posting schedule.

Teen Titans: Divided We Fall

Pistolera

I flash the meagrest of half-grins at Accelerate when he agrees to join the JR suicide squad. Though the odds still seem near unbelievably high, and it still looks like my first act as the new boss is gonna be sending half of my team to their untimely demise, but I think their chance of success just went up a notch from certain death to probably certain death. It ain't much, but it's something.

“Well, now that that's all settled we can. . .” I begin, but get quickly interrupted by a voice, crackling down the intercom. My first thought is that we've been made, that we're fucked. My first instinct is to run, to lose the kids, use them as a distraction to make good my escape. Fuck, but my first instincts are utter bastards. I stay settled, mind working over time. Did the newcomer just mention Sandstorm?

What did happen to him? I always assumed that he'd fled the base after our less than stellar night together, too embarrassed to face me the next morning, choosing self-impossed exile over an awkward conversation, just to decide he wasn't coming back after he discovered we murdered half of San Fran. Sure, I was half curious as to what had happened to him, but with everything else that happened since discovering his fate just hadn't been a priority. But by the sounds of it, maybe there was more to his vanishing act than met the eye.

That was dependent on if this newcomer was telling the truth or not. He might be one of Luthor's lackeys, just trying to sly his way in. Thing is, he's already found us, so while I could tell him to bugger off, there's no guarantee he'll leave. And if he does, he might inardventally drag all sorts of other attention on us.

No, one way or another we have to deal with this now.

“I'm gonna let him in, see what he wants. If he tries anything kinky I want you to smash him into paste.” I say to Sentinel. No matter how dangerous this guy is, I don't reckon he could take our resident powerhouse.

I buzz the door open, waiting for the newcomer to come in before I continue.

“Talk, talk fast, and be convincing. I've got an itchy trigger finger at the best of times, and this is a damn sight from the best of times.” I gesture to Kid Krypton to stand behind the newcomer, blocking his only escape. Whatever this newcomer is planning, he's made his bed now.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

New York
March, 21ST, 2005
4AM

The landing floor creaked like an old time galleon, while the front door squealed open like a stuck pig. Ted couldn't remember them ever making a noise like that before, but then he'd never had to sneak into his own house before. Last time he'd been an urban vigilante he'd been an extremely eligible bachelor, now he was an old man who shared his home with a teenager. Back in the good ol' days he could come and go as he pleased, whatever time of night, and only have to worry about passers-by on the street noticing how much time Wildcat spent in and round Ted Grant's place. Now he had to worry about waking Tommy and giving the game away, every whisper of noise as conspicuous as rolling thunder.

All those worries combined still couldn't wipe the smile off his face though, not after the night's good work. Not after he'd discovered that he still had it. That Wildcat was still the biggest badass going. (Suck on that Batman, ya young pretender).

By a real stroke of luck it had transpired that Campagna actually worked for Moretti, and had started singing like an eager-to-please canary, feeding Ted all the information he could have possibly needed, and more. Ted almost felt bad for dropping the Weed and the junkie trio off with the cops after how helpful they were. . . Almost.

The former champion padded through to his bedroom, unwinding his fistwraps and peeling off his sweat-soiled costume. Damn, but he felt good. Like top-of-the-world good. Like how he imagined Superman-felt good. And all he had to do was put the mask back on. He shoulda have done it years ago.

The landing floor creaked like an old time galleon, while the front door squealed open like a stuck pig. Ted ears pricked, whole body tense. What the hell could that be, at this hour? Surely Moretti couldn't have found him, not so quickly. His neck broke out in a cold sweat. What would they do to Tommy?

He heard stealthy footsteps making their way through the apartment. One set of footsteps. That wasn't right, Moretti wouldn't be stupid enough to send one man, because unless the guy could tangle with Iron-Man then he wasn't gonna be nearly enough. Ted crept behind his bedroom door, ready to leap out and throttle the intruder, soon as he sounded close enough to grab.

Closer and closer the steps got.

Ted's fists started to itch.

Closer still.

The intruder yawned.

With a thunderous sigh Ted pushed opened his door and stepped into the hall.

"You just get in Tommy?"

"Nah, just got up to get some water." Tommy lied. Even if he hadn't been caught in the act it would have been easy to call his bluff. His shoulder length dark hair was clumped in greasy rat-tails, bags as big as suitcases had formed under his red veined eyes, and he was still dressed in shirt and jeans. The stench of smoke and alcohol hung heavy in the air around the boy, a potent reminder of Ted's own misspent youth. Worse still was the fact that Tommy was too young to be either drinking or smoking, especially on a school night. This was the sort of thing a father had to stamp out quick and hard, before it became a habit. . .

Only problem there was that Ted didn't really feel like a father. He hadn't been there for Tommy, hadn't even known about him until a year ago, his mother had seen to that. She had kept the secret of Tommy's birth, and she was probably right to. Ted hadn't been father material, a hard drinking, modern day gladiator who picked men apart with his fists for money. He'd been on a path of self-destruction, good for a one night stand, but not for raising a family. Only reason he and Tommy ever met was because the mother had passed, and that small fact didn't make Ted a father. It just made him a man trying, and most likely failing, to make up for lost time with a boy who shared his blood.

Still, he felt he should try to steer the boy onto the straight and narrow.

"Tommy, tell me the truth now. Did you just get in?" Ted did his best approximation of a stern but fair father face. Truth was he wasn't quite sure how it was supposed to look. When he was training a fighter he just growled or screamed at em. He didn't think that would pass as good fathering. Tommy still didn't look all that receptive, his stance locking up defensively as he screwed up his nose, annoyed at being called out.

"No, I told you, I. . . " The boy tailed off as his nostrils flared, and he sniffed at the air. His face softened a fraction. "Wait, did you just get in?" He asked. Ted stiffened.

"What, no! Don't change. . . "

"You smell like sweat. . . And is that blood? What the hell have you been doing?" Damn that boy had a good nose. Must get it from the mothers side.

"Nothing, I was sleeping!" Protested Ted, taking a step back towards his room.

"Really, because I swear I can smell. . . "

"Forget it. Just go to bed Tommy. You've got school in the morning."

"Fair enough. 'Night Ted."

"Night."

Ted pulled the bedroom door closed behind him, marveling at how quickly that had gone south.

Who woulda figured fatherhood for being so difficult.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Fucking Byrd, making me have to use Google translate.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

New York
March, 20th, 2005
11PM

The three junkies that had 'run' into Ted earlier took a while in rousing themselves, taking time to nurse their wounded pride. Not too long though, as men like those don't have what you call an 'abundance' of pride. That's why they found it so easy to steal an old woman's purse later that day, threatening her at knife point until she handed over. She wasn't hurt, but she might have been, and even if she was it wouldn't have troubled their consciences much, just another thing they didn't have an abundance of.

They took the bag straight to their closest dealer, one who operated out of a dive bar just outside of Queens, a real rough neck joint called “Diamond Dave's” where the beer was nine parts water, the women were all short a few teeth, and the guys were just as likely to stab you as shake your hand. More likely, really, if you wore a shiny wristwatch. Still, Dave's had some standards, and even they drew the line at letting in strung out junkies, on the grounds that they were sick of the meth-heads getting high then OD'ing in the johns. So the trio was stopped by a burly bouncer at the doors, and no amount of pleading, wheedling, or begging would convince the gorilla to let them past. He did relent at fetching their dealer though, but only after they'd paid him twenty bucks.

The dealer, a short, scrawny fella named Louis "The Weed" Campagna met them in the alley behind Dave's, the kinda place lifted straight outta a cheap grindhouse slasher movie, fifty feet long, nearby flickering street lamps barely providing enough illumination to see by, a discarded baby stroller dumped under a mountain of trash, puddles of murky, grim-dark water pooling, carrying God knows what diseases. It was so scuzzy and uninviting that it almost looked like it was purposefully designed that way, that there was no way mere chance could have made such an unappealing area.

And so that grimy alleyway served as the backdrop to the drug deal. Little did the principal parties know though, that it was also serving as a certain vigilante's hunting ground, where he thought he might be able to angle himself a real bottom feeder who might be 'persuaded' to give him some information on Victor Moretti's operations.

And so the junkies had their second run in of the day with Ted Grant.

Only this time he was dressed as Wildcat.

And this time he wasn't pulling his punches.

*****

Wildcat coalesced from the shadows like a wraith, one moment nothing more than the hint of a shadow, the next full, and substantial, and terrifyingly real. One meth-head, the one that had first pulled the knife on Ted that one morning that seemed like a lifetime ago now, caught a glimpse of him as he emerged from the smudgy darkness, but before the junkie could cry, scream, call a warning or even shit his pants, Wildcat was on him, all rage, and power, and grim iron purpose.

It was something he'd learnt early in life, that the best way to start a fight was to start it sudden and to start it hard, to knock the other guy out before he even knew he was in a fight.

Maybe not all that sporting, but damn if it wasn't effective.

The first junkie caught a big haymaker to the jaw, so much force and momentum behind it that it woulda stood an even to high chance of knocking a bronco out cold. Some strung-out coke-zombie didn't stand a chance, and hit the ground without much say in the argument.

The next meth-head, a short, surprisingly stout man with a badly considered blonde soul patch, took his beating better, weathering a combination of two straight rights then a left cross before being thrown from his feet, landing as graceless as a sack of doorknobs upon the unrelenting alley stones, followed by a pretty audible crack that Ted was willing to bet was the scumbag's tail bone.

Put a smile on his face.

By this time the last junky, the youngest looking of the group who bore a bizarre resemblance to Steve Buscemi, and Campagna, were starting to react to Wildcat's sudden onslaught. Buscemi-lookalike had decided the better part of valour was discretion, quite wisely turning tail and hoofing it to the relative safety of the street, while Campagna was reaching into his nylon weave jacket, no doubt about to pull a weapon. Wildcat let him have all the time he needed, let the dealer retrieve his weapon, let him think it was gonna even the odds.

He could be real cruel like that sometimes, a cat playing with it's food.

The Weed was just extending his pistol, a winsy colt semi, in Wildcat's direction, finger on the trigger and the beginnings of a triumphant grin worming it's way onto his pinched face when the vigilante made his move. Fluid as flowing water he slid to the side of Campagna's arm, too fast for the dealer to see, never mind react to. Big, calloused, weathered knuckles folded over the colt, forcing the slide back, Wildcat's other hand cupping the dealer's elbow, then with a swift jerk he hyper-extended the joint. Campagna squawked like a plucked chicken, excruciating pain travelling all down his arm, forcing his hand open and making him drop his pistol. The dealer fell to his knee's, more through shock at the pain than the pain itself, but it still gave Wildcat the time he needed to catch the Buscemi lookalike, before putting him on his ass just as hard as he'd done the others.

Campagna was starting to recover himself somewhat as Wildcat returned, stalking like a predator that had just cornered it's prey and knew it had nowhere else to run. The Weed was looking like he was thinking about making a play for the gun, but if that was his plan then he'd left it too late. Way too late.

The big vigilante hoisted the dealer up by his hair, yanking him up like a caveman raider that had just found a new bride. Campagna might have thought the same, squealing like a virgin bride on her wedding night. The Weed's eyes darted between Wildcat's and the pistol, still lying close enough to grab, if he had the stones for it.

"Uh-uh boy," Growled the vigilante, "Nobody ever tell you that it's bad form to take a gun to a fistfight?"

Campagna never did get the chance to reply before being knocked unconscious by virtue of a heavy left.

*****

"Wake up!"

Campagna didn't seem all that obliging, so Wildcat gave him a little tap, just a little something to get the cognitive processes up and running. It worked a charm, the dealer jerking towards consciousness.

In another life, Ted mused, I was probably a doctor.

The Weed ran unfocused eyes about his new environment, half-befuddled mind trying to make sense of his plight. Pointless though, as even if those eyes didn't carry such heavy daze then the room was to gloomy for him to ever pierce it's shadowed depths, and even if he did somehow manage to figure out the riddle of his new holding place, well he'd never recognize it. Few men would. He was tied to a chair in the back of Grant's Gym, in the old storage space where Ted kept the spare weights, burst punching bags, and washing machines. Hardly the Justice Society Headquarters, but it was dark, scary, and soundproofed. It would do in a pinch.

Even so, just in case Ted decided to give Campagna something else to think about, smoothly crossing into the dealer's line of vision. The sharp, frightened intake of air let the vigilante know that he'd been spotted, and for a moment he just posed. Useful for intimidation purposes, a half glimpsed figure that no doubt means nothing but ill. Right that moment Campagna would be taking in the midnight black costume, the tattered leather jacket that had seen more battles than the American military, the fistwraps that had faded from a pristine white into a murky red, the mask that would just hint at some monstrous visage, some ferocious beast that meant a person more malice than winter. Yeah, if Campagna wasn't shitting himself then Ted Grant was a ballerina.

"You don't kill people!" Choked the weed in a broken voice, clutching at the words like they were some kinda lifeline, that he'd just found his way out. Oh, but Ted was gonna enjoy this.

With a bone grating chuckle the old man laughed, a sound as harsh as headstones. Smoothly he stepped in close to where Campagna was seated. The dealer threw himself back in his chair, trying to put as much space between himself and his captor, but the old vigilante just leaned in closer, big paw curling round the back of his 'guests' head, forcing him to meet his gaze.

"Oh boy, I musta hit you harder than I thought. You're confusing me with that other black clad, pointy eared, vigilante type. See this ain't Gotham and I ain't Batman. I will kill ya." Campagna whimpered before breaking into a sob, meaning the bluff was working. It was almost to easy. Wildcat let his captive's head droop, taking a step back while rolling his shoulders.

". . . If it suits my purposes. See kid, I ain't unreasonable. I'm more than willing to meet a guy halfway, if he's willing to meet me. If he's willing to cut a deal." He didn't even need to turn around to see if Campagna had bitten. The scumbag seen his lifeline, and he leapt for it.

"I'll deal, I'll deal!"

"Clever boy." Smirked the vigilante. He sauntered over to an old fashioned tape recorder, set up on a table and just out of the Weed's eyeline. With a flick of a switch he set it rolling.

"Now I'm gonna ask some questions. You tell me the answers. You hesitate, then I'm gonna hit you. Whether you're avoiding the question, acting the fool, or playing for time, I don't care, I will hit you."

"You lie, and trust me when I say I'll know, I'll kill you. Simple as that. You follow."

Campagna nodded furiously. Wildcat growled, slapped the the bound man round the head, not hard but not exactly a love tap either. Campagna yelped out a yes. Satisfied he now understood the rules, the vigilante continued.

"Good. Now, first things first. Do you know of Victor Moretti?"

"I work for Victor!" Cried the Weed triumphantly, happy to be of use. Happy to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sure, he'd have to betray some pretty dangerous men, but right at that minute Wildcat was there.

And they weren't.

And Wildcat was worse.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Same.

@Hillan

It ain't working.

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

Oh my God, @Morden Man has cracked!

Maximum Comics: Dawn of Justice | REBRANDING - PLEASE STAY TUNED

We figured out the meaning of life was related to very bad egg based puns.

@Byrd Man

Speak for yourself, I was on to that one an eggs-tremely long time ago.