Byrd Man

The Bogus Byrd Man's Biblioteca of Bits

Baltimore
Sixteen Months Ago

“You are a walking enigma, my friend.”

Detectives Burke and McNeil were studies in contrast. McNeil was young, black and handsome with a well-trimmed beard. Burke was short and fat with pasty Irish skin and white hair that had probably once been the color of fire. Despite their differences they both wore the same department store suits, and they were both BPD homicide detectives. To Tresser they as well have been identical twins.

McNeil was doing the talking as the two of them sat across the metal table from Tresser. They were waiting for him outside his rowhouse when he got home from the club. Burke leaned against the hood of the unmarked police car with a cigar clamped between his teeth while McNeil played on his phone. A short ride later and they were here, in an interrogation room on the sixth floor of the BPD building.

“We did some digging into you,” said McNeil. “Or at least we tried to. We know a Thomas Tresser matching your description and DOB was born in Baltimore and graduated from Edmondson.”

“Impressive,” Burke chimed in. “I bet you were the only white kid in your class.”

“One of three,” said Tresser.

“Mommy and daddy couldn’t afford parochial school?” asked Burke.

When that didn’t get a rise from Tresser, McNeil pressed on.

“You joined the Navy, Tom, right out of high school. Up until yesterday that was all we knew. Took awhile, but the NCIS boys got us your file. I have to say I am impressed by what I read, you know from the few parts that weren’t redacted.”

“You’re a real fucking G.I. Joe, Tresser. You kill Bin Laden?”

“I got an alibi for that one,” said Tresser.

“But it got me and Joe here wondering,” said McNeil. “Your Navy records end in ‘12. You pop up on BPD’s radar two months ago. That’s a gap of almost five years. Five years and there’s no travel records, no employment history, no tax filings. For all intents and purposes, Thomas Tresser did not exist until he reappeared as muscle for Jimmy Kappas.”

“It don’t work like that,” grunted Burke. “Not in today’s world. Everyone leaves a footprint.”

“There a point to this?” said Tresser. “Or are the two of you just working on your patter?”

“I think the black hole was created,” said McNeil. “Someone out there erased your history because you did something bad, so bad they couldn’t have it getting out. So they swept it under the rug and you were left out in the cold.”

“I was in Vietnam,” said Burke. “An MP during the tail end of the war. I ran into a couple of spooks when I was there. The way they carry themselves, the way they look at you, look through you, it’s how you look, Tresser. Like you’re figuring out all the ways you can kill a guy.”

“Jimmy Kappas started really taking over the west side about the time you show up,” said McNeil. “The Greek’s war with the goombas was brief and very one-sided. What was it, Joey? Six bodies?”

“Seven,” said Burke. “Every single one of them Carlo’s guys.”

“So it begs the question,” McNeil said as he leaned forward and placed his palms against the metal table. “Why is a killer like you working for a greaseball like Kappas? It’s like Babe Ruth playing little league.”

“If you got anything besides bullshit and conjecture, let me know,” said Tresser. “If you’re going to charge me with something, then do it and I’ll get a lawyer. If not, then I guess I’m free to go.”

“We’re watching you, Tresser,” McNeil said as he stood. “You don’t get to commit six murders in my city and get away with it.”

“Seven,” said Tresser. “At least, according to Detective Burke.”

A few minutes later Burke led Tresser down the halls of the Homicide Unit. They passed by the big whiteboard with names written on it in marker. Each homicide detective headed a column with a list of names and cases underneath it in different colors. There were a few written in black, but the overwhelming amount of names were in blood red. Tresser caught a glimpse of McNeil and Burke’s columns and the names underneath it.

“Lot of red, detective,” said Tresser. “Maybe too much.”

“They go black,” said Burke. “They always do eventually. Nobody gets away for good. Escape is just an illusion. Just remember that, Tresser.”

Before Tresser could respond, he turned when he saw motion out the corner of his eyes. Leaning against a watercooler, a paper cup in his hands, was Sarge Steel. Steel winked at him before going back to his water.

“You don’t have to tell me that, Detective,” he said with a sigh. “I know it myself. Too fucking well.”

---

Hub City
Now

Tresser pulled over to the side of the street and turned the car off. He sat in silence for a long time, dwelling over the events of the last hour. Killing wasn’t new to Tresser. He’d done it as both a SEAL and spy, and he’d gotten used to doing it during this assignment to maintain his cover. But the difference with those murders was that he had always killed some kind of criminal, be it a terrorist or rival trafficker or muscle. They were always someone whose actions had warranted murder in some shape or form. But the body in the truck of the car wasn’t a criminal. It was a cop who was just doing his job. To some killing was killing, but not to Tresser. A line had been crossed and he felt like he was living in a new era now.

He made sure the coast was clear before popping the trunk and getting out of the car. He was somewhere in the city’s industrial section. Half-full during the day, it was a ghost town at night. He’d be able to do his business without any interruptions. With a flashlight in one gloved hand and a pair of pliers in the other, he looked down at the body resting in the trunk of the car. The body stared back up at him with lifeless eyes. With the flashlight Tresser got his first good luck at the cop. He was young, twenty-eight his driver’s license had said, with rust color hair and the stubbly makings of a beard. Tresser thought back to that cop in Baltimore. The one who had all the answers, but yet still never asked the right questions. His ID said he was Officer William Janko with the drug enforcement unit. Tresser tossed the ID and badge over a bridge on his way here. No wedding ring. That gave him some consolation. At least Tresser wasn’t tearing a family apart.

“I’m sorry, Janko,” he said aloud as he gripped the pliers.

The Hub PD would move heaven and earth to find a missing cop, and they would zero in on the body found in the car as their likely candidate. But Tresser would do whatever he could to slow them down and buy himself more time to get out of here. Screwing up Janko’s dental work would slow the identifying of the body down. The alias he used for this trip was now burned. The rental car was tied to it so he was in no real danger. The problem was that same name had a return ticket waiting for him in Chicago. He would have to get out of the country another way with another name.

After nearly fifteen minutes of pulling and tearing, Janko’s teeth were scattered through the trunk of the car. Tresser dropped the pliers on Janko’s chest and retreated to the backseat of the car. He came back with a canister of gas. He poured part of it over Janko’s body before he closed the trunk. The rest of the canister he emptied across the car’s front and back seats before leaving the can in the back. He pulled a rag from his pocket before removing the gas cap and stuffing the rag into the fuel tank. He pulled out a metal lighter and put flame to the rag. It would act as a slow moving wick.

Tresser started to walk away. He was halfway down the block when the gas tank caught fire and the car exploded, the extra gas turning the car into a ball of flames. Tresser could feel the intensity of the heat on the back of his neck. He turned and looked back to watch the mini-inferno roar. The side of the fire covered up the noise of feet scuffling across pavement until it was too late. Tresser started to turn, only for something hard to crash against the side of his head. He fell to the ground and winced as he was kicked in the stomach.

A big man in a black turtleneck stood above him with a shotgun in his hands. Just behind him stood Broker with a look on his face that was somewhere between amusement and annoyance.

“Janko was one of my best men,” he said with a tut. “It’s a shame I’m gonna have to take it out on you.”

The man in the turtleneck brought the butt of the shotgun down on Tresser’s head and it all went to black.

The Bogus Byrd Man's Biblioteca of Bits

Washington D.C.
Twenty Months Ago

“Where were you when 9/11 happened?”

Tresser looked away from the pond and turned to face Steel. He was sitting beside him on the park bench. This was their third meeting in the past week and it was almost identical to the previous two. Every time it had been in a public place, somewhere they could be seen but audio surveillance would be hard to get. Per Steel’s orders Tresser spent nearly two hours before the meeting running countermeasures to throw off any potential tails.

“I was in high school,” said Tresser. “I was in ninth grade at the time.”

“But what about the day?” Steel asked. “September 11th, 2001. Do you remember exactly where you were?”

“No,” said Tresser. “I… used to... I think I was in my homeroom… no that would have been too early to have heard about it. It’s slipped away.”

“Of course,” Sarge Steel said with a slight nod. “More and more people are forgetting about the details of that day. Biggest tragedy in US history, and they’re moving on from it.”

“That’s how it works,” Tresser shrugged. “Time marches on, memories fade. I--”

“I was on my way to the Pentagon when a plane hit it,” said Steel. “My office was on the western side of the building, the one that got destroyed in the attack. One hundred and twenty-five of my friends and co-workers died that day. That memory hasn’t faded, Tresser. No matter how much time marches on, they're still dead.”

Tresser was at a loss for words. He remembered the aftermath and the way everyone in the country seemed to come together and rally around the flag. He also remembered how quickly it all went to shit. Patriot Acts, prolonged war in two countries. He’d witnessed firsthand the folly of US foreign policy when he was a SEAL, and time and time again when he was a CIA spook.

“If you could stop the next 9/11,” said Steel. “How far would you go to accomplish it?

“I’d do whatever it takes. At JSOC they said we stopped it several times over.”

“I bet that they did,” Steel chuckled. “The special forces boys hang their hats on that claim every chance they get. But I’m not talking about what you do to someone else to stop a major attack. What would you do to yourself? Would you die? Ruin your life? Does your life and happiness trump the lives of thousands?”

“This is starting to sound like a philosophy class,” said Tresser. “About to break out the trolley problem?”

Steel shook his head and looked at Tresser. “I’m gonna cut through the bullshit, son. I’ve combed through every bit of your files, both your time with DEVGRU and with the Activity. I like what I’ve read and I like what I’ve seen from you in these little chats of ours. I want to offer you a job… well, not so much a job but a mission.”

“What’s the mission?”

“Deep cover. I don’t mean pretending to be an Austrian drug dealer or some extremist right winger. You’re going to be a bad guy and live the life, 24/7/365. It means leaving the Activity and having your life rewritten to become a fallen angel in need of a job. Low-hanging fruit for the people we want to trap. What do you think?”

Tresser looked out across the park. It was early afternoon but there were a few dozen people going about their lives. He half-remembered some quote about people being able to live in comfort because of the people who lived in the shadows and did the things necessary for their comfort.

“What do I need to do?” asked Tresser.

“Leave that to me, Tom,” Steel said as he stood. “We’ll work on your legend. For now prepare yourself. Very shortly you’re going to go through the rabbit hole.”

---

Hub City
Now

Tresser whipped his rental car into the parking garage and found a spot to park. He watched the rearview mirror and waited to see any movement from behind him. A car on the highway managed to keep a steady three lengths behind him and got off the same on-ramp, keeping behind him all the way to downtown.

His first instinct was to cut and run back to France. Vertigo would understand the move, especially if this was a setup looking to get to him and his business. But Steel wanted intel to give to SHIELD, something to barter with in case he ever needed it. He also brought up another angle that intrigued Tresser. What if Broker was doing talent scouting? What if whatever HYDRA was, and Steel wasn’t sure exactly what it was, wanted to poach him away from Vertigo?

“What if you’re wrong and they try to kill me?”

“Kill them first.”

Tresser got out the car and started out on foot. He walked through downtown Hub. A few blocks away from the parking garage he noticed he was being followed. He caught glimpses in windows as he passed them and managed to catch snatches as he looked back from time to time. A man in a hoodie and jeans, white and very nondescript. Whoever he was, he wasn’t very good at shadowing. Tresser felt for the pistol tucked into his waistband as he stepped into an alley and waited for the man.

A few moments later, he came into view, hurrying with a gun pulled out and ready to aim. Tresser reached out and disarmed the man with a quick blow to the elbow. He stumbled back and started to pull a knife. Tresser stopped him in his tracks with two quick shots from the man’s own gun. The bullets ripped through his chest and dropped him to the ground. The knife clattered against the pavement along with something else. Holding his shooter’s stance, Tresser stepped up and kicked the knife and other object away. Even in the dim lighting he could make out what it was:

A golden shield with the words HUB CITY written on the top rocker, POLICE DEPARTMENT on the bottom rocker.

“Fuck,” Tresser said under his breath.

The Bogus Byrd Man's Biblioteca of Bits

Part I:
Down the Rabbit Hole

"But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'
'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'"
-- Lewis Carroll

French Riviera

Tresser watched Vertigo do a line of cocaine off the glass coffee table. They were in the opulent cabin on Vertigo’s yacht somewhere near Saint-Tropez. Vertigo snorted and rubbed his nose before shaking his head.

“Careful,” said Tresser. “Too much and you won’t be able to get hard.”

Vertigo chuckled and grabbed his crotch.

“No need to worry, Tresser. For me, getting hard is so easy.”

Tresser resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With his accent and gaudy jewelry, Vertigo was the perfect picture of Eurotrash. He was from some small Eastern European country, a deposed noble who clung to his title of count like a drowning man clings to a life raft.

“How are our friends in New York, Tresser?”

“The Campisis send their love, boss.”

“I can’t spend fucking love. What about their money?”

“I took care of it,” Tresser said with a slight sigh. “It wasn’t easy, but I think Angelo learned the hard way not to fuck with people with enough weapons to supply a standing army.”

Vertigo laughed and started to chop together another line with his black credit card.

“This is good shit,” Vertigo said after doing another line. “I need you back to America, Tresser. A potential business client will need wooing. You know of this Hub City?”

“Vaguely. It’s a real shit-hole.”

“Who cares?” Vertigo asked with a shrug. “Money spends regardless of where it comes from.”

Vertigo stood while Tresser started for the deck of the yacht. Two beautiful women in slinky dresses came from the cabin downstairs and wrapped their arms around Vertigo’s waist. He chuckled and said something to them in French, something that made them laugh, but not too hard that they sounded disingenuous. That was the difference between top dollar callgirls and the cheap ones.

“Call me when you are in Hub City and have made contact,” Vertigo said as he pulled his eyes away from the two hookers. “We’ll go from there.”

“Sure.”

Tresser started to walk away as the two women began to undress.

---

O’Hare Airport
Chicago

Tresser swiped his credit card and bought twenty-four hours worth of time on the airport locker. He placed a simple smartphone inside the locker and closed it up. Tradecraft dictated that someone would be by in the next twenty-four hours to collect the phone. The phone was only capable of data storage. On it was Tresser’s report on his movements over the last month.

Per the op guidelines, he never wrote anything down or left any evidence of his true identity where Vertigo could find them. He always bought a brand new laptop before boarding a plane. While in the air and cut off from almost all digital signals he would write up a report, put it on the dummy phone, and destroy the laptop soon after landing.

The report chronicled Tresser’s activities in New York City, along with the meeting Vertigo and Tresser in Turin with some real-life Italian mobsters. It seemed Vertigo was eager to get in bed with the Camorra, Europe’s oldest and most powerful criminal organization. If he could do that, then he’d really be playing in the big leagues. Maybe that would get him and Tresser in the room with the real people behind LEVIATHAN.

Tresser used his false passport and credit card to rent a car. Vertigo, for whatever reason, never wanted to directly fly in to whatever city he was doing business in. He’d always fly into the next closest city and drive the distance. That worked fine in Europe, but in parts of the Americas and Eastern Europe it could eat up a whole day just driving.

The little red compact car was his chosen vehicle and he hit the interstate, a sign announcing that Hub City was a few hundred miles away.

---

Hub City

The lobby of the office building wasn’t much to look at. But then again, Hub City itself wasn’t much to look at. If you could imagine all the worse parts of Detroit and Chicago without any of those redeeming qualities, then you got Hub. Tresser had only been here once or twice, and only then he was just passing through to a bigger and better city.

When the man he was here to see finally let him into his office, it was as dumpy as Tresser was expecting. A few bookshelves half filled, cheap desk and cheaper computer. It looked like a CPA’s office. The man who occupied this office would never been expected to work with international arms dealers.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said with a smile. “The surroundings are the point. No flash, no cash, no suspicions.’

He was middle aged and his suit was off the rack. A pair of reading glasses on his face helped with the CPA illusion. Tresser sat down across the desk from the man.

“You’re awfully trusting,” said Tresser. “To just invite me in to your office like this.”

“You’ve been vetted,” he said. “You and your boss are the real deal. Plus, if you are something like a cop I’m not too concerned. This office and the company who leases it are all registered in fake names. Shell companies within shell companies. I have many names, but nobody knows my real one. If you want to call me anything, you can call me Broker.”

“Okay, Broker. So why are you in need of my services?”

“Guns are my business. The past twenty years I’ve been selling weapons to the gangs in Chicago. Do you watch the news, Mr…”

“Thomas,” said Tresser. “Call me Thomas. And, no, I don’t want the news a lot. I prefer things with happy endings.”

“Right,” Broker said with a chuckle. “If you watched the news you’d see about Chicago. Politicians love to talk about the violence in the city, despite the strict gun laws. It’s pretty much a conservative talking point at this point. The problem with that talking point is that as strict as Chicago is with their laws, it doesn’t make a bit of difference. It’s surrounded by Indiana and Michigan, places you can get a gun with no problem. So I buy guns in both states with straw purchases, completely legal. Then I file the numbers off the guns and sell them to people in Chicago at double the amount I paid for them.”

Tresser tried his best to looked impressed. Broker was just another one of a long list of motherfuckers he wished he could put through a wall. The ops objective wasn’t to stop the influx of guns and violence in America. As fucked up as Vertigo’s business was, Tresser’s handler just saw it as a means to an end. They had no intention of shutting it down until Tresser could get intel on LEVIATHAN.

“It sounds like a pretty solid business,” said Tresser. “So why change it up?”

“I want to expand,” said Broker. “Into the other big cities in the midwest. Detroit, Minneapolis, Milwaukee, Kansas City. I can’t do that with simple straw purchases. I need to up my supply to meet the incoming demand.”
“That’s where we come in, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll have to touch base with my boss,” said Tresser. “But I think we can do business, Mr. Broker. Tell me what your needs are, and we’ll do our best to fulfill them.”

---

Tresser pulled his gun from the shoulder holster the second he walked into his motel room. There was supposed to be a splinter wedged in the doorjamb. He’d left it there after he went out to meet Broker.

He saw the figure sitting in the dark beside the lamp. It snapped on and he breathed a sigh of relief. His handler, Sarge Steel, had a jovial grin on his face. Even with the cool weather outside, Steel still wore shorts and flip flops.

“Read your report this morning,” he said with no preamble. “Forwarded the information about the mobsters over to Justice. Hopefully the FBI will be up on them in no time.”

“Why the fuck are you in my room?” Tresser asked as he holstered his gun.

“We needed to talk, ASAP. Can’t do it over the phone. Stopping you in the street would look suspicious as hell.”

Tresser sat down on the lumpy bed and faced Steel. The bed groaned slightly and sagged under his weight.

“What’s so important?”

“Your friend, Broker,” said Steel. “I assume your meeting with him went well.”

“It did,” said Tresser. “And how do you know about him already?”

Steel pulled a smartphone from his pocket and started to scroll through it in silence. When he found what he wanted, he passed it to Tresser. A mugshot of Broker was on the screen. A SHIELD logo in the corner of the photo.

“He’s on the government’s radar already. And I think you’re being led into a trap. You ever heard of an organization called HYDRA?”

The Bogus Byrd Man's Biblioteca of Bits

Just a place for me to put random scraps of posts and writings I don't know what else to do with.

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The Boys: Nocturn

Absolute Comics - Justice Rising

Oa
Space Sector
0001

Kilowog faced the galactic map with Salaak and Sinestro. The galaxy-wide display focused on a single star and the lone planet that orbited around it.

“Nevis,” said Salaak. “ Space Sector: 1254. They are currently in the midst of a major crisis. Scientific projections give the system a matter of weeks before their star explodes in a supernova. A planet-wide evacuation is currently underway and they are appealing to the Corps for help.”

“What’s the population size?” asked Kilowog.

“Two billion sentient lifeforms.”

“And I’m sure this is not something they discovered overnight,” said Sinestro.

“Correct. Their stars’ instability has been a known factor for at least the last few hundred years. It was only a matter of time until this moment came to be, and to their credit they have prepared adequately for it. There is a colony on second world with enough infrastructure to start the settlement process. People have already begun to make the move from Nevis.”

Kilowog looked at Salaak. “Where do we come in?”

Salaak zoomed the map out. A red line appeared from the Nevis system to another star system. At least a few light years apart.

“The journey to their new homeworld is about three days full FTL burn from Nevis. The planetary government's plan is to move the majority of the population out in a massive ship convoy in two days time. And since they pass through Terra Nullius, threats from pirates and raiders are far more real than they are in any other section of the galaxy.”

“So watchdog duty,” said Sinestro. “Keep an eye out, fly the Corps' flag, flex some muscle.”

Salaak nodded. “And I think it will be an excellent mission for you and your trainees to undertake.”

Kilowog raised an eyebrow.

“I am… not so sure.”

Sinestro crossed his arms and frowned.

“And why is that? You’ve been training them for a while now. Slicks have to be thrown into the deep end sometime, Kilowog. Plenty of new Lanterns have been asked to do far more with less training.”

“Regular Slicks, yes,” he said with a nod. “But don't forget these are… special cases.”

A look of concern flashed across Salaak's face. “Are they not up to snuff?”

He shrugged. “Jury is still out. I have two I know for sure are definitely Lantern material, two that are borderline, and the other two…”

“Well it sounds like to me a real test is called for, no?” asked Sinestro. “Time to finally see who has the right stuff.”

Kilowog saw the little smirk just beneath his mustache and knew exactly what was going through his mind.

“And what happens if one of the Slicks gets killed, or gets someone killed?”

“It’s a simple task,” said Sinestro. “And if this is too much to handle, then maybe they’re not Lantern material.”

A look passed between Kilowog and Salaak. Kilowog heard the rumors about Salaak’s psychic abilities, but in all the years they served together he never had full confirmation. But moments like this made him sure wish his fellow Lantern could read his mind.

“They have to learn sometime, Kilowog,” Salaak finally said. “And if things get too much for them to handle simply reach out to 1254’s Lanterns for backup. Anything else we can do for you?”

“No,” Kilowog said before a lingering glance at Sinestro. “Nothing at all.”

---

Venkoth
Space Sector 2813
70 Hours Until Solar Apogee

Zeke put the vaporizer to his lips and inhaled the smoke. He let it fill his lungs before he expelled a cloud of fumes from his slit nostrils. From his vantage point outside his cell, he could see almost the entirety of A-Block from below. The eightieth tier of A-Block exclusively housed criminals like Zeke: Political radicals, dissidents, and terrorists. Though if you asked every single one of the thousands that occupied cells here, they’d say they were freedom fighters unjustly imprisoned.

That was a load of bullshit as far as Zeke was concerned. Some of these men had committed terrible acts in the name of their beliefs. Just like Zeke. And they all deserved to be here. Just like Zeke. But just because Zeke was aware of his situation, it didn’t mean he accepted it one bit. But he had a way to change things. He just needed help, but time was running out.

“You,” a voice called from behind.

A musclebound alien stood in front of Zeke. His gray prison jumpsuit had its sleeves torn off and the alien’s thick arms was covered in crude jailhouse tattoos. On Venkoth, that tats were a shorthand for everything from who you were mobbed up with to how many lives you'd taken. The little dots running along the muscleman's jawline let everyone know he'd killed six men while incarcerated.

“The man wants to see you.”

Zeke flicked off his vaporizer and pocketed it. He could feel his nerves churning his stomach as he followed the goon down the tier. He was beginning to worry that Strok had either written off his offer, or it had never reached his ears. Communication between cellblocks around here was a bit dodgy to say the least. At the halfway point of the tier was an elevator. A guard in a caged security checkpoint sat in front of the elevator and monitored who came and went. Signs indicated that the elevators were for authorized personnel only, and any inmate who tried to use them would be severely punished.

The goon locked eyes with the guard and slowly nodded. The guard looked at him and then at Zeke, but he never really looked at them. Not the way guards did around here. He seemed to let his eyes glaze over and look past them as the elevator doors opened and they stepped in.

---

“You know you’re crazy right?”

Ekis Strok looked at Zeke. His cell wasn’t like any other one on Venkoth, easily the size of the warden’s quarters and maybe even a little bigger. A monitor roughly the area of a regular inmate’s jail cell covered the entire far wall. It showed a live feed of Civua as the entire planet participated in the annual Big Game.

Strok wore a loose fitting shirt and pants that looked to Zeke to be made of some fine material. The goon who came for Zeke flanked Strok on one side while an equally large and intimidating bodyguard flanked his other side. Strok was heavyset, a well-fed man was a rarity on this planet, and his grey dreadlocks were swept back and tied into a ponytail. While the copper skin Zeke could see showed no signs of tattoos, he was sure the parts not showing were covered in tattoos. You couldn’t be a shotcaller in Midnight Krew and not carry any ink.

“I’ve been called crazy,” Zeke said as a way of acknowledgement. “But genius is often confused with crazy.”

Strok chuckled deeply and sat down on a plush chair. He did not offer Zeke a seat. Instead he held his hand out and one of the bodyguards handed him a drink.

“Nobody has ever escaped off this godforsaken rock, man.” Strok paused to take a sip of his drink. “The wind rips the fucking meat from your bones.”

“Nobody has ever escaped because they don’t know the science behind it,” said Zeke. “In a past life I was an astronomer."

Strok raised an eyebrow at Zeke’s claim.

“Long story. A story for another time, perhaps. But the winds on this planet are due to its close proximity to the system’s star. Those winds that sweep through, the ones that ‘rip the fucking meat from your bones’? Those are solar winds. In less than three days time, Venkoth will have its solar apogee. It's a once a year event. An apogee means the planet will be as far away from the sun as its orbit allows. During that time, winds will be at their nadir. They’ll still be bad, but there will be roughly an hour long window where it will be enough to walk across the surface and rendezvous with a waiting ship.”

Strok snickered and scratched his forehead with a meaty hand.

“And why would I want to break out of here? Look around you. I live like a goddamn king here. I want for nothing and even the biggest, baddest motherfuckers on this planet give me respect. I’m gonna die here, and that’s okay with me.”

“I didn't say anything about you escaping,” said Zeke. “And you are a king. At the very least you have the connections of one. That’s what I need. Someone who can get the right guards to look the other way. You can do that for me. And I can do something for you. I bet even a king could use two million credits, right? Even in a place like this?”

“And where are you going to get two million credits?” Stronk laughed deeply and long. His muscle joined in and shared looks of amusement with their boss. “Aren’t you some collectivist asshole? What are you going to pay me in, bean sprouts?”

“You ever heard of the GB&S robbery?” Zeke raised his eyebrows.

“No way,” said Strok.

“Why do you think I’m in here,” said Zeke. “Twenty million galactic credits, all for the cause. Well, not all. Two million is what’s left of my share. I get out of here and I’ll wire it to your commissary fund.”

“Again,” Strok laughed. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“Doesn’t sound like a yes or no to me...”

Strok leaned back in his padded seat and stroked his double chin. A smile that showed not much warmth appeared on his face.

“Deal,” he said. “You’re so fucking crazy I think I actually want to see if you can make it. I’ll get a few guards to look the other way. You wire me the money as soon as you’re free or I’ll make sure Midnight Krew hunts you down and chops you into little pieces.”

“Okay,” Zeke said with a sigh of relief.

His plan to finally get off this godforsaken planet was in motion. After six years, there was a chance for freedom. A chance to return home and take power back. His thoughts of freedom were interrupted as loud klaxons sounded through the air. Strok’s muscle immediately went into action to protect their boss. Zeke felt a flash of paranoia at the thought that he had been betrayed. The guards had heard their talk and they were now coming for him.

"WARNING WARNING PLANET ON LOCKDOWN WARNING WARNING PLANET ON LOCKDOWN ALL PRISONERS ARE TO STAY WHERE THEY CURRENTLY ARE. LOCKDOWN WARNING WARNING WARNING."

“What’s going on?” Zeke said aloud.

“Fuck,” Strok said as he switched the feed on the wall-mounted screen. The Big Game disappeared and instead a live feed of Block B, population 2.4 million, showed a calamitous riot in progress. A mass of prisoners fighting each other, guards, and two figures in the air fighting dozens of prisoners from above…

“Green Lanterns,” Strok said with just a hint of delight in his voice. “Green Lanterns on Venkoth. Hot damn.”

He turned to Zeke, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“A new deal. Your money's no good to me. I’m going to help you breakout… and you’re going to help me kill a Green Lantern.”

Zeke was about to respond, but stopped when he saw the cold looks from Strok’s muscle.

“...Deal,” he said softly.

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Done