Some Time Ago…

“Will he come?”

William Zard glanced up to look quizzically at the woman standing beside his chair.  She was as impatient as she was beautiful, her body wearing well these past years, her skin well toned and almost golden against the raven-black tresses cascading about her shoulders and down her back.  And sapphire was definitely her color.

“If he gets my message – and he will, he’ll come.”

Zard leaned back in his plush leather chair, recrossed his legs and took a slight sip of his brandy.  Still warm, and just the way he liked it.  He glanced about the room that he occupied with the woman, enjoying the décor; the rich walnut paneling, the thick carpeting, the sparse yet well placed antiquities, which he had acquired over the past few months since his meeting with Savage and the subsequent encounter with Faust.  He did enjoy the good life, and all of its amenities.  Working from the shadows suited him well indeed.  Life was good.

It seemed almost absurd that only a year before he had been on his last legs, down and out and destitute.  He had been a derelict, his powers waning to the last spark and addicted to the demon alcohol.  That Vandal Savage had found him and consequently pulled him from his stupor and back into the real world was nothing short of a miracle.  To think that he had all but given up on himself – his very own life?  Savage had turned him about that fateful day, and now…

“It’ll be like old times.”

The Wizard looked up again to find that the woman had strolled to the bookcase, her slim fingers tracing the titles as she stood, cocking a hip and showing off her long, shapely legs.  Zard sipped his brandy again, raising an eyebrow and wondering what she was on about.  “Eh?”

Camille turned her head, flipping her long and luxurious hair back over her shoulder, strands clinging to the soft skin of her cheek.  “When the Professor comes.  It’ll be like old times, no?”

“Ah, I see,” Zard said, nodding.  She was dredging up the past, and ironically so.  If she only knew the full scope of his plans.  The things that he had learned in the darkness.  The things that he now recalled.

“Unfortunately, our old friend Blockbuster – the First that is – is deceased.  Our Mister Desmond, cultured brute that he is, is far more concerned with Nightwing and the manipulations of dear Adam.  Grodd is about his own affairs at the moment.  Jason is off in the ‘Green’, lost as usual.  Scudder’s dead, and the Captain is in jail in Gotham.  It will only be we three I fear, remembering the ‘good old days’, such as they were.”

The woman nodded, frowning slightly as she took up her own snifter of brandy, standing by the huge hearth.  The flames crackled, rising higher in her presence it seemed, casting her skin aglow with bright oranges, reds and a queer silhouette of shadow.  Zard smiled, not even bothering to hide his desire.  He was far older than the girl, the woman currently in control of the Star Sapphire, but he knew of her lust for power, and at the moment he was all that, and more.

There was a wind.  A swirling gust enveloped the room causing loose papers to fly from the walnut desk and the flames of the fire to snap and dance in its wake.  He saw Camille shiver at the sudden shift in temperature, as Time cracked wide and spewed the future forth into their midst.  Zard simply smiled, watching as the Professor faded into reality; a shimmering blur that eventually took shape between blinks of the eye.

“You called?” the man said, a malicious grin creasing his lips and making his cheeks bulge.  He was flushed a bit, a tinge of scarlet peeking from the garish yellow mask.  Zard smiled widely and rose, extending his hand.

“It’s good to see you my friend,” Zard said as the man took his hand and shook it quickly.  His eyes darted about the room as he swiftly took in his surroundings, resting finally on Camille, but only lingering, moving on impatiently.  “It has been too long.”

“Has it?” the man asked, shrugging almost imperceptibly.  “I lose track these days.”

“Understandable,” the Wizard said, nodding in agreement.  “I feel the same, quite often.”

“What is it you want, Wizard?  I was busy.  Always busy…”

“I have a plan – “

“I want no part of any Society business, Wizard,” the Professor snapped.  He glanced at Camille.  “With exception, that fiasco is in my past.”

“Not the Society, my friend.  Not exactly, at any rate.  I have grander plans these days.  Plans that will make all of your dreams come true, and bring you the flower of your desires.”

The man in the dirty yellow suit eyed Zard skeptically as the Wizard held out a snifter of brandy.  Finally the Professor grinned and accepted.

“Elaborate, Zard.  I have time to listen.”

“Of course you do,” William Zard said with a chuckle, taking his seat once again, swirling his own drink.

“Nothing but time.”

Katana

Speed of Lightning, Roar of Thunder!
  Outsiders#14 - January, Year 5 by Curt Fernlund

The  Outsiders

Wind
Wind
 

Firefall
Firefall

 

Pitch-black
Pitch-black

 

Rocker
Rocker

 
Shaft     Shaft
Ice Storm
Ice Storm
 

Witchery
Witchery

 

Powers
Powers

 


 





Later...
Manhattan, NY
Central Park

“I hate this.”

“Quit griping, Trauma,” Killshot said as he cycled through the Bionics of his offensive weaponry.  His arm seemed to shift and grow and shrink in a soft wash of molding metal, a new gun displayed every second.  “We got paid, we do the job.  That’s what it’s all about, right?”

Shock Trauma watched as the big man finally settled on his arm apparatus, a bulky, metallic thing that only vaguely resembled a gun, with a muzzle at least eight inches wide.  There was an evil, yet almost childlike gleam in the man’s eyes; probably imagining all the carnage to come.  He did love his work, but then, they all did.  Most of the time that is.

“We’re assassins, son,” Shock Trauma said with a slash of his hand.  “Not fodder for the grand and glorious Wizard’s latest scheme.  I don’t care that we got paid.  I don’t like to lose, and that’s what he ‘suggested’.”

“We signed on, Trauma,” the cool and soft voice of Breathtaker purred.  “We reap the benefits; hospitalization, insurance, retirement, legal.  Our number came up.  We play our part.  We all agreed.”

“And things have been slow my friend,” Provoke added, watching the mansion across 5th Avenue with some intensity.  “Since the League of Assassins lock down, the money just isn’t coming our way.”  The young man glanced at Breathtaker as she smoothed her form-fitting costume to her skin, rifling her fingers through her hair, wanting to look her best no doubt.  “Besides, this is gravy.  We kill Blakewell, and trash these new Outsiders if they even show.  With all the activity at the UN lately though, I doubt they’ll even come.  Hip thing for the heroes is to declare themselves a country and get a government grant.”

“I just wish this Blakewell would show his face.”  Stranglehold slammed her right fist into the palm of her left hand, causing the others to wince with the sound of impact.  She looked to see them all staring her way and shrugged –

“Sorry.  Just getting antsy.”

The others in the small clique of assassins nodded.  All the Hangmen were ‘antsy’, awaiting their target.  Why the Wizard had wanted Adam Blakewell – a businessman and steel magnate, and rumored Mafia kingpin – assassinated was neither their concern nor business.  They had been paid, and would do the job, taking on the Outsiders for the bonus if they showed.  Still, the waiting was killing them.  There had been just a bit of activity to break the monotony when a nosy Park Ranger had stumbled across where they were waiting, just over the wall in Central Park.  He had died a painful and quick death and now lay in the bushes growing cold and forgotten.

“There!” Shock Trauma said, pointing as a sleek, black limousine slowed before the entrance of the Pyramid Club’s mansion across 5th Avenue.  There was a bit of anticipation as they all waited on edge for the occupants of the limo to climb out, but finally they saw the tall dark form of Adam Blakewell as he stepped from the rear of the car, waiting as a blonde woman stepped out after him and stood at his side.  They looked as though they deserved death; the both of them dressed to the nines and their noses in the air.  Pretty people, with far too much money and free time by the look.

“We’re on, party people!” Killshot almost shouted with glee.  His Bionic arm slammed and clacked into place and all heard his power reserves charging for assault.  The cyborg raised his arm level, parallel to the ground and aimed, squinting through one eye as his tongue slipped from the corner of his mouth.  “I’ll try to leave a couple chunks for the rest a’ ya ta play with…”

The other Hangmen cursed as Killshot fired, a missile flying from the muzzle of his arm/gun.  They shot forward, not wanting to miss out and saw both Blakewell and the woman turn towards the high, screeching sound of Killshot’s attack.  Oddly – Shock Trauma noted – Blakewell’s brows simply knotted in confusion, even as the woman raised her hand up as though to fend off the assault.  Good luck –

They all froze as a ball of fire suddenly appeared in mid-air, right in the path of Killshot’s missile.  Provoke, at the edge of the group saw the blonde woman gesture, a slight cruel smile playing at her lips as though she were creating the sudden blaze.  Meta, he thought, and then, bodyguard.

Unfortunately, before he could relay the obvious, Killshot’s missile entered the fireball and Millionaire’s Mile exploded in a blaze of madness and all hell broke loose…


Firefall had been a bit surprised when Blakewell had telephoned – he, himself, personally.  Even odder had been that he had been suggesting what suspiciously sounded like a date.

In all her time at the Pyramid Club, the man had never seemed even the slightest interested in her, despite her best efforts.  At first she had thought that he was Gay, but then there had been that fiasco with the Queen of Bialya.  Then she thought that perhaps he was a racist.  She knew that he was from some North African nation; Quarac or Khandaq or any one of those Third World backwater gutters that seemed to be on the news every night with some new catastrophe.  Hell, she only gave him a final consideration because his skin was so pale, tanned at best.  Imagine the look on Daddy’s face if she managed to get her claws in Adam Blakewell Industries though.  What a coup…

But he wasn’t a racist either, as his little ‘fling’ with the Black Canary had proven.  In the end, she simply had to face facts.  Adam Blakewell was just not interested.  Or so she had thought.

She had arrived at the Club as asked, she dressed in Dior, a full dress with accessories matching, and he in his favored Armani; black of course.  They had made small talk, catching up as they strolled through the park like the little people out on a lark on a sunny Fall day.  He had been charming throughout, and actually whimsical on occasion.  She of course had been perfection.  A late lunch at Tavern on the Green followed, in one of the private rooms; Lobster Bisque followed by Lemon Swordfish and asparagus (which was an oddly refreshing match).  They had Cherry’s Jubilee afterwards, with warmed brandy.  He made her laugh more than once.

And even in the ride back, taking the long way around the park as the bloated sun edged closer to the horizon, skirting Harlem at 110th Street and then down 5th Avenue.  It was not at all what she had expected.  Not the quick, harsh tumble, two hot and sweating bodies simply together for the short pleasure.  It had been memorable, and now over…

“Who are these fools?” she asked, her voice harsh as she shouted over the echo of the missile’s explosion.  They were five, all dressed in black mainly, leathers by the look – so gauche.  A group then, but so low on the scale, or new perhaps, she did not recognize them.

“I have no idea,” Blakewell said, squinting to see through the drifting smoke and haze of the explosion.  Hot shrapnel from the missile rained down about them, bothering neither as they watched their attackers approach.  “Though you had the right of it, I believe.  Fools.”


Tatsu Yamashiro watched from a short distance as the explosion rocked 5th Avenue.  There were screams of course; passerby’s shocked at the sudden burst of flame and the subsequent sound of detonation, the initial shock as the Metas went charging from the security of Central Park and out into the now snarled traffic.  It did not take much to incite chaos.

Tatsu watched as she had these past two weeks, making mental note of the Outsiders as they operated.  In this case the focus of her scrutiny was the woman, Firefall she imagined, though she was dressed in civilian guise – and rather extravagantly she might add.  She had seen each of them now, in one form or another, some more than others.  She had seen their work, both separately and in unison.  To be certain, they were well trained, and on the surface at least, seemed to be as they appeared.  She knew better however.  The Batman had been right about that, damn him.

Shaft was an assassin, straight and true.  The alleged android Pitch-black was simply a killer, saving some and slaughtering others with abandon.  The rest were little better; they just hid it well.  She had seen Ice Storm freeze a man’s feet to the ground, knowing full well that the quick freeze would shatter the man’s ankles as he fell.  The woman, Witchery had made a normal thief – a purse-snatcher writhe in agony at her touch until the police arrived to secure him some eight minutes later.  In fact, the only one that did not seem to be a sadist or extremist was the stone-man Rocker.  He did his job, probably what he was told pure and simple.

Who they were really she was not quite certain, though she had ideas.  One thing that she had learned from the Detective was to know your opponent, and though her learning had been years past now, some things had stuck.  She had sent on her suspicions to the Dark Knight, who in turn no doubt forwarded them to his Pantheon set high in gilded Olympus; their Watchtower on the moon.  They would make the final judgement.  It was not hers to call.  It was however, time to move on.

She watched as the attackers – the Hitmen, no, the Hangmen – charged forward to engage Adam Blakewell and Firefall.  She wondered briefly if the assassins knew just whom they were assaulting.  The woman with the apparently enhanced strength did not seem to care as she vaulted through the fading effects of the explosion to confront Blakewell-

She leapt easily over the Limo, clearing it by several feet and flipping in mid-air only to slam into Blakewell’s chest.  Tatsu noticed the slightest resistance before Blakewell staggered back and finally toppled to the street under the woman’s weight.  And she was good enough too, to continue and use her advantage, rolling with the momentum and gathering Blakewell into a stranglehold with her arm looped tightly about his throat.  It would do no good of course, but it was a worthy attempt.

Tatsu turned to a scream and saw that Firefall was bathing one of the assassins in a shower of near white-hot flame.  The man dressed in gold accentuated leather was writhing in the heat and fire, screaming as his skin peeled away in the contained inferno.  Firefall did not seem concerned in the least as she washed the assassin with her powers, her eyes scanning the remainder of the strike force for opposition.  The others seemed shocked, even dismayed but pressed forward.

Tatsu Yamashiro had no doubt that Firefall and Black Adam could deal with the likes of these, but here was her opportunity.  The time for watching was over.  Time now to take a hand…


Outsider Headquarters
The Manse
Port Jefferson, Long Island

Monitor Duty was redundant…

The fat Negroid (call me Mister Powers) had said that the facilities equipment was ‘state of the art’.  If that were truly true however, then what was the point of having one of the group sitting here watching the screens slowly scrolling through the News Vids… the news feeds?

It seemed pointless and dull.  And exceedingly… slow…

Granted he had upgraded the peripherals, at least allowing the Fast Forward to ‘seem’ fast.  That had allowed him a moment’s entertainment as he had watched the accrued DVD collection that had been provided.  A distraction, at best that, of course, and again, dull.  Nothing compared to reality, to the sheer savagery of the past.

THAT was exhilarating.

Pitch-black stared at the screen regardless, watching the recent turmoil at the United Nations caused by first the Wonder Woman and the Superman, and then by Aqua Man.  History of course, and it would run its course and be meaningless in the end.  The Fourth World War would finally resolve all the petty conflicts, paving the way for the Earthgov and the United Planets.  Millions would die of course – in the name of justice - but the Golden Age to follow would compensate, or so the propaganda would enounce.

A strobe of crimson caught his attention and Pitch-black glanced aside.  A call from Firefall, and his hands danced invisibly across the control panel, keying on the security cameras affixed to the Pyramid Club, where the alert originated.  Pitch-black leaned forward, cocking a blonde eyebrow as he stared at the screen in amusement.

He saw Firefall and a man fending against a gang of leather-clad attackers; four now by the look as one lay smoldering on the thoroughfare.  And in the distance, on another monitor was a woman with a sword running forward, Oriental by the look.  And again leather, what was the fascination?

Prudence suggested to simply watch.  He doubted that these remaining four might give Firefall pause, and if the man under assault was indeed Khem-Adam, then there was no concern whatsoever.  The woman with the curved sword was not a consideration at all at a glance.  Even if a Meta, heroes or villains that relied on weapons, and archaic ones at that, were simply a nuisance.

Still…

Firefall had activated the distress signal.

“Yo, ‘Black!”

Pitch-black winced, almost cringed as the voice cut through the calm of reason.  He glanced quickly backwards and saw the youth – Ice Storm – striding confidently forward with a swagger in his walk.  He was almost naked, dressed in a tight pair of form-fitting briefs that left little to cloak his modesty.  The bio-engineering, which he had undergone sparkled as he walked, his dark skin shining with the wiring and electrodes of enhanced, futuristic salvation.  He seemed almost proud of his status; little realizing that in another time he would be considered a drudge, fit for little more than manual labor in the outreach of the Crescent.

“What’s the dilly-o, ‘Black?” he asked, wiping a towel through his close-cropped hair.  “I heard the ‘Troubalert’ way down in the showers.”

“Firefall is being assaulted,” Pitch-black said as he gathered his dark hood and slid it overhead.  It was somewhat stifling, and smelled from use, but essential, according to the others.  He wondered just who besides West would know his true face.

“Those’re the Hangmen,” Ice Storm said as he leaned on the back of Pitch-black’s chair.  Pitch-black frowned as the leader of the outsiders dripped water onto his pant’s leg.  “What’s their beef, anyway?”

“Unknown.”

“All right,” Ice Storm said, stepping away.  “Let me suit up and we can go.”

“Not to worry,” Pitch-black said, rising from his chair and station.  “Assume Monitor Duty in my brief absence.  You will not be needed.”

“Now hold on – “ Ice Storm started to protest, but it was too late.  The chair at the Monitor Board was empty, spinning in the breeze…


Manhattan
Millionaire’s Mile
The Pyramid Club…

Teth-Adam watched through half-closed eyelids as Christina Blaise gestured, waves of heat rippling from her French manicured scarlet nails.  He saw the target of her assault, the cyborg Killshot stagger as steam started to rise from the shining metal of his bionically enhanced body.  Something sparked and the large man snarled as a thin tendril of smoke snaked from his shoulder joint.

Adam grunted, more in shock and annoyance as the woman ground her arm into his throat, applying pressure to the back of his head.  She had him locked in a stranglehold, characteristic of her name, and was trying to force him into unconsciousness, followed quite likely by death.  An effective ploy, and one that would have quickly dealt with the likes of a lesser man.  But then, Teth-Adam was definitely not a lesser man, and the woman’s enhanced strength was not close to a match against the Strength of Amon.

Still, there was the game to play and the façade to maintain.  In the shadowy underworld there were few that did not know who Adam Blakewell was in reality.  Granted, while Psimon was in his ‘employ’ some months prior, Adam had used the mentalist to modify the memories of just a few of those that he had deemed unworthy; the likes of Thorne and Lynx, the lesser beings in his growing network.  And while others like Desmond and Luthor needed to know, the masses that milled beyond the walls of the Pyramid Club were definitely not on the ‘Need to Know’ list.  Here and now on the street in front of the mansion he must play the helpless fool for the audience gathering to watch the carnage, distasteful as it was.  And so he moaned as the woman tightened her grip, letting his head loll just a bit.

“Get the bitch!” Stranglehold roared at his ear.  Her sour breath washed across his face, almost making him gag despite the Stamina of Shu.  She simply stank as well, sweat and body odor mingling with unwashed and worn leather.  Why was it that villainy and personal hygiene always seemed at odds in the lower classes?

“Gahh…”

Teth-Adam looked up, ignoring his own plight as he saw Blaise staggering back, almost toppling from her stiletto heels as she clutched at her throat, as though gasping for breath.  It was the woman, the blue-skinned Breathtaker obviously, employing her Meta.  He saw her casually striding forward, her scarlet tresses swirling about her exotically beautiful face, a thin and wispy trail of vapor billowing from her pursed lips.

Despite his earlier act of ignorance to Blaise, Adam knew all too well who these assassins were, and their powers.  He had voted on them after all, from those presented by the League of Assassins’ representative.  They were dangerous, true, but against the Outsiders, and especially with Black Adam secretly at their side?  It was preposterous that they should have the upper hand, even against simply Firefall.  He knew Blaise for the sadistic bitch that she truly was and was mildly shocked to see her fading.  It was her arrogance of course, mainly, which always got her into trouble.  Perhaps too, the Hangmen were a greater threat than he had given them credit.  Regardless, and damn the façade, he would not let her die.  Time to –

The woman was simply there, as though she had stepped invisibly from the thickening light of dusk to stand poised at Breathtaker’s side.  And granted, she could have he supposed, dressed as she was.  She wore black, head to toe from the soft leather knee boots, tights and short kimono to the bracers wrapped about her fore arms and biceps; armored all no doubt.  Her ebon hair was thickly coiled at the back of her head, a tightly woven bun held in place by what appeared to be short needles of obsidian.  She wore no mask, and Adam thought that she looked vaguely familiar, but even the Wisdom of Zehuit could not produce a name.  She was Oriental by the slight golden tone of her skin, and the slant of her dark almond eyes, and probably Japanese by the cut of her cloth.  A Ninja then, evident by the curved and blackened sword, which she held in ready overhead and parallel to the ground.

He saw Breathtaker falter, glancing to the side as she saw the shadow of the woman appear.  Her misty breath swirled as she gasped, and with an amazing speed and grace, Adam saw the woman’s sword slash only by the Power of Aton.  There was the slightest SHISH as the blade cleaved the air, followed by a louder slap as metal hit flesh.  Adam half-expected the assassin’s head to fall from the shapely blue shoulders, but instead Breathtaker simply collapsed into a delicious puddle at the feet of the Oriental.  The woman had struck her sword with the flat of her blackened blade, striking a nerve in the other’s throat with enough skill and force to render her unconscious; a quicker version of what Stranglehold was attempting with him.

Impressive…

Adam turned his attention briefly to Blaise and saw that she had collapsed as well.  She was on her knees, her expensive silk nylons shredded as she gagged and gasped, trying to regain the breath that the assassin had stolen from her.  She would survive, but it would be a few moments before she could concentrate on her powers again.  Moments, which might prove harrowing for the woman with the sword, unless of course she was more than she appeared to be.

“Who the hell…”

Black Adam glanced at the remaining Hangmen, even as Stranglehold continued her pointless grinding.  Killshot’s bionic gun seemed in the midst of metamorphosis, his internal maintenance trying to compensate for whatever damage Firefall had caused.  Still powerful, and still a threat if he simply started a hand-to-hand assault, but too caught up in his own gun fetish at the moment.  With Breathtaker unconscious and Provoke a sizzling pound of charred flesh on the tarmac, that left Shock Trauma alone to act.

“That ain’t no Outsider, Trauma!” Killshot shouted, still fussing with his arm.

“No shit,” the assassin in the black leather trenchcoat confirmed.  His face twisted into a contemptuous sneer, his brows knitting with concentration as he called upon his Meta.  “She’s going down anyway.  A freebie, and my treat.”

Shock Trauma raised his arms and immediately Adam saw the telltale sparks of electricity dancing about the man’s fingertips.  He could smell the stale odor of burning ozone as the power swelled, the assassin preparing to fry the woman where she stood –

“Burn, bitch!” he said, a crackling, pale blue arcing out.  But the woman was not there.

Adam blinked and saw the shadow of the Ninja flit over the assassin’s head.  It twirled gracefully in leap, a slash of jet sweeping down into the dazzling field of static.  There was a spray of red and a new scent wafted through the air, that of burning blood.

The electricity fizzled, vanishing impotently back into the either, and as the glow about the assassin died, Adam’s eyes widened in surprise.  Slowly, almost painfully Shock Trauma lowered his gaze, raising his arms in unison as he stared at the charred and bloody stumps where his hands used to be.  They appeared tender and dark, the wounds crisp with smoldering flesh, cauterized by the man’s own Meta.  The woman had rendered the assassin powerless in one swiftly vicious strike that would have probably slowly slain a normal man.  Had she known that Trauma’s own power would have saved his life in the end, or was it happy coincidence?  A moot point probably, as either way worked equally well in Adam’s opinion.

Shock Trauma started to scream, ironically enough as pain overwhelmed the shock, which had held him motionless for a handful of heartbeats.  The man dropped to his knees with a painful thud, settling on his haunches as he raised his anguished voice to the darkening, uncaring heavens.  Thankfully the woman was at his side and planted the pommel of her sword into the back of his head.  Shock Trauma fell face first into the blacktop, blissfully asleep and thankfully silent.

“Jesus…”

He heard Stranglehold whisper in his ear before she tightened her hold again in a quick fit.  Adam complied to her wishes at last, or at least acted to, feigning an unconsciousness of his own and going limp in her hand.  She held for a moment, then as expected let him go at last, charging over him to address the new threat.  Adam smirked and opened his eyes to watch.

The beauteous Oriental intrigued him, and watching her work was indeed a pleasure.  For her as well apparently, for she was smiling to see Stranglehold charging forward like a bull.  Or perhaps more accurately, like a lamb…

To the slaughter…


Tatsu Yamashiro watched as the woman raced towards her.  She had a grace to her movements, but like so many others, relied mainly on her strength and those few tried and proven moves in her repertoire.  Tatsu had recognized the ‘sleeper hold’ that the assassin had been using on Blakewell, little realizing apparently how ineffective it was – at least on him.

Black Adam watched them both now, feigning unconsciousness, his eyes opened in darkly sparkling slits catching the final rays of the setting sun and the streaming headlights of the traffic stalled up the street.  She heard horns blaring along 5th Avenue, the drivers farther uptown unaware of why the street was suddenly clogged with unmoving vehicles.  Too, she could hear sirens rising in the distance, police coming closer but still blocks away, caught in the traffic snarl themselves.  A crowd was gathering along the fringes of the battle as well.  The curious however wisely kept at a discreet distance, seeing the smoldering corpse of the assassin Provoke and the handless Shock Trauma.

Tatsu had gambled on that one.  She would not kill, and yet after her study of these new Outsiders she knew that she had to change her tactics.  She had to show a callus, fierce form in her abilities to match the way that they seemed to fight.  Too, she had to remember who they were, or at least who she thought that they were, and the possibility that one or more of them might remember her.  They were not stupid after all.  Thus, in the weeks that she had been watching them and learning, she had also been training and changing herself.  She had abandoned most of what she knew, throwing herself into the rigors of altering her fighting style from the ways of the Samurai and the codes of Bushido to the more deadly and silent ways of the Ninja.

The forms were similar of course, the weapons employed, and both body and implement almost the same.  But the Ninja was an assassin, the ways lying in the security of shadows and stealth.  A swift and deadly art designed and nurtured for the sole purpose of killing, the hardest part was trying to hamper her own style and hide her true form in the black.  It had taken time, but hopefully she had succeeded.  She would learn the merit of her efforts shortly, she supposed.

The woman known as Stranglehold leapt, screaming as she dove through the air at Tatsu.  A valiant effort designed to paralyze the target in momentary shock and fear.  Tatsu stepped aside and let the woman go flying past, turning to watch as she crashed and tumbled along the street.  She whipped her sword up and about, wincing slightly as Katana struggled to the surface.  Tatsu leaned into a defensive crouch, suppressing the woman she was once again, waiting silently for the assassins’ next move.

“Got it!” Killshot shouted with an almost squeal of glee.  Tatsu saw the mechanical arm shifting freely again as it molded into another form, a gun of course only slightly smaller than the rocket launcher he had last employed.

“Now ya slant-eyed cunt,” he snarled, striding forward and bringing his gun to bear even as his partner struggled to quickly rise and join him.  “Yer gonna find out that payback’s a bigger bitch ‘n you are!”

The man was either caught up in the frenzy of battle, enraged or simply stupid.  He kept coming closer, his gun arm leading the way like a carrot dangling in front of an ass to get it to move.  Perhaps he wanted to achieve point blank range, but if he did not fire soon it would be simplicity itself for Tatsu to swipe her blade through the barrel of his gun, or worse.  She had the reach, with her sword at full lunge, despite the vast difference in their respective sizes.  Tatsu was small, almost petite looking by normal standards, though her body was well honed for battle.  At her 5’2”, Killshot towered over her by almost two full feet.  And forget his mass compared to her own.  But size was a deception of course, and all too often a handicap.

She saw Killshot grin, and ugly thing as his eyes hardened.  She prepared to leap, but paused…

There was a blur and a jangling sound of clattering metal, and suddenly Killshot lay on the ground.  He was naked, stripped raw and red and bleeding in several places about his blushing, pale body.  His armor lay scattered about the avenue, wildly dispersed as though tossed aside casually and uncaring where the pieces might fall.  She blinked, losing her concentration for a moment as she stared at the assassin, his one remaining eye wide as he scanned his ragged wounds, the fleshy stumps of his three amputated limbs waving uselessly.  He was as confused as she, until she glanced at the solidifying blur hovering behind the disassembled assassin.

Pitch-black, the teleporting Outsider suddenly came into focus, and immediately Tatsu understood.  It was a good trick, all smoke and mirrors, but like the others of his group, Tatsu had her suspicions about the alleged android.  His story would later be that he had teleported in, assayed the situation and whilst in the midst of transposition had used his advanced skills and knowledge in unison with his ability to teleport to simply transport Killshot’s bionics away.  The gathered crowd and arriving media would lap it up, loving the uniqueness of his solution and ignoring the damage done to the assassin who would lie in a secure hospital for months to come, healing and getting fitted for simpler, plastic prosthetics.

But Tatsu knew the truth, or could guess at it.  For who he really was, it must have been amusing for Pitch-black to take Killshot apart, casting aside each useless and archaic bit of technology, removed casually from the assassin’s bulky frame frozen in time.  At least to the android’s eyes.  What was but a heartbeat to Tatsu, could just have easily been hours, or days to one so connected to the Speed Force.

And even as Tatsu regained her composure and strengthened her stance once more, Pitch-black vanished.  Again the blur appeared, like heat rising from the road in the distance on a hot day.  She noted the wash and bustle of debris fluttering in the android’s wake and saw the Outsider appear in front of the final member of the Hangmen.

Stranglehold gasped, her eyes wide as she skidded to a stop in front of Pitch-black.  She had not built up speed for her latest bull-run, not that it would have helped or mattered.  Fast to her – to any of them was probably agonizingly slow to the Outsider.  Still, Pitch-black waited, cocking his head slightly as though considering what to do.  Probably counting the ways that he could stop the super-strong Meta, finding it hard to choose the most entertaining.

Tatsu shifted and broke into a run of her own.  Vicious as she needed to appear, she could not let the madman kill again.  She knew that he had no qualms about murdering those that he considered inferior, and according to the Batman (and in transitive, West), he considered everyone beneath him.  His home was a strange and sterile place indeed, a brave new world, which created cold and sociopathic masses that only resembled humanity in appearance, and not heart or soul.

But of course, even she was too slow.

Pitch-black blurred once again, his arms fading from view for a split second and suddenly Stranglehold screamed.  Tatsu cursed under her breath as she saw the assassin’s eyes roll up and back, her body seemingly melting as she collapsed to the street.  Pitch-black’s arms regained focus as he stepped back, away from the sagging bag of flesh, which had been the Hangman, even as Tatsu skidded to a stop at his side.

Tatsu bit her lip to contain her own gasp and disgust as she stared down at Stranglehold.  The woman was trembling, apparently in agony as her eyes rolled and darted in the sunken, hollowed sockets of her skull, which might have well been the one bone unscathed in Pitch-black's attack.  By the way her body lay sagging, almost deflated, it looked as though the Outsider had broken every bone in the woman’s body in the blink of an eye.  And he probably had.  The assassin simply gagged and gasped, her skin twitching as she tried to move, unable to scream in her agony and barely able to breathe.

Tatsu snapped out of her own shocked trance, sensing the intense scrutiny of Pitch-black’s merciless, and pupiless eyes on her.  She moved to defend, to raise her sword even as she felt the sir pressure about her drop.  The Outsider started to blur once more, then abruptly froze as a hand appeared on his shoulder.  It was his turn then to be dumbfounded as they both looked to the third who had joined them.  Teth-Adam smiled...

“Enough my friend,” he said, his voice even and cool as his dark gaze swept over her.  Tatsu unconsciously licked her lips, shivering slightly.  “This one,” he continued, “is apparently with us.”

The android’s face was unreadable of course, as his black mask was all covering, but Tatsu saw his body language adjust, and the blank white eyes went rapidly from wide and ‘O’ shaped to thin slits and then again to normal.  He stared at her for a moment, perhaps an eternity, then nodded.

“And just who is ‘this one’?”

Both she and Adam turned to see Firefall striding towards them.  She did not look happy, her eyes drifting coldly at the still form of Breathtaker as she passed, but she, like the rest had noted the crowd inching closer and the telltale flash of cameras there in.  They all needed to behave now and put the masks back in place.

Firefall stepped amongst them, her hands on her hips as she looked Tatsu up and down with a conceited sneer.  The woman was barefoot, having taken off her shredded hosiery and carrying her soft leather pumps in her hand.  Too, she had apparently tried to pat her hair back into some semblance of order, though it still looked disheveled, along with her dress now smudged and tattered.

“I was just about to ask that myself,” Adam said, looking from the taller Firefall to the smaller Tatsu.  He was smirking still, and apparently enjoying himself – at least as much as he was able.  Tatsu had heard the story of his tryst with the Black Canary, and its appropriate outcome.

Even the ‘android’ was watching her now, feigning interest at least.  Black Adam’s intervention had probably saved Tatsu from a swift and grisly death – emphasis on probably, as the outcome remained to be seen.  Katana knew ways to deal with the Flash.  Batman’s training was thorough to say the least, training for any contingency.  And though the rest had only perfunctorily paid heed, Tatsu had listened, and observed, and learned.  And in the end, wasn’t Pitch-black merely a twisted, shattered mirror image of Barry Allen?  Tatsu thought so.

They were all waiting now, waiting for Tatsu to respond.  She knew what she would do, what she had to do, galling as it was.  She had rehearsed the scene many times, preparing for this moment.

She took a breath…


Port Jefferson, Long Island
The Powerhouse:
Outsider Headquarters
Later that evening…

“I loved the way she whipped her sword around there at the end,” Ice Storm chuckled.  “You all looked ready to fill your panties.  Even Blakewell.”

Most of the others laughed at that, and it was true.  Watching the video feed that they had ‘confiscated’ from Fox News, they replayed the scene, the woman’s sword flashing as she swirled it overhead, the tip of the blade almost kissing Blakewell, Firefall and Pitch-black.  She could have killed them all – well, maybe not Blakewell – but even Pitch-black seemed surprised as the blade whisked by just millimeters from his face.

“This next bit’s my favorite,” Witchery said as she blew a cloud of smoke through her nose.  She was watching intently as the Nippon continued her move fluidly, dropping to her knees in front of the startled Firefall, lowering her head in apparent submission as she held out her sword, balanced on her upraised palms-

“My name is Whisper,” the woman said submissively, “and I offer my sword and soul to your service.  I wish to join the Outsiders.”

Olga snorted her laughter as she drew on her French cut cigarette.  French in name at least, but imported from China.  She had become addicted in her youth, back in Viet Nam, and saw no reason to even try and quit.  The Sapphire kept her body pure.  She leaned forward and glanced at Christina Blaise – Roberta Donaldson for the show – grinning like the cat with a mouthful of feathers.

“That get you hot, Bobbi?” she asked, extending her claws just a bit.  “I know you’d love to add her to your stable; your illegal immigrant housekeeper, butler and boot boy.”

Firefall scrunched her lips, trying not to smile.  She DID like the D/S scene, but no reason to let ‘Olga’ know that.  “I’m always ‘hot’, dear.  You’re just jealous.”  Olga chuckled.

“Ladies, please,” Josiah Powers interjected with amusement.  “Retract the claws.  We need to settle this.”  The black man settled his mass back in his chair situated at the head of the polished oak table centered in the Meeting Room.  He raised the remote and froze the scene on the wide screen; Firefall looking stunned but accepting the proffered sword, the woman kneeling before her bare feet in complete submission.  He rolled the bit of his Havana to the other corner of his mouth and puffed.

“Word has come down from on high.  The backers say we should accept her into the ranks.  With the battle replaying on three major networks, it would not look right to turn down her offer.  The masses saw her, and saw what she did to help.  They want her.  The backers want to run with that.”

“The backers aren’t the ones that have to work with her,” Wind said.  “We know nothing about this ‘Whisper’.  For all we know she’s a plant.  She might be part of Batman’s little family, or one of those Birds of Prey.  Hell, she could be JLA for that matter.  I vote no.”

“That’s one against then,” Powers said.

“I vote yes,” Ice Storm said, downing his beer and tossing the empty can into the recycle bin.  “I always liked Asian chicks.  Besides, she seems to know what she’s doing.  Every team needs a Ninja.”

“That’s one opposed, and one for.”  Powers looked to Witchery.

“I say no,” Olga said, tapping out her cigarette.  “Wind is right.  We know nothing about this woman.  We have a hard enough time staying in character.  Well, some of us.”

“I’m for her,” Firefall said.  “She saved my ass today.  Plant or not, I’ll give her a shot.”

“That’s two for, two against,” Powers said as he looked to Rocker.  The stone man glanced up, realizing that he was suddenly the center of attention.

“She helped out,” he said, his voice low and detached.  Images danced through his head, dreams of the past recurring more and more that made it hard to concentrate on the present.  He shrugged, little bits of gravel dropping from his shoulders and falling to the floor.  “I vote yes.”

“I don’t care,” Pitch-black said as all eyes turned to him.  Powers sighed.

“Pitch-black abstains, as does Shaft.”  They all looked to the archer’s empty chair.

“Just where is Shaft?” Wind asked and Powers shrugged.

“Away.  Don’t worry about it.”

“So she’s in?” Firefall asked with a grin, glancing at Witchery.

“Three to two,” Powers said, chomping down on his cigar.  “That’s a quorum.  I’ll contact the backers.  Now who wants to tell Whisper?”

“Oh, that would be me,” Firefall said with a wide smile, shoving her chair away from the table.  Witchery laughed.

“Have fun, dear.”

“You know I will.”  Firefall’s grin was infectious, and all chuckled, save Rocker.

He did not get the joke.

The Aerie
The Himalayas…

Ra’s Al Ghul stared at the man that stood at attention in the center of their little group.  He did not move.  No sweat, nor the slightest bit of nervousness.  Psycho and Psimon had apparently done their jobs well.

There was a flare of light in the vast and darkened chamber, the ‘SCRITCH’ of a match wavering in the cool breeze.  A face appeared briefly in the shadows as Zard puffed a cigarette to life, his visage fading even as he waved the spent match to cold darkness again.

“It’ll work,” Zard said, his face barely aglow, washed in red as he took a drag.

“I agree,” the man called Sensei said.  He was not the original, nor even the last, but the most recent Lord of Assassins, appointed by the Demon’s Head himself to oversee the League.  “The boy’s mind is so corrupted, he shall do as we ask.”

“True,” Ra’s Al Ghul agreed.  “My reservations lie in his sudden disappearance.  The Titans are a well-knit group, almost a family.  If Harper vanishes, they will come looking.  And there is his daughter to consider.”

“We silence the child then,” Savage suggested.  “What’s one more half-breed dead in the gutter.  It will occupy the police, if nothing else.”

“Do not underestimate the League, my friend,” Luthor’s staticky voice echoed hollowly from the speakerphone set on the table.  “They do take care of their own.  Granted it might take time, but the Martian at least will investigate eventually.  And Nightwing too; a shadow of the Bat, granted, but a danger none the less.”

“We have time, my friends,” Zard said.  “Not to worry.  The Martian will be distracted for the nonce, and the rest are far too involved in their own petty affairs to take note; Batman with his Venom patches and the killer stalking the streets of Gotham, the Superman is far too concerned with his impending court appearance, and the Amazon is trying to put her life and world back in some semblance of order.  The others are laughable and beneath our contempt; the schitzo Hawkman, the youth Fate, and the Martian trying to hold order.  Savage has the JSA chasing shadows, and the latest incarnation of the League is in turmoil already.  All is well, my friends.  Rest easy.”

“And the Titans, Wizard?” Wilson asked.

“Disbanded and disheartened over the disappearance of Raven and the death of Logan.  Not a worry.”

Slade Wilson nodded, turning his blind eye to the Demon’s Head, watching Savage instead.

“We continue then.”  Vandal Savage tamped out his own cigarette, glancing at the Wizard.

“Of course,” Zard said, his gaze scanning the table, then looking to the young man dressed as Shaft, the archer.  “If we are in agreement.”

All confirmed.

At last Merlyn stepped to the table.  “I’ll set Harper in my place then, and concentrate on the last few hits.  Barely a dozen, but they are spread across the world.  It’ll take time.  Batman was thorough in that.”

“He is always thorough,” Luthor’s staticky voice agreed.  “Do it.”

“We have time,” Al Ghul said.  “The information that my daughter retrieved was explicit.  The Detective’s archives were well documented, and with both he and the Martian distracted, there are none intelligent enough to discern what we are planning.  The ‘Crisis’ will go forward – “

“And Earth 2 shall become reality once again,” Zard concluded with a grin.  “All we needed was a bit of unity my friends, just a bit of cooperation, for all of our dreams to come true.  Prepare gentlemen, and we initiate Phase Two.”

There was a brief round of light applause, ascension there in the cool, dark chamber.  Finally though, and one by one the true Secret Society began to disperse.

Their business was done.

For the time being...

To be continued...

Next Issue:  Uh-Oh!  Have I said too much?  The clues are flying fast and furious now as the mystery unravels.  Have you been paying attention?  We know who Firefall is – really, and you all did recognize Katana right?  Have you figured out the true identity of Pitch-black?  And what about Shaft?

Well, don’t get too conceited Shaggy, ‘cuz the mystery takes a new turn next issue as the Outsiders take on their greatest challenge yet.  It’ll take a whole box of Scooby Snacks to figure out the next layer as the Injustice Society strikes!  Guest-starring Jack Knight – Starman!

Injustice Rears its Ugly Head!

And the world may never be the same…

Story © 2006 Curt F and may not be reproduced without permission.