Captain England in…

EUROPEAN DEFENSE INITIATIVE

Part I

By Ed Ainsworth

“So, this is it, is it?”

Brian Braddock stood in silence, looking down on the trio of people training below. The European Union had invited him, in his capacity as former Captain Britain, to come and see the great unveiling of their collaborative efforts. All Brian saw was a superhero training ground that was a long way from perfection.

Brian didn’t correct them when they suggested the new Captains were all created by him. He left it unsaid, preferring them not to know how weak Britain was currently.

Europe could look after itself.

Its governments knew the wants and needs of the country better than foreign heroes did, and in most cases, the native heroes operated without the same level of access Brian had. This would turn the tables on that. Universally accepted and embraced, heroes of the European Union. They could make a huge difference in the international circuit.

Still, their powers would need to be ironed out. Homogenisation of the power standard set—strength, flight, speed, agility and durability were a staple, but there was little else to separate Captain France from Captain Italy, or Captain Spain. Not even individual names.

“What do you think?”

Brian paused for a moment, watching the three individuals below him train. Flight was awkward, stiff. Their strength wasn’t engaged – they were holding back, unable to correctly process how exactly they used that additional payload their minds had locked off. They moved without purpose.

“They’re green, Professor Lapin,” Brian replied. “If I’m honest here, they look awful. You look like you’re trying too hard to be me.”

“I feel as though perhaps you do not quite understand…” Lapin replied. Brian pointed a finger at his chest and then down to them.

“I spent years going through turmoil, hard-ship and tests to get what I earned here. I don’t wear a mask anymore because there isn’t anyone left in my life my enemies can hurt. Can the same be said for those men down there?”

“It”s an aesthetic we’re working on, Captain,” the Scientist paused and adjusted his glasses, “We’re trying to be transparent with the rest of the world. We’re trying to defend ourselves.”

“Defend from what? Europe hasn’t exactly been a massive part of the super heroic community.”

“Or rather, the super heroic community has had little to do with the Europe?” Captain France hung in the air, alongside Captain Italy and Captain Spain. They landed in front of Brian, their backs against the railings.

“We believe in what we are to do here, Captain England,” Captain Italy said. He brushed some of his shoulder length hair in dismissal of Brian “Or is it Britain? I forget the title of whatever it is that you have re-branded yourself as these days. You do not wear your colours with pride. We do.”

“I don”t actually think you can make that assessment of me…”

“Umberto. Umberto Landi. Captain Italy.” He extended a hand. Brian took it, only to find the metal flooring of the platform shooting away from his eyes as he exploded through it and down to the training deck below, pursued by the three Captains.

“How dare you!” Captain Italy yelled, throwing an angry fist at Brian. With a flat palm he deflected the attack and crossed his right into the man’s throat, knocking him backwards. Brian placed his hands on the man’s shoulders and flung him into the ground.

“I don’t actually think you have the right to be affronted considering you just tossed me through the floor,” Brian said. France threw a double handed punch in his direction. A crossed-wrist block rebuffed the blow and Brian placed his foot in the Captain’s stomach.

“I honestly though that Europe had it cracked this time,” Brian was left to stand against Spain, who floated in the air before him. He hadn’t directly attacked, so he was probably taking the English heroes measure. “But you’re just angry kids with big guns now, aren’t you?”

“You judge us and you judge Europe? That is so like the English. They wish to be a part of our community but will only on their terms. The rest of us banded together, to become something better, but you refused, no?”

“Look,” Brian held up his hands, “We’re all a bit proud. I’m not trying to say we’re correct in all our ideals, but this European Initiative….S.H.E. was a great idea…”

“It was. Now we’re improving upon it. You have not given us a chance to prove ourselves,” Spain said, stepping towards Brian. He braced himself for the attack, but was quietly confident that he could take the Spaniard.

“It just looks like you’re trying to duplicate a template without the meaning behind it,” Brian said, “There isn’t any individuality.”

Spain grinned and gestured down his costume.

“We copy no one. Our costumes are our own, as are our faces. It is your own vanity which prevents you from seeing what the truth is.” The two remaining Captains joined Spain, a little embarrassed at their easy defeats.

“You can barely use your abilities. I knocked those two down with barely any effort at all,” Brian responded. “I’ve earned my title.”

“So have we. We’re heroes.” Captain Italy said.

“No, you’re not. You’re human missiles to be aimed at threats and hope that you break it on impact. You’re not heroes.”

“This is ridiculous. You were invited here to see what you thought.”

Brain’s chin dislocated on the impact of the fist. The momentum sent his head flying back first with such speed that it carried the rest of his body with it. He flew backwards through a four metre thick wall and out into the wilderness that surrounded the Dome in Brussels.

Skipping off the surface of the ground a few times, he found himself nestled amongst fallen trees. He touched his split lip gently. What hit him?

“Captain…Britain?”

Rebecca Lockwood, Spirit of Vengeance, in…

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

Part IV

By Meriades Rai

I rescued a woman from three men who intended to kill her, but it turns out she’s not a woman at all; she’s a mythological creature known as a basilisco chilote (a beast with a reptilian body and a chicken’s head, similar to the European legend of the basilisk or cockatrice). Now, manifest as the Spirit of Vengeance, I’m lying in the dirt, my unearthly flame all but extinguished and my capacity for movement rendered null because the creature’s stare has petrified me. Literally so; I’m turning to stone.

Seriously, this is my life? At which point exactly did God decide to use me as his own personal kick bag? Oh no, wait. Don’t answer that. I know when it was. It was when I inadvertently got mixed up in the affairs of Heaven and Hell and the mysterious Third Place that lingers between them, and now everyone hates me, God and Mephisto included.

Poor old Becky Lockwood, screwed again.

Unless…

The basilisco chilote reaches out for me with a webbed claw, to rip my skull from my shoulders or disembowel me, or something equally unpleasant, not to mention permanent. But that’s when an idea occurs to me. It’s the Spirit of Vengeance who’s being fossilized here, not Rebecca. Does that make a difference…?

It’s my only shot. I concentrate, imagining the change come upon me. Feeling my flesh boil away to reveal cold, flaming bones whenever I transform into Vengeance is never a joyful experience, but returning to human state tends to be luxurious by comparison. Not this time; this time the agony is more acute than anything I’ve ever suffered, and considering I’ve been eviscerated by demons, that’s saying something. The transmutation is skewed by the fact that a goodly portion of Vengeance’s body has been petrified, and when my flesh grows back and my internal organs regenerate it’s as if every drop of blood inside me is poisoned with grit and splintered glass.

I scream, and writhe… but even this is a marked improvement on the immobility that cursed me before. The basilisco chilote is astonished, and the last thing she expects is for me – as Rebecca now, not as my other self – to lunge at her, face averted so that she can’t tag me with her evil gaze a second time. I wrap my arms about her body and shiver with revulsion as her scaly breasts close about my face, assailing me with her dry, chicken feather stink. Thank you, God. Thank you, Cosmos. You have officially debased me beyond all words. Well done.

The beast tries to peck out my eyes with her razor beak. I scowl.

“Quit wriggling, bitch,” I snarl. “And show some gratitude. I’m about to take you on vacation…”

I begin to dematerialize, as I hoped I would when forcing my supernatural side into retreat. Because I’m clinging on to the basilisco chilote she comes too. Resurfacing in Hel – that’s the Asgardian Hel, otherwise known as Niffleheim – isn’t a surprise to me, but my traveling companion takes it badly. She shrieks and tears free of my grasp, skittering on talon-cornered feet, her eyes bright and fearful. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost. But some rooster-headed whore wants to turn me to stone, she gets what gets…

The landscape of Hel is hewn of blackish-red rock, with myriad islands striated with gullies and rivers of blood. Because Hel is cold, and because everywhere you look there’s a thick layer of icy mist covering the ground, these rivers tend to be frozen. Frozen blood is like dark crimson glass. Can you see where this is headed?

I’d be lying if I said I’d planned all this, but now that I’m here I know exactly what to do.

“Hey! Over here! Here, chicky, chicky, chicky…”

Sometimes I’m so juvenile I delight myself. The basilisco chilote turns when she hears my taunt, and shrieks her indignation. She charges, claws at full reach. I turn away from her gaze, breathless at the memory of being fossilized, and at the last moment I will the change upon me again. Becky can’t survive the basilisk’s attack, but the Spirit of Vengeance can; and, just as I’d hoped, switching bodies has purged my other self of its curse. My flesh sears away and the flaming skull is back, as proud and powerful as ever. No more fossilization – for me, at least. I thrust out a leather fist and grab my attacker about her scrawny throat, lifting her high on the wave of her own momentum and thrusting her, face-first, towards the nearest patch of blood ice.

“I’M DISAPPOINTED WITH YOU, CHICKADEE,” I say, with a sepulchral grin. “RECKON YOU SHOULD TAKE A GOOD, HARD LOOK AT YOURSELF…”

The basilisco chilote stares at her unholy reflection in horror, her eyes wide and bright. She utters one last, desperate cry… and then, in my unyielding grip, she begins to stiffen and grow heavy, her limbs locking into position and her fatal gaze growing dim in its final moment.

The creature petrifies herself, a victim of her own reflection. And, when the process is complete, I clench my fist and my prey crumbles to dust, scattered on the faint flow of the icy fog all about me.

I turn away from the red river, my infernal flame glowing bright. A stone cold killer to the end.

I press a hand to my gut. Ribs and fire and supernatural energy encased in leather – but not stone. That, I tell myself, was a close one. And it was interesting to note that, rather than accept another dose of death, I clung ferociously to this half-life of an existence instead.

“Hello, Rebecca Lockwood,” a sultry voice murmurs. “Have you had a… good day?”

I revert to my human form once more and then turn and look upon Hela, the Asgardian Goddess of Death. I sigh.

“Oh, you know,” I say, gazing around at the alien world I’ve now come to call home. “Same old Becky. Stuck between a rock and a hard place…”

Elixir in…

TRANSCENDENCE

By Hunter Lambright

Brady Wischmann had everything he could have wanted. He had the girls, the grades, and the body honed from hours on the waves. He had habits, too. Bad ones, like surfing alone. It was the time of evening when the sun changed its mind from yellow to orange and the clouds grew pink in defiance. Everyone else was either at home or on their way there, but Brady wanted the time alone to think and to make decisions about where he was taking his life and what he wanted to do with the rest of his time.

High school was a little more than a year from its end, and nostalgia was setting in heavily. Brady wanted to spend as much time as he could on the water before college came along and made him a slave to the desk or computer.

As the sky began to darken into the hues of deeper orange, Brady decided he would have one more go of it before heading in. He took one last glance at the beach and saw a lone boy in board shorts standing knee-deep in the water shouting something at him. Brady didn’t recognize him, and decided he’d be better off finishing this last wave before heading in to ask what was going on. It must have been the way the sun reacted in the late evening, or else Brady would have sworn that the boy had golden skin.

He paddled his way out until he could feel it coming. By now, he had that feeling etched into every cell. Here came the wave. Brady lifted himself up, found his footing, and aimed for that invisible line that would take him all the way through the wave.

He never saw the shark coming as it burst through the wave, jaws open. All he felt was the impact, followed by the tumult of the rushing water.

From Josh Foley’s perspective, the sight of a giant great white shark was terrifying enough as it was, let alone this close to shore. He had tried to stop Brady from going out, not because he knew the shark was coming, but because he knew that something was about to happen.

Dani had taken him aside and let him know the real reason she had uprooted him from his comfortable life in Westchester. She revealed that she had taken legal guardianship over him after his parents had forfeited their own custody because he was a mutant. The other reason was because it was written in a book that he was supposed to do important things out on the west coast of the United States. His presence here had been foretold by Destiny in the Libris Veritatus.

Josh was already in the water when he saw Brady going forward with his run at the wave. When the great white shark crashed through the waves, taking Brady with it, Josh knew that he had little time to act if he wanted to prove the prophecy true.

Josh sucked in a deep breath and dove. The activity was hard not to miss. The shark thrashed around as Brady fought back, pummeling against its snout to no avail. The saltwater stung Josh’s eyes, but he ignored the pain. Brady’s left shoulder was clamped in the shark’s jaw. He could see Brady losing consciousness, as more confusion entered his eyes, replacing fighting spirit as his neck whipped back and forth.

Josh swam in and instantly cartwheeled, slammed aside by the shark’s massive, thrashing tail. Blood polluted the water now and Josh bullied his way in, managing to connect his palm to the shark’s rough hide for just a moment, sacrificing the skin on his hand in the process. The touch sent a shockwave through the shark’s body, causing it to heave and toss, forgetting its meal and heading for open sea. Josh hoisted Brady under his good arm, dragging him behind as he made a break for shore. He pulled Brady up onto the sand and grimaced in horror. The shark had gotten away with more than just its own body. It had taken Brady’s arm, ripping it out of its socket after it had severed the connective tissues.

Josh sat down and got to work. He peeled the wetsuit away from the profusely bleeding stump. The first thing he did, as he placed his hands near the wound, was to divert the blood flow. Then he began sculpting.

After witnessing the inner workings of the body and recreating them in a way no man ever had, Josh was convinced that whatever higher power was out there had an affinity for beauty and purpose. Josh sculpted the bone from Brady’s genetic information combined with the growth of the rest of his body. Then he layered in the connective tissues, the muscles, and the skin. The sun set long before Josh finished the arduous task of full reconstruction.

When Brady awoke, Josh was mopping up the dried blood that had crusted all over his body. “What happened?” he asked.

“You were attacked by a great white shark,” Josh said. “I was able to scare it off, but not before it took a piece of you with it. Luckily, I’m a mutant, and I brought your arm back brand new.”

Brady’s eyes lit up, traveling up and down Josh’s upper body. “Your skin…it really is gold.”

“I get that a lot,” Josh replied. “Feeling good enough to get up? I’m sure your parents are freaking right now. Just know that you’ve got big things ahead of you, Brady.”

“Right…sure,” Brady said, but there were so many unanswered questions. “How can I get in contact with you?”

“Thought you might ask,” Josh said. He pulled out a plain white business card with his name and the Damocles Foundation phone number on it. “Just glad to help.”

It wasn’t until Josh drove off that Brady read the flipside of the business card. It said, simply: “By their deeds you shall know them…”

NEXT: Armor! Giant, mutated wolves! Who has been messing with California’s wildlife?

Stringer in…

CLASSIFIED

Part I

By Hunter Lambright

New York City

“Another hit, Stringer! How do you do it?”

The compliment and question were paired with a stack of letters to the editor printed from e-mail and rubber banded together dropped on Stringer’s desk. His editor smiled, looking down at him. “I mean, I’d thought your ‘Whatever Happened To…’ column was losing steam when you started hitting superhumans, but people are loving the exposé on Ashcan!”

Stringer nodded his agreement. “Thanks, Jimmy. I’m glad it went over so well.”

Jimmy’s grin shrank over the next thirty seconds as Stringer failed to continue the conversation. “Well… who’s next? You’re a reliable guy. I’d hate to be a column short for next week’s paper.”

“You’ll have one,” Stringer said. “I promise. Thing about these is, you never know for sure if you’re going to find a compelling story or not. If it comes down to it, I’ll go back to covering child stars if I can’t find a superhuman who fell off the face of the earth.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Just keep me posted.”

As soon as Jimmy was gone, Stringer breathed a sigh of relief. The “how do you do it?” line always made him nervous. If folks found out he could read the surface thoughts of minds in his vicinity, things could get pretty hairy for him in a job security way. He’d be on the street and lose his Pulitzer in no time flat.

“Stringer! Phone call coming in for you!” The shout came from the front of the newsroom. Sherry held her hand up from behind the receptionist desk to indicate she had sent the call.

Rolling in his chair over to the phone, Stringer prepared for the ring. As soon as the shrill tone went off, Stringer had the receiver up to his ear. “Stringer here.”

“You’re the writer who looks into folks who’ve dropped off the map.” The voice at the other end of the line was scratchy and altered, deeper and more mechanical than the human range. Stringer punched the “record” button on the phone before responding. This wasn’t the first time he had gotten a mystery caller.

“That’s me. What’s up?”

“World War II. I want you to tell me what happened after the war was over.”

Stringer scratched at the back of his neck. “Look, if you need the info, Wikipedia it. I’m busy.”

“I mean the heroes, Stringer.” The voice intensified. “Start with Captain Wonder. Military records. The Crazy Sues.”

Jotting down the names in his notes, Stringer figured he would make the effort. “You got it. To whom do I owe thanks for the tip?”

“You won’t be thanking me.” The phone on the other end was jostled into the receiver and bounced back into the dial tone. If nothing else, Stringer knew that the mystery caller had been using a landline. Stringer pulled the cassette tape out of the phone box and pocketed his notebook. Crank callers came in with “tips” all the time, but something about this one was different. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door.

“Where you going?” Jimmy asked, walking out of his office as Stringer passed by.

“Got a story,” Stringer said, flashing the smile he always gave when he was on the hunt. “But this one feels big. I’m gonna research at home so the Times doesn’t get subpoenaed.”

“Good thinking,” Jimmy said. “Good luck!”

Stringer laughed under his breath as he stepped out onto the street. Jimmy would believe anything if he thought it was for the good of the paper. Stringer wanted access to hacks on his personal computer that the Times would pitch a fit over if he tried to use them at work.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Stringer wondered what about this call was different from all the crank calls he had gotten in the past. Sure, there were rumors that something happened to cause the disappearance of a load of World War II’s heroes, but nothing that suggested any kind of grand conspiracy.

Reaching into his pocket, Stringer pulled out a bottle of aspirin. He popped two pills and put the bottle back. Walking in the city always gave him a headache. When the thoughts of everyone in the vicinity popped into his head no matter the amount of time he had spent putting building up barriers, it was to be expected. If the same powers that gave him headaches could nab him Pulitzers, though, well, headaches be damned.

And then it hit him. In the sea of thoughts around him, he felt them come to him. Malice and ill intent highlighted the thoughts in his head.

Is that the mark? Yeah, yeah, it’s him. Two shots should do it.

BLAM! BLAM!

Stringer dove behind a bank of coin-operated newspaper vendors the instant before he felt the assassin pull the trigger in his mind. The two shots buried themselves in the side of the building, directly behind where Stringer’s head had been just moments before. Pedestrians scattered and more than one person screamed at the sound of the gunshots. Why hadn’t they used a silencer? Stringer pushed that thought into the back of his mind. He could come back to that later. He concentrated, trying to pick the thoughts out again, but they were gone. It was impossible to figure out which vehicle on the street had housed the gunman.

As he pulled himself to his feet, he blended into a group of pedestrians, hoping that the human shields would keep the gunman from making a second attempt. His heartbeat began to slow back to normal and the reality of the situation began to sink in. Someone had just tried to kill him. He was important enough on someone’s list to send an assassin almost immediately after he had been put onto a lead. He repeated it mentally. Someone had just shot at him. But, as he kept walking, he decided in a way this was okay.

Now he knew there was a story.

To be continued!