1952
Under the light of the full moon, the Washington Mall had taken on the look of a war zone.
An over-muscled man in a red suit with a cowl designed to look like the maw of a dog leaped about with an agility that belied his size, apparently boxing with a cloud of faintly blue mist that moved contrary to the wind.
For a moment, a man’s head in a blue hood materialized from the cloud. “Why don’t you surrender already Hellhound? You can’t really expect to hit me.”
“Yeah, but you can’t hit me without getting solid Fog!” the former prize-fighter snarled like his namesake. “And as soon as you try it. . .“ suddenly two hands emerged from the fog just behind him and trapped his neck in a stranglehold.
“Who said anything about hitting you, bruiser?” the vigilante chuckled with grim humor as he tightened his grip. Hellhound managed to break free, but failed to roll clear of the Fog’s enveloping cloud before the hand disappeared and rematerialized in a position to grab his ankles. Once a criminal was trapped in the Fog, they were rarely seen again.
Elsewhere, a man in a black costume covering everything but his mouth and adorned with yellow streaks branching out from the symbol of a stopwatch on his chest raced across the lawn at tremendous speed. Since his powers depended on the addictive drug Miracle, which lasted only sixty seconds, Minuteman struck at his foe fast and hard, ripping up rocks, paving stones, cars, even turf and hurling it in a barrage.
This noble foe, dressed in an elegant grey suit with blue opera cape, was unruffled by the attack. Eyeglass raised the device from which he took his name, which appeared to be a massive pare of ornate 19th century reading glasses, and blasted each object to dust before it could reach him with bolts of laser light. Then he returned fire, causing the ground around Minuteman to erupt into craters, and finally scoring a direct hit that sent the clock-watching criminal spinning, though not for long.
The master mentalist Mind-Wave, a slender man in the green robes of a Tibetan priest, was simultaneously engaged in battle with three supervillains.
Dressed in a red tunic (emblazoned with the words FOUL PLAY) with green boots, pants, and cowl, the World’s Most Talented Amateur, Mr. Horrific, attacked with a mix of karate chops and judo flips. The pint sized muscleman Dollman preferred a more brutal, direct attack. Dressed in red tunic, blue boots, and golden hood and cape, he lashed out with savage upper cuts and jabs.
Both villains stumbled backward, heads reeling. Before their eyes each of their opponents resolved into their allies. The real Mind-Wave stood chuckling off to the side.
“Blast you and your illusion tricks Mind-Wave!” Dollman snarled, realizing he had slugged Mr. Horrific, thinking he was the hero. “No geek can beat me!” he lunged at the robed hero, only to ram into a brick wall created by mind-over-matter.
“I guess I’m not as much of a geek as I thought.” Said Mind-Wave lightly, never taking his eyes off Mr. Horrific, who had silently fallen back to rethink his attack, or was that all…?
In a second, his telepathic powers searched the area and detected the third villain drawling a bead on him from behind. The Glass Man stood out among the other, more colorful villains in his grey trench coat, brown hat, black boots, and massive gas mask. He took his name from the looking glass that told him how to live his life, and had designed a special gas weapon to leave his victims looking like they had been glazed. From this close range, Mind-Wave could sense how deeply disturbed his mind was.
Too disturbed to take control of, he thought quickly, even as Glass Man pronounced his fate.
“I saw your death in my glass, Mind-Wave. It is inevitable. Do not try to resist.”
There WAS someone nearby, still conscious, who Mind-Wave could control. Within the split second it took for Glass Man to pull the trigger, he took over the mind of Mr. Horrific. The villain of a thousand hobbies watched helplessly as his own hands whipped out a throwing star and launched it at his comrade’s throat. Glass Man fell to the ground gagging; only his reinforced mask saved his trachea.
High above, the most powerful member of the metahuman secret society known as the Crime Legion was locked in combat with the mightiest of the heroes who had responded to the threat on this day.
The villain was the current leader of the Legion, a red, ghostly figure in a tattered grey cloak, carrying a scythe in one hand and an ancient roman spear in the other. The Reaper had claimed to be the embodiment of death itself. While he clearly had great supernatural powers, few took this claim seriously. Nonetheless, those who crossed his path did die more often than not.
Hovering opposite him was a mustached man in the costume of a stage magician, complete with top hat, opera cape, and black wand. Most would recognize this figure as a well-know performer from the last decade. But in the dark meeting places of the underworld, William Zard was known only as the Magician, and his magical intervention was feared by all evildoers. Zard’s magic was not a trick. No one but a real mage could contend as he did now with a benighted spirit like the Reaper.
With a slash of his scythe, the Reaper sent a barrage of fireballs at his opponent. “Rash mortal! All who oppose living death shall die.”
As each fireball approached, the Magician flicked it with his wand and turned it into a bouquet of flowers. “Lauds and accolades I accept, spirit, but threats have no effect on me. Arbadacarba!” a lightning bolt lanced out from his wand.
The Reaper caught the lightning bolt and hurled it to the ground, where it stuck a car on Pennsylvania Avenue. “All you efforts are useless, Magician! In moments, I shall achieve my ultimate goal.”
“And what goal is that?” Zard asked, silently building his energy for a stronger attack. “What has brought the Crime Legion of America out of the hole you have been hiding in since the end of the war?”
“This!” The Reaper brandished the spear. “With the power of the Spear of Destiny, I will be able to turn all of America into a land of bloodthirsty berserkers, fit to bring a new age of death and pillage to the earth.” He raised the spear over his head with both hands. “And now it is too late to stop me! I call forth the ancient hatred of the barbarians. . .”
“Not while I still stand!” With that, the Magician hurled all his gathered power at the spear, in an effort to destroy it. The explosion turned night into day for a split second, encompassing all ten people.
When the light died down, the handful of bystanders stared in shock. Not a blade of grass was so much as singed, but all the urban legends they had heard rumored for years had disappeared without a trace.
* * *
1988
Dr. Alec Rois straitened his tie as he checked his reflection in his office mirror. Some people thought it was a silly vanity, but Alec had always believed that if you look your best, you’ll do your best.
And today he definitely needed to do his best.
Keep calm Alec, you’ll do fine. After all, there was nothing… nothing… to worry about. So what, that he was about to present the first full-scale version of his Interphase Projector before some of the world’s finest scientists, including Dr. Alexander Luthor himself? Nothing would go wrong. The miniature models had all worked perfectly. His theory was sound (and he had checked the handout that explained it three times for typos). All that was left was to sell the academic world on the value of his discovery.
With one last check, he picked up his printouts and folder and left his office for the Main Astrophysics Laboratory of the Washington DC branch of STAR Labs. It was fully repaired now from the damage it took at the hands of the Martian Warlord a few months back, and there was really no better place to perform his experiment. The laboratories’ large central room was originally designed as an exhibition hall for a museum, and since the repairs the surfaces were all replaced with plastics and stainless steel, giving a futuristic look. On top of all this, it was a proven fact that the best equipment for forming dimensional rifts was in the main lab.
The academics were waiting when Rois entered, looking impatient, but not agitated. Timed it just right, he thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for joining me today on this historic occasion” There, good beginning. “I am Doctor Alec Rois, you should all be familiar with my credentials, and the years I have spent researching the possibilities of traveling between different dimensional planes. Not particularly alternate universes, such as the home of the heroic Justice League, but nearby special dimensions governed by different laws of physics. Easy contact with these dimensions would have countless benefits, but my research has been focused on finding a source of unlimited energy.”
“All this research was purely theoretical, until the events which happened in this very lab within the last year. The alien supervillain known as the Martian Warlord took over the mind of a STAR scientist and compelled him to build an interdimensional projector to release that same villain from a dimension known as the Phantom Zone.” No need to tell them that scientist was me, he thought. It had been hard enough to hold onto his security clearance. And without the knowledge the Martian had left in his mind this project would still not be off the ground. “Although the projector was damaged during the Martian’s escape. I have managed to create my own version, not to access the Zone specifically, but to probe many different dimensions and tune into any one of their frequencies at will, allowing us access.”
With that, Dr. Rois pulled a remote control out of his pocket and with a press of a button, caused two large doors at the back of the room to swing open, revealing a massive apparatus of generators, cables and computer modules all linked to a rectangular box.
Alexander Luthor, dressed in a good suit instead of his more famous armor, stroked his beard contemplatively. Not only did this device provide the possibility of unlimited energy reserves, accessed as easily as opening a sluice gate, but the possibilities for pure research were astronomical.
With great solemnity, Rois opened a crate to produce a massive battery. He lugged the battery across the room and placed it in the box-shaped part of the machine.
“This battery,” he continued, after wiping his brow “is the largest available to STAR Labs not in the experimental stages. It can hold enough charge to power this building for a week.” He moved to the main console of the machine.
“In testing prototypes of the Interdimensional Projector, I have identified a “’nearby”’ dimension filled with tremendous untapped energy. In moments, I will open a small, controlled portal to allow some of that energy to pour through and charge the battery.”
As Rois began manipulating the controls, the device hummed into action. Power cables glowed and the box began to fill with crackling arcs of static electricity. Slowly, a golden disk, no bigger than the palm of a hand, appeared in the box.
Any moment now. Alec thought. Any moment now arcs of energy would start to pour through the portal and into the battery’s energy collectors.
Perhaps it was his angle, or his optimistic dreams, that prevented him from seeing what one other man saw. Alexander Luthor’s eyes were fixed on the portal intently, and suddenly he did a startled double-take. Did I just see something move in there?
Three things happened in rapid succession. Two warped red hands thrust through the portal, grabbed the edges, and pushed. The portal surged to ten times its size. Then, with a groan, Dr. Rois’ overworked brainchild gave up the ghost and exploded in a thunderous inferno.
Rois’ body was never found. Luthor and the others were standing far enough away from that they suffered nothing more than a shake-up and a few singes. As Luthor scrambled to his feet and peered through the smoke, he saw six costumed figures he’d never seen before.
The Reaper tried to loom ominously, failed, and was reduced to leaning on a twisted beam of metal. “It worked… It worked! Finally we’re free from the accursed unending battle.”
“Yeah boss,” said Dollman “but you don’t look so good. And I think we’re gonna need you pretty soon. We’re on some kinda alien planet or something.” He looked around the ruined lab and cracked his knuckles.
Mr. Horrific also examined the room with a critical eye. “No, this is Earth alright. I know enough about terrestrial and xenosciences to tell that. We must be in the future, maybe fifty years or so.”
“Freeze!” in response to the blaring alarms set off by the blast, a team of security guards had poured into the room, menacing these potential costumed threats with their guns. The guards did not look confident. Alexander Luthor opened his briefcase and revealed the red, yellow, and blue armor that had become a symbol of truth and justice all over the world.
“Well,” growled Hellhound, dropping into a fighting crouch “guess some things never change.”
“Useless menials!” snarled the Reaper. “Must I do everything myself? Defend your master!”
Before a gun had time to bark, five sixths of the Crime Legion launched themselves at the guards. They were mildly surprised when the blue suited men did not panic. In the old days, the police rarely had the nerve to face them down. Nonetheless, even without the added shock, the fighting skills of Mr. Horrific, Dollman, and Hellhound were far more than adequate to deal with the security men.
Minuteman and Glass Man were intercepted before they could enter the fray, and soon had problems of their own.
Luthor had wasted no time when he saw the costumed figures appear. Maybe they were friendly, maybe not, but better safe than sorry.
While Mr. Horrific had made his observations, Luthor had removed the pieces of his battlesuit from his briefcase. In seconds he had donned them behind one of the few standing pieces of equipment. Just as the Legion charged, he joined the security guards and rocketed forward on his boot jets to land right in front of a man with a clock on his chest.
Before Alexander could open his mouth, he was sent reeling by a blow to his faceplate. This guy hits like Ultraman! He thought, while using his jets to stop his backward motion. Oof! And he fights like a berserker. He grunted as Minuteman delivered a series of similar punches with blurring speed.
“Blasted spaceman! Why don’t you drop?” Rex Tyler roared.
Luthor crossed his arms in front of him, doubling the strength of his personal forcefield. “My name is the Defender, pal, and I’m used to fighting people much stronger then you. You caught me by surprise, but that’s over now.”
“Then it seems we must use a new tactic.” Came a somber voice from behind. Luthor backhanded Minuteman with his strength amplifying gauntlet, then spun to face this new attacker…
… and caught a fleeting glimps of a man in a grey trench coat with a gas mask before he was hit in the face with some kind of viscous gas. In seconds, the gas had hardened into a glassy sheet, obscuring his face plate and most of his sensors.
Hellhound was finishing off the last of the guards, which freed up Dollman and Mr. Horrific to concentrate on this mysterious sci-fi hero. Sloan knew they couldn’t have long before the man in the battle suit restored his vision. The Man of a Million Hobbies raced to the wall and began manipulating the power switches, redirecting the current.
“Dollman, hit the fool over here!” He called. Luthor meanwhile had restored part of his radar array and was flying for the door. He was limited by this enclosed space and his lack of knowledge about these foes. He needed breathing space.
He didn’t get far before Dollman scored a superpowered punch that sent him hurtling into the wall. Just as Luthor’s body impacted the power cables Mr. Horrific threw one final switch.
Arcs of electrical energy poured through the armored champion. After two seconds the cables melted, and the Defender slumped smoking to the ground.
“I knew enough about electrical engineering to rout all the building’s power through that wall. That so-called ‘Defender’ must be dead.”
“Excellent Mr. Horrific! You continue to serve me well.” The Reaper seemed much recovered since he first arrived. “But now it is time to withdrawal, until we have time to learn more about this future world.” With that, he swept his scythe threw the air, causing all the legionnaires to vanish into white mist.
Luthor slowly scrambled to his feet. Although the shock had been far from fatal, his suits servos had been half-fried, and would take several minutes to repair. The whole battle had been humiliatingly reminiscent of his first battle with the Crime Syndicate.
But, he thought, I don’t need to tackle this job alone anymore. Surveying the lab while his armor repaired itself, the Defender activated his SOH communicator, summoning help from the Society of Superheroes.
* * *
A short time later, the Defender had been joined by the four other core members of the Society of Super-Heroes. Formed just two years ago, the society’s membership had grown considerably beyond these founders, but it was very rare for the entire membership, or even most of them, to be available at any one time. Some, like Clock Queen had begged off because they had other responsibilities. Others, like Cataclysm, were out of contact.
One auxiliary member had shown up. The Mage had been scheduled to deliver a lecture on European alchemy in his secret identity as Professor Felix Faust, but Luthor had requested his presence particularly, since he was the Society’s newly appointed expert on magic. Dutifully, the recently debuted hero had turned over his lecture to his assistant, donned his domino mask and Chaldean mystic robes, and transported himself to join the others at STAR Labs.
“Your initial conclusion was right Dr. Luthor.” He said, kneeling on the spot where the portal had opened and feeling the air as if he was looking for a weak spot in an invisible wall. His hands glowed faintly with a red aura. “Although Dr. Rois’ machine opened the initial portal, powerful and evil magic was used to stretch it to the point where it could release those mysterious villains you told us of.”
“Any idea yet who they were Alexander?” asked Yellow Flame, standing with his arms crossed and surveying the room with a critical eye as damage crews scurried about their work and tried not to stare too much at the celebrities.
“I still haven’t a clue, and it’s maddening.” The Defender spoke while absently continuing repair and modifications to his gauntlets. “My database includes records of every costumed hero and villain to emerge since the debut of the Syndicate, and they’re not in it.”
“Actually, Luthor, that’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” Broke in Dr. Shadow. “Those characters sounded familiar to me. I don’t know if you’re aware. . .”
“Gentlemen we have a problem!” the Mage was on his feet now, and the red glow around his hands was brighter. “There’s a powerful mystic force trying to break through into our world from the same dimension those villains came from.”
“Can you stop it?” said Luthor
“I don’t think so. The dimension barrier is still paper thin here.”
“Society stand ready!” the team leader called. All six heroes assumed stances of battle readiness.
In a flash of light and smoke, four costumed figures materialized in the room. A tall man dressed like a stage magician promptly collapsed on the floor. A bald man in a greed hooded robe quickly knelt by his side and began trying to revive him.
“Magician, Wake up! We made it. Do you hear me? You brought us back!”
“Gentlemen,” said an elegantly dressed man with a large pair of opera glasses, “I believe we have company.”
The four characters turned to face the Society. Luthor remained tense, but did not give the order to attack. This group seemed less hostile than the last one.
For their part, the quartet of heroes were plainly exhausted, but ready to fight if need be.
“Wait! Stand down everyone! There is no need to fight.” Dr. Shadow stepped forward while simultaneously raising a fence of solid shadow between the two groups. “I recognize these people, and I THINK they are friends.”
The last of the new arrivals, whose blue cloak seemed to fade into a cloud of mist, turned to face the dark defender.
“Dr. Shadow?” he looked around the damaged laboratory. “Where. . . where are we?”
* * *
Elsewhere
It was a slightly disheartening feeling for the Crime Legion to return to their old headquarters; invoking a sense of nostalgia of heart they were not normally inclined to it.
Even in the forties and fifties, the Grand Imperial Hotel in Civic City had hardly lived up to its reputation. Erected during the gangster era, it had continued through darker and grimmer times without improving its clientele, and suffered accordingly. Pristine plastered walls were cracked by too many drunken brawls, the rooms had languished under a cloud of cigar and cigarette smoke and the fumes of old booze, tarnished the once gleaming brass and the crystal chandeliers.
It was an atmosphere that had felt like home, over thirty years ago. Now the windows were boarded up, the smell of smoke exchanged for one of mildew and decay. Cobwebs stretched across the gambling tables in the secret back room, and refuse lay piled in heaps, covered in a coat of dust. When the building had finally been abandoned was hard to tell, but it had plainly been years since there was any staff to make guests feel at home, or any guests at all.
Dollman pulled down the false wall lamp and revealed the stairs leading to the secret basement suit of rooms that had once been permanently, and secretly, provided to the Crime Legion as their hideout and base.
Though as neglected as the rest of the hotel, it had less waste scattered around and still bore the marks of being a place of great importance. There were libraries of reading material (coated in dust), laboratories of chemical equipment (sadly out of date, and in need of a clean), vast gymnasiums (worse for wear, even more so than in the fifties). Plush sitting rooms for henchmen and opulent quarters for the gang members had once been provided, but none were currently fit for occupation.
Still, it was home, and soon it would be the crime center of the United States again.
“We have much work to do” announced the Reaper in his typical sepulchral tones. “Begin the cleaning and restoration at once. I will be in my quarters meditating.” He would naturally, disperse the dust and other distractions from his own quarters, but there was no need to waste power restoring the rest of the base, that was what he had menials for.
Dollman and Hellhound started cleaning out the junk. In about ten minutes they got bored.
“This is stupid,” grunted Al Pratt, lugging a bundle of free weights out of the closet. “We’re the most dangerous crooks in the world, not ditch-diggers.”
“You got a better idea?” Ted Grant growled, sweeping with such vindictive fury one might think the dust bunnies were personal enemies.
Pratt lashed out and grabbed the broom. He snapped it in half with a squeeze of his fist.
“Yeah, a great idea,” he glanced toward the front door, “let’s go have some fun.”
* * *
“This is stupid.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last then minutes Grant.”
Hellhound and Dollman were walking along a dark, ill-kept street near the hotel, to all appearances, a pair of carless men out for a late walk in a bad part of town.
Pigeons.
Al Pratt had wanted to go in costume, but Ted Grant finally persuaded him they’d look more helpless in their civvies.
“And I’ll keep on saying it. What if nothing happens? What if the Reaper comes out and says ‘where are Hellhound and Dollman?’ Do you know what he’ll do. . . “
“Relax, Grant.” Dollman knew better then to call his partner a coward. They’d both been on the receiving end of the Reapers tirades before. “Thugs’ll still be the same when even the Reaper finally kicks the bucket. Look,” he grinned, “here’s company already.”
There were eight of them, between fifteen and eighteen years old, all of them tall, with muscles toughed by life on street. They were dressed in ripped and faded jeans and t-shirts (some rips obviously intentional, some not). Each of them wore an expression as nasty as their haircut when they stalked out of a grimy alley into the path of the two supercrooks.
“Okay shorty.” The leader said, swaggering up and flipping out his switchblade “You and your buddy want to fork over your cash or,” he sneered. “you want to mix it up first?”
Hellhound and Dollman glanced at each other and smiled slightly.
“Well,” said Grant, “since you asked…”
* * *
Five minutes later
Hellhound and Dollman kicked the last of the battered muggers into the Secret Lair. All of them were bruised and battered; some were missing teeth and nursing minor injuries.
They were also cowed, submissive, and trying to hide how scared they were.
“Allright ya bums!” barked the former prize-fighter. “I want this place so clean I can eat off the floor. Brand new, hear me? Now GET MOVING.”
As the gang members scrambled off to find things to straighten, polish, sweep up or mop, Grant and Pratt changed back into their costumes.
One boy, the gang leader, remained where he was. This was not out of bravery, but because when he started off Hellhound had fixed him with a fierce glare and growled “stay.”
Once the villains were changed, they grabbed the young man by the shoulders and dragged him to the gym. Dollman tossed the thug into the boxing ring, and Hellhound tossed him his switchblade and a blackjack.
“We don’t want to get bored, with nothing to do but watch you houseboys.” Ratt watched the boys muscles tense with pent up frustration. “So we’re going to give you a chance to get even for us steeling your gang. You’ve got weapons, we’ve got fists. Let’s see you try to kill us.”
The leader swallowed nervously as the smiling villains got into the ring.
It was going to be a long, painful day.
* * *
Earlier
All the villains of the team had been spending this same time settling in.
Terry Sloan always found it difficult to motivate himself. He had an absorbent mind and unfettered curiosity, but was primarily motivated by an idle search for novelty.
When the villains scattered, he wandered down the central corridor of their old lair into the sitting room where the Reaper would lay out their plans around the wide coffee table. He brushed the dust off a chair, and flopped down. Let the grunts do the cleaning he thought with a yawn.
He glanced at the clock and his eyes subconsciously tracked the second hand. 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… Sloan sighed. He couldn’t stand being bored. It was what drove him to become Mr. Horrific.
I know what I’ll do. He jumped up and walked briskly to his rooms. Dusting off a suit of clothes from his closet, he changed out of costume and headed toward the secret entrance. On the way, he noticed Hellhound and Dollman heading toward their quarters. Pity them if Reaper catches them slacking off. He briefly thought about helping clean then dismissed the idea. Mr. Horrific wouldn’t catch any flack. He was indispensible.
He stuck his head into the small chemical laboratory maintained by Rex Tyler. The Minuteman was the closest thing to an intellectual peer Sloan had in the Legion.
Minuteman was busily engaged in brewing up another batch of Miraclo pills. He’d been very pleased to find most of his lab usable, even after all this time.
“Tyler,” Mr. Horrific called, “I’m going down to the public library to read for a few hours. Do you want me to get you anything?”
“Sure,” said the chemical superman. “Some modern technical journals would be nice. And if you can stop by a chemist shop on the way back, I need a new supply of Miraclo ingredients.”
With a brisk nod, Terry Sloan set out. The Public library was bigger, but still in the same place he remembered it. Utterly self-focused, it made no difference to him if his old-fashioned clothes drew stares.
The millionaire criminal mastermind (or rather former millionaire, his fortune having been divided up decades ago), pursued the process of up-dating his knowledge in his customary manner. Wandering through the library, he would pick up any book that interested him, start speed-reading it, than skimming it, than stop just before the end from boredom. Then he would pick up another book on a different subject and repeat the process.
No book took longer than 10 minutes. And if his knowledge at the end wasn’t exhaustive, it was at least broad.
We live in interesting times now. He thought, switching back and forth between “Modern Nuclear Science” and “America in the 1960s.” Finally, losing interest in both, he eyes lit upon a newspaper headline in the periodicals archive.
“Society of Superheroes returns from Space Mission.” In smaller print he could see, “Exclusive interview with the Defender reveals. . . ”
“Yes” muttered the man of a million hobbies as he picked up the paper and perused the story. “Very interesting times indeed.”
* * *
“This is incredible!”
Kyle Murphy stood on the observation deck of the Society of Superheroes’ Law Tower, looking out over Cosmopolis. He had doffed the hood of his blue costume. “The future is everything I dreamed and more. And yet. . . so similar to my own time is so many ways.”
The conservative, art deco room encircled the tower, offing an unbroken view of the city. Eyeglass and Mind-Wave were availing themselves of some cool drinks and comfortable leather chairs while they mingled with the Society members. The last few hours had been very overwhelming, even shell shocking. To think that their secret identities were dead, their old lives gone, even their language and customs different.
Eyeglass had little to leave behind, just an optometrist’s office that he could reopen (after renewing his medical license of course). He was much more interested in the technologic advances, much like the Fog. Jonathan Cheval couldn’t wait to dive into the private laboratory the Defender maintained in the Tower and start upgrading his Eyeglass weapons.
Dr. Henry King, on the other hand, was missing his sweetheart. He had just been working up the nerve to propose to young Miss Mary Pemberton, after talking himself out of it for years. He met the girl through her father, and he had also treated her brother for criminal disorders after Sylvester Pemberton’s release from prison. If not for Dr. King’s presence, her brother’s role-modeling would have led her to a life of crime as well.
And now where was she? In a retirement home? Married? The world greatest mentalist felt an ache in his heart that had little to do with strange skylines, out of date knowledge, and bizarre clothing and language styles.
The Magician, who also had no family to leave behind, was bringing Luthor and the others up to date on the Crime Legion, on his friends, and how they ended up in another dimension.
“We were trapped in a dimension that seemed to imitate Ragnarok.” The master of magic shuddered. “It was a nightmarish, unending battle where nobody could die. Time lost all meaning. The Legion fought alongside Loki, we fought side-by-side with Odin and Thor.”
“Astonishing!” said Faust “The energy recoil must have torn open a dimensional rift which sucked both your teams in, and closed in less than a second. What were you thinking, firing a neferic disruption burst at an object charged with that much raw mystic energy, you could have destroyed the city!”
Zard flipped his top hat back and gave a wry smile. “There wasn’t much time for thinking, my good scholar. I did what any magician should do in a crisis. I followed my instincts and trusted to luck and skill.” He glanced around the room at his fellow refugees of time. “It’s strange. We were never a team, as you say. In fact, before that fateful day in Washington I had only ever heard of one or two of my fellow crime fighters. The members of the Crime Legion had formed their gang years earlier, and we had each fought them with some success alone, but mystery men rarely teamed up like your Society in my day.”
Eyeglass joined in. “of course, after fighting the Legion all those years, I doubt there’s a closer band of brothers anywhere on this planet.”
“I remember reading the account of a mysterious explosion in Washington DC in 1952” said Luthor, frowning “What I want to know is why I’ve never heard of any of you before? When I was looking for heroes to help battle the Syndicate, I combed historic files and saw no evidence of any superheroes during the 1940s or surrounding decades.”
Dr. Shadow smiled slightly. “It was another age, Luthor. Men with telepathy, or who could dissolve into fog, or conjure up darkness were nothing more than urban legends. The police dismissed stories of our powers and intentions as the ravings of criminals and other untrustworthy witnesses. No newspaper would be foolish enough to print the stories of our adventures, except as side-columns about some unexplained phenomenon. Remember, you first learned about my existence when you read that Johnny Quick’s robbery attempt in Keystone City was thwarted by a living shadow. Only the fact you were looking for mysterious shadows in connection with Quick lead you to me.” He gave a cautious glance around the room before continuing. “Also, Alexander, we weren’t exactly superheroes in those days. The law was after us as often as the gangsters were, and we didn’t always have time for the niceties of police procedure, or. . . turning criminals over for trial.”
Dead silence filled the room. Wilfred Knox continued. “It was a more dangerous time my friends. I never liked what we had to do and I’m glad to be able to work hand in glove with the authorities now. I’m sure my older colleagues feel the same way.”
“Indeed,” said Eyeglass “and I give you all my word that I and my fellows never killed if there was any better choice, and we never harmed an innocent.”
Nostromo, who had been observing quietly but intently, finally spoke out. “I think we should let this matter drop Luthor. We have every reason to trust Dr. Shadow, and if he vouches for these men, that is good enough for me.” He addresses himself to the Magician and Eyeglass. “In my one-man crusade against the Scavengers of the Universe, I have often fought alone on planets with no legal system at all. I have seen all varieties of justice in the Universe, including its absence, and had to do what was right with no support of any kind. I sympathize.”
After a moment of tension, Lynx spoke up. “Let’s forget this for now. We’ve got bigger problems to worry about.” She addressed all four heroes from the fifties, Mind-Wave and the Fog had rejoined the crowd. “Our world has problems enough just dealing with the Crime Syndicate. As soon as you all are settled in here, you need to tell us everything you know about the Crime Legion of America, and then we’re going to help you hunt them down once and for all.”
* * *
“Astonishing!” hissed the Reaper, as he examined the array of newspaper photos Mr. Horrific had provided. The entire Legion was assembled around the table in the planning room to plot their next move. “mystery men, or ‘metahumans’ as they are called now, are apparently far more plentiful in this future.”
At the moment, the photos he was examining depicted various lineups of Lex Luthors new Society of Super-Heroes. The grim ghost, that had once been named Jim Corrigan, well remembered the trouble his plans had faced before at the hands of costumed crime-fighters, particularly that infernal nuisance the Magician. There would be more risks now than before.
But also, he thought, more opportunities for profit. That was always the trade off.
“I think you’ll find this much more interesting.” Sloan pushed forward another newspaper clippings, this one depicted a pitched battle between the Society and eight other costumed men and women, two of whom looked quite familiar.
“Doctor Chaos and Sundown!” exclaimed Dollman.
“That’s not possible.” Glass Man murmured. “Perhaps for Dr. Chaos, but Sundown was a mere mortal. He would be an old man now.”
Hellhound turned that picture so he could see it more clearly. “Looks like he’s running with a new gang now, this ‘Crime Syndicate of America.’ Heh, we should sue em’ for copy write infringement.” He gave an ominous chuckle.
“According to what I’ve been reading,” Mr. Horrific continued, “Dr. Chaos has disappeared. All this ‘Alexander Luthor’ would say was that he didn’t think Chaos would return anytime soon.”
“Many have said that before, and the Doctor has always returned.” The Reaper rose gracefully. “But Sundown is one of us, and we can use his information on this modern age. It would be well to pay a visit to this Crime Syndicate, and remind our old friend of his true loyalties; and to put these new super rogues in their proper place.”
* * *
The Aerie of Evil would have been an imposing building, if anybody could see it. Carved into the side of a remote mountain in New England, it resembled an ultra-modern villa, far away from any navigable path. The occupants, all of whom could fly or otherwise easily cross treacherous ground, preferred it this way.
Within the building, it was as much a plush hideaway as a fortified stronghold, equipped with cutting edges automated security and the most modern laboratories and computer systems.
Central to the building was the great round table, where the members of the Crime Syndicate of America would gather for their regular meetings to plan crimes, manage the business of their organization (a task that usually devolved upon Owlman), and divvy up the loot from their recent successes (not so frequent as before the dawn of this new age of heroes).
The most recent meeting was just breaking up, when all eight villains noted a brilliant red glow emanating from the sealed titanium doors to one of the building’s annexes. It was the annex that contained their trophy rooms, weapons lockers, and storehouses of artifacts and devices that might feature in future plans.
“Syndicate, stand ready!” called Ultraman, just as the door exploded outward.
The Crime Legion of America stood framed in the doorway.
“You were foolish to retain Dr. Chaos’ crystal ball,” sneered the Reaper, apparently disinterested in the forces arrayed against him. “To one familiar with its power, it was easy to track down and turn into a gateway.”
Ultraman clenched is fists. “I don’t know who you are, but you’re about to learn why nobody messes with the Crime Syndicate. Attack!”
Ultraman and Isis both closed in on the Reaper, since he looked the most powerful and was clearly the leader. Ultraman attacked head-on, planning the end this quick. The Reaper reached out, and his hand expanded to twice the size of his body, closing around the Menace of Steel.
Ultraman gasped and struggled. This hurt. Very few things were strong enough to hurt him. It was a shock, and an embarrassment.
“Winds that lift me through the sky, shrive my foe and make him die!” Isis chanted, using her power over the elements to attack while sweeping her forward.
For his part, Corrigan was disturbed that he could not easily crush Ultraman. He had rarely encountered anything so strong. To deal with the attack of the Egyptian enchantress, he sent a pair of ice-cold rays lancing out from his eyes, quickly coating the villainess in ice and forcing her to divert her concentration.
Owlman’s charge was intercepted by Mr. Horrific who back-flipped across the room from the doorway and assumed a karate stance.
“I hear you’re the world greatest mastermind.” He motioned come on with his hand. “Maybe you’ll amuse me for a bit.”
“I’m not interested in your amusement.” The master criminal assumed a fighting stance of his own. “But I’ll defiantly give you something to worry about.”
After several swift Karate strikes and blocks, Owlman began moving into more advanced techniques. Mr. Horrific fell back, only a little deterred.
“It seems you’re farther along than I am at karate. But how are you at Judo?” switching styles, he began to press his opponent again.
It was a strange kind of fight for Owlman. This foe with FOUL PLAY on his sleeves seemed to have an almost unending supply of martial arts training, yet only at the beginner level. It was quite frustrating. In any one of these disciplines, Thomas Wayne could have beaten Mr. Horrific in seconds. But this constant fluid shifting from one style to another kept him off his stride.
Power Ring closed in on Glass Man, presenting a cocky grin as he reached out with a giant green hand to crush this odd figure in a gas mask.
Wesley never flinched. He raised his gun and filled the air around the flying green figure with a dense white gas.
Bill was ready for this. The moment he saw the gas mask and gun, he had ordered his ring to for a protective screen around his body, filtering out everything except air.
“Buddy, you must have lived in a hole for years to think something like gas was gonna stop me. This is like something I would expect from Police Commissioner Hand, just because he can’t do any better.” He formed a giant green fan to disperse the gas. . .
And stopped laughing.
His fan splintered into an array of multicolored light, striking all round the room, smashing chairs and even the table. Other villains fighting in the vast chamber were forced to duck and cover.
Power Ring tried concentrating harder, but could not control his light constructs.
“I foresaw you in my looking-glass, Power Ring.” Glass Man said as he stalked forward. “And I prepared against it. My mirror mist is as effective on your magic ring as it is on police searchlights.”
He reached in to strangle the Emerald Marauder, only to be met with a driving uppercut that sent him stumbling back.
“I’m no push over, chump, even without my ring.”
Superwoman was going to hit the Reaper from behind, when something slammed into her like a cannonball.
It was the costumed man with a clock on his chest, and he hit her with a punch that sent her flying across the room and into the far wall.
Diana scrambled back to her feet with a grace born of the god’s gifts and a hundred battles, giving no sign of how much the attack had hurt. Few people besides the Defender had ever hit her that hard, and her opponent was coming in for another attack.
Planting her feet, she adopted the Amazonian defensive fighting stance, usually used for playing bullets and bracelets. Of course, with no bracelets, she had been forced to adapt the fighting style for her own use.
As each of Minuteman’s fists powered toward her, she knocked it to the side with a quick sweeping strike and tried to follow through with a strike of her own. Unfortunately, for every hit she scored, her snarling antagonist scored one of his own, and the intensity of the fight prevented her from reaching her lasso.
For Minuteman’s part, as always when hyped-up on Miraclo, he was a high powered juggernaut almost without thought. He was beginning to worry, however, that his fight could last more than a minute and he might not be able to break away in time to take another pill. He had assumed that, despite her costumed identity, this Superwoman was nothing more than the housekeeper or secretary to the Syndicate and would fall easily. She was far stronger and more skilled than he had imagined.
Hellhound and Dollman were being doubled-teamed by Rubberneck and the Microbe.
At the size of an action figure, the microscopic malefactor glided in toward Hellhound’s face, planning to use his favorite trick of hitting his enemy with his full 180 pound bodyweight right on the chin. Angling his body, he soared toward the target. . .
And missed. One mistake most people tended to make when they were unlucky enough to fight “killer” Ted Grant, in and out of the ring, was that he was much faster than he looked. Although built like a brute, he would never have become a champion fighter or leg breaker without being light on his feet. When Hellhound saw his new enemy heading for his face, he dodged it as instinctively as he would dodge a punch.
Hellhound tried to catch his foe with a backhanded fist as he spun, but Raymond Palmer’s reflexes were not slow either. He was surprised, but not enough that he failed to adjust his size-weight controls. Just as the blow struck, he dropped his weigh to near zero, so that he offered no more resistance than a pebble. The Microbe slightly increased his weight and gained speed as he flew across the room, flipped off the far wall to change direction, and then used a toppled chair as a spring board to launch himself back into the fray. Hellhound assumed a fighting stance and waited for his foe to get in closer.
Ralph Dibny, AKA Rubberneck, had his own standard tactic for dealing with non-superpowered foes. Like a python, or a living sheet of plastic, he coiled around and around Dollman with the intent of smothering him.
The plan, however, was not working. Dollman wriggled, thrashed, sprang, and pummeled him like a maniac, never once giving way to panic. And he was not nearly so powerless as he seemed. His atomic powered punches hurt. If Rubberneck had bones, they would have broken with every blow. As it was, he was experiencing one of the most bruising pummeling since he gained his powers. He only hoped he could smother this fireplug before he suddenly discovered a limit to his elastic body’s ability to absorb damage.
All this time, Sundown had been standing in the shadows, his body tense, his expression unreadable. His mind was a blur, reflecting on a long gone time, well before anyone ever heard of the Crime Syndicate. A time when still whispered legends of monsters that lurked in the city at night and left the police helpless.
Suddenly, he acted. In an instant, the Syndicate’s world went black. Sundown used his power to render all his current team mates temporarily blind. A moment of surprise was all the closely-matched opponents needed to render their enemies helpless.
It had been one of the closest fights the Legion had ever fought, though none of them would admit it. As they prepared to leave, Mr. Horrific found himself wondering if they were really ready to take on this new world, or if perhaps the Reaper was pushing them too far, too fast.
Not that he would voice those thoughts. He enjoyed living.
* * *
“We should pool our knowledge,” Luthor began as he led the group of ten heroes into yet another chamber of his laboratory in the Law Tower. This one was packed from ceiling to floor in banks of incredibly sophisticated computers. “I’ve created a computerized filing system, including all the information on known superhumans gathered by the Society and our allies, such as Grodd’s Super Crimes Unit and Le Mano Aperto’s League of Assistants.”
“The most dangerous of all,” announced the Magician with a sweep of his cape, “is the Reaper.” He flourished his wand and conjured an image of the gaunt, red-cloaked spirit that Luthor was already familiar with.
“The Reaper is an ancient death god, or demon, depending on your parlance.” The master of mysticism set his teeth. “He feeds on death, suffering and chaos, emerging whenever the earth is in peril. I first detected him in nineteen forty, forming one of his usual cults.”
“After the third time I beat him and forced him to waste hard earned energy crawling back from the abysmal plains, he realized it would be better to recruit a gang of other superthugs to do his dirty work, so he could sit back and feed on their carnage. It also gave him an edge in numbers. That was how the Crime society was formed.”
“Fascinating!” Felix Faust rested one hand on the back of a chair and stroked his chin. “In my research into the ancient occult I’ve come across many references to such revenant spirits who feed on human misery. I never dreamed they referred to a single monster. Most of the learned scholars who wrote on the subject believed it was simply a common cultural trope. Even the majority of occultists proposed that it was an entire class of demons.” He considered for another moment, then continued. “The legends do seem to agree that such entities must latch on to the soul of a weak and corrupt human, recently dead, in order to manifest, much like a stomach worm which needs it’s host’s digestive system to absorb food.”
Zard gave a wry smile. “I’ve never made any pretensions of being a scholar, Prof. Faust. My teachers in the orient claimed I had much talent, but little patience. I prefer quick and, where possible, dramatic solutions to problems. I confess, my original goal was to simply be a success as a stage performer. I only became a hero when I realized during a disaster at the theater how much good my powers could do. Since then, I’ve had to learn ‘on the fly’ so to speak. As to the Reaper’s origins, aside from melodramatic claims of being ‘as old as time’ he has revealed little and I know nothing more.”
Mind Wave picked up the narrative with a description of Mr. Horrific, his abilities, and some of his more spectacular crimes. As each hero described the foe they knew best, the Magician changed his image to reflect that villain. A considerable amount of digging on Luthor’s part revealed some evidence of their successful crimes, police left “baffled with no suspects.” Of the crimes where Mind Wave had managed to defeat Sloan and return the loot, no mention was made. Only small articles about how the bank had noticed a discrepancy, but rediscovered the money later and hoped to “quell unfortunate rumors.”
“That’s how it often was in those days.” Dr. King continued. “No newspaper wanted to print anything about ‘mystery men’ for fear of getting laughed at. I never did manage to prove that Terry Sloan was Mr. Horrific.”
“He sounds almost as tough as that killjoy Owlman.” said the Clown from his perch on the back of a chair. “Except one is a fop and the other’s a fanatic! HA HA!” he laughed to himself.
Henry King offered a grim smile. “Minuteman is far less humorous. I fought him a handful of times before he joined the Legion.” He studied the floating image with a distant look. “For all that he’s the most physically powerful Legionnaire after the Reaper, I always felt he was more of a victim than a villain. He was a chemist named Rex Tyler who discovered a formula he thought would make him the ultimate man. It gave him incredible strength, speed, and durability, but wore off in one minute leaving him wracked with pain and craving more. It turned out his Miraclo was one of the most addictive drugs in the history of mankind. He turned to crime to feed his needs.
I’ve always hoped that, if I could capture him, perhaps I could cure him.”
Yellow Lantern shook his head slowly. “Whatever he has done to himself, he chose to prioritize relieving his own suffering at the expense of others. I have little sympathy for him.”
Eyeglass tucked his signature weapon into his breast pocket. “Hellhound is one of my old foes. He was a vicious prizefighter, Ted “Killer” Grant. Most people gambled on him being banned for excessive violence. In the end, it was for rigging his matches. With his career washed up, he turned his muscles to crime.”
“I’ve carved tougher men then him down to size.” said Lynx, resting her gloved hand on her hips. She couldn’t see what the worry was. After tangling with superhumans like the syndicate, these ordinary men didn’t seem that dangerous.
Maybe they were scarier back in the day. She thought. Then again, Luthor was an ordinary man, and he had fought off the Syndicate alone for years. Still…
“Dollman and Glassman are old punching-bags of mine.” The Fog chimed in. “Dollman was just a pint-sized punk named Al Pratt, who got so tired of being bullied he trained himself to be the ultimate fireplug so he could hurt others as much they hurt him. He revels in his strength and hates being, if you’ll excuse the pun, belittled.”
“The Glass Man, on the other hand, is simply crazy. He was a wealthy playboy named Wesley Dodds, who had no direction in life. He was gradually running his company into the ground because he simply couldn’t take responsibility for running it. All he wanted to do was have fun. One night he had a little too much fun and fell into the clutches of a gang of seven blackmailers, who began putting the squeeze on him.”
“With his life falling apart, no solution in sight, Dodds found the solution he was looking for. One night while sitting up sleepless he saw an image in his looking glass of him going to a certain bar, dressed in his old gas mask, and shooting the blackmailers dead with a revolver. He did just what he saw in the glass. There were seven blackmailers, but he killed 2 with one shot. Ever since then he has done only what he sees himself do in any reflective surface. He even built a chemical weapon that coats people in a glassy film, in ‘homage to the power of glass’ so he says.”
“I worked with the Fog a couple of times, fighting those two and another associate of the Crime Legion called the Space-Man. Don’t worry.” He made a mock-soothing gesture as several heads turned. “He hasn’t been seen since the late forties. No one knows what happened to him.”
“We also knew Dr. Chaos and Sundown back in the day” The Magician added. “I’m not surprised to hear Dr. Chaos is still around, or was until you took care of him. . .”
“Good job on that, by the way,” said Mind-Wave.
“. . .But I wonder how Sundown managed to survive the years and stay so spry?”
“Gentlemen,” Luthor broke in, “I think I have something.” He turned from the computer screen to face the room. “Mind-Wave, you said Mr. Horrific was really the millionaire Terry Sloan?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Public records show that he vanished in 1952 and his companies went bankrupt when sign of embezzlement and mismanagement were discovered. One of those assets was a hotel in New York City, which the police suspected was an underworld hangout.”
“A hotel you say?” Eyeglass looked over the information on the screen. “Once, when I was taken captive by the Legion, I was taken to their headquarters to be tortured. I almost escaped, and I deduced I was in a hotel before I was knocked out again and taken to a lonely spot to be disposed of.”
Yellow Lantern gave a predatory smile. “I think we have our target.”
* * *
Ultraman regain consciousness slowly. Despite a recent rise in metahumans, he was still not used to being knocked out. His first coherent thought was. Someone’s going to die for this.
His second thought was, Why do my arms hurt so much, and why do I feel so weak?
As he struggled to open his eyes, the answers to those questions became clear. Kel-LL and the other members of the Syndicate were sitting on the floor in a circle around a metal pole. A wide ring surrounded with shackles was positioned roughly four feet above the floor, and they were all shackled to it by their wrists.
The pole was in the bottom of a metal basin, ten feet deep, with an industrial sized pouring mechanism like the kind used in metal foundries near one edge. From the awkward angle he couldn’t see what was in the tank, but from the way it was bubbling he doubted it was healthy.
Directly overhead was the source of his weakness. The pit was fully illuminated by brilliant solar lamp.
“I do hope you’re all comfortable.” The leader of the Crime Syndicate turned his head to look in the direction of the hollow, smarmy voice. The costumed men who had attacked them earlier were arrayed along one rim of the pit, looking down with gloating smiles. The traitor Sundown stood among them.
“After all, it’s been some time since we entertained such distinguished guests.” The Reaper continued, every word dripping with sarcastic pleasure as the other members of the Syndicate also regained consciousness.
“My minions have carefully researched all your weaknesses. Ultraman’s body has been bathed in enough yellow sunlight to drive every trace of kryptonite radiation from his cells. Owlman is helpless without the tools in his boots, gloves and utility belt. Isis is gagged, and both she and Superwoman are held in manacles too strong even for Minuteman to break. Rubberneck’s gingold serum has long since worn off. The skilled hands of Mr. Horrific even restored the Microbe to normal size. A pity his uniform was destroyed in the process, it might have been of some use.”
Isis snarled through her gag. Once she had enjoyed the advantage of surprise when she wielded her magic in battle, but overuse seemed to have resulted in the gift becoming general knowledge. Superwoman was deprived even of her lasso, but despite her rage at being manacled, she was still confident her Amazonian powers would enable her to escape. Ralph Dibney, on the other hand, was almost panicky. Without his powers, he felt helpless and desperate to escape. Owlman patiently pondered the situation, examining the trap and the restraints, and considered possible escape plans. Reacting in hast had gotten them into this mess. He, for one, was not going to say or do anything until the time came to seize the initiative and escape. As for Prof. Raymond Palmer, now the only Syndicate member not in costume, he had to work hard to suppress a smile. The Legion had made a critical mistake in their trap. All he had to do was exploit it.
“And lastly, Power Ring, whose weapon is the mightiest of all,” he looked directly at Bill Baggett. “Your ring is safely locked away where you will not be able to use it to escape.”
Power Ring look frantically and vainly around for the precious bauble that had made him one of the mightiest villains on earth. It had not left his finger since he first became Power Ring, except for a brief period when some extradimensional villains stole it, and he determined it never would again. From now on, I’ll will it never to leave my finger. He thought. He certainly was smart enough not to let his ring get taken like the so-called second Power Ring, Ken Raynor had.
“All of you will be given this one chance. Your helplessness has been proved. Join the Crime Legion and swear eternal service to me, and you will be allowed to live. I could use your knowledge of this future world, and your powers may be of some use as well, if properly directed. If you refuse, you will be the first in nearly forty years to die in the Pit of Doom. The vat looming over you is filled with a highly corrosive acid that will leave no trace.”
Pit of Doom? Thought Ultraman. How corny can you get? This new group had gotten the drop on them, sure, and Sundown’s betrayal was a small surprise, but they had clearly underestimated the Crime Syndicate. Heck, most of this so-called “Crime Legion” didn’t even have super powers.
We’ve beaten tougher foes before. He thought, contemplating the right reply. First I’ll string’em along until the right moment, then, when they drop their guard. . .
Suddenly, the wall of the room exploded inwards. “As much as I’d love to see the Syndicate get their just deserts,” announced Luthor, standing at the head of a band of costumed heroes, old and new, “they’ll get it in a court of law, along with you and your golden-age gangsters Reaper.”
“Society, Charge!”
“Legionnaires, kill them!” shrieked the ghoulish ganglord, and the room dissolved into a scene of battle.
“So, ‘Foul Play’,” the Clown bounded up to Mr. Horrific. “Should I assume you’re chicken? You may be in luck. I need a ‘plucky’ side-kick!”
“I’ll pluck you, you freckles fool!” Sloan launched a barrage of kicks and punches at his brightly garbed opponent, which the Clown nimbly avoided with his usual blend of slapstick and acrobatics, laughing all the while.
The normally detached Mr. Horrific was becoming increasingly frustrated by this enemy who did not try to fight him, but merely goaded him on to more and more complex attacks. Even as he ground his teeth, he felt something awake within him. It was. . . nice. . . for lack of a better word, to find a new serious challenge.
Suddenly, just as he launched a flying series of karate kicks, the Clown straight-armed him in the jaw with a extending dummy arm, weighted with solid rubber. While Terry Sloan reeled and tried to recover his balance, Tim Barry dropped to the floor and did a double summersault right under the World’s Most Gifted Amateur. Coming up on one knee, the Comedic Crimebuster released a jet of oil from his squirt flower around Mr. Horrific’s feet, just as the villain pirouetted around to renew the attack.
The effect was instantaneous. The controlled pirouette turned into a helpless spin. Desperately, Mr. Horrific scrambled and reached out, trying to find some solid ground to grab onto and check his motion. Instead, his grasping hand was snagged by the Clown’s extending bamboo cane, and with a yank the Laughing Lawman sent him spinning like a top.
“Behold, the incredible Mr. Centrific!” the Clown laughed mockingly as his foe began to lose consciousness. Sloan’s mind dredged up one thought. Well, this is a novelty.
Lynx sprung at Hellhound with the ferocity of the wild beast from which she took her name. With a snarl, Hellhound tried to meet her half way, lunging forward with his fist clenched to deliver a powerful haymaker.
Flipping forward onto her hands, Prosperpina did a handspring and flipped over her attacker, landing just behind him. “If you can’t move quicker than that, I’ll have you in the pound before I even muss my. . .”
Like lighting, Ted Grant spun on the ball of his foot and delivered a devastating clip to the startled heroine’s jaw. Lynx stumbled back again the wall and landed on the floor. Her vision resolved into the red-clad villain stalking toward her like a wolf approaching a winded deer.
“Here kitty kitty.” He coaxed mockingly, twisting his lips into a lecherous leer. Lynx had only a second to roll out of the way before her foe’s powerful fist reduced a chair where her head hnd just been to splinters.
Rolling up on her left hand, she brought both her legs up in a sideways kick, catching Hellhound in the ribs and sending him reeling backwards. The claws on her boots left three long scratches on his right side.
The battle between the two teams rapidly spilled out from the execution room into the surrounding corridors, taking down rotting walls and scattering panicked teen thugs. The cat-dog fight raged back and forth, as Prosperina Fox pitted her nearly inhuman agility against Hellhounds phenomenal strength. Lynx knew she had to stay one step ahead of this villain. Primarily she was an acrobat and a gymnast, with a constantly growing venue of martial arts moves suited to her lithe build.
Hellhound, on the other hand, was a profession fighter in the ring and in the street. He had spent as much time training to be a boxing champion as she had to be an Olympic gymnast. He was heavily reliant on brute strength, though not without agility either. Each one of Grant’s blows that struck her even slightly left deep bruises that inhibited her motion. She couldn’t afford to allow even one of the punishing blows to strike home.
Still, Grant was faltering too. The nails on Lynx’s costume were coated in a tranquilizing compound. Despite his stamina, he could feel himself weakening, loosing coordination and focus. Each new scratch increased the dose, as well as the likelihood that he would be unable to avoid receiving more. And the more Hellhound tried to end the fight decisively, the more frustrated he became as the heroine danced just out of his reach.
Jonathan Cheval picked his target with care. When he spotted Sundown in the shadows, preparing for the right moment to put out the lights on the Society, he charged forward to confront him and force his hand.
“I always wanted a chance to face you Sundown.” The villain grinned under his mask as he approached his adversary.
“Take a good look then.” He hissed angrily, “It’ll be the last you ever see!” He lashed out with his psychic power and rendered Eyeglass instantly blind.
It was a shock, but not as much of one as Sundown had hoped. It would have been fatal if Dr. Cheval had relied on his infra-red eyeglass setting. However, going over Luthor’s files ahead of time had revealed to him that Sundown’s power worked by jamming the optic nerves, not by creating blackness as he had believed.
Instead, he had pre-set his eyeglass weapon to a unique setting, based on an idea he had to cure the blind. The eyeglass would now act like a surrogate pair of eyes, transmitting images directly to his visual cortex.
Eyeglass hung back, as though confused, it was all the cue Sundown needed to rush his foe. Cheval’s ornate eyeglass weapon met him in mid charge with a blast of hard light energy, hurling him through a door and into the next room with the force of a sledgehammer.
Dollman attacked the Fog furiously, before the hero could take a step. Kyle Murphy rendered himself gaseous, as was his usual tactic, and the midget mobster careened through the decaying wall into the adjoining gym. However, within a moment Dollman had regained his balance and, spinning like a dancer, re-engaged the cloudy crime fighter with a rapid series of punches and kicks.
The Fog was a little bewildered by the rapid assault. True, all Dollman was doing was tiring himself out. But on the other hand, there was very little Murphy could do to hurt Dollman without materializing some part of his body. At best he could obscure his vision and try to make him run into obstacles, but Al Pratt was too good of a fighter for that.
Despite the rapidly changing fighting pattern of his enemy, the Fog had spent years evolving tactics for dealing with crooks he enveloped. He materialized one hand and snared Dollman’s golden cape, twirling it around his hooded head. Pratt reacted quickly, grabbing the disembodied hand by the wrist and trying to flip the Fog into a pile of mats. However, it’s hard to flip someone lighter than air. He managed to free himself from the enveloping cloud for a moment, but Murphy passed harmlessly through the obstacle and began drifting back toward his foe.
But the Fog was not quick is his vaporous state. The gym came equipped with a large fan because the lack of windows made it stifling in the heat. Dollman sprang to the fan and switched it on, the sudden blast of air driving the cloudy crime fighter against the far wall.
Dollman figured he had the hero this time. Either the Fog would remain trapped against the wall, or he’d have to materialize, and then Pratt would easily kill him.
His laugh of triumph died in his throat, as the roughly man-sized cloud of fog spread out across the wall, until the small circle where the fan was directed was clear. Many people did not know the Fog could increase his mass by absorbing ambient moister in the air, or that he could disperse himself over a large area and still retain full control over every molecule.
The eerie mist soon spread across the entire room, floor to ceiling, and then closed around Dollman like a solid wall. There was no escaping the cloud this time. In moments he had lost all sense of direction.
“Now,” whispered a voice in his ear. “Let’s try this again.”
A fist came out of nowhere and slugged him a left hook. At the same time, another fist delivered a right hook from behind, on the same side.”
The bewildered villain spun left, only to meet a punch in the stomach coming up from the floor and a karate chop on the back of the neck which left him to stagger head first into a hobby horse concealed by the cloud.
“One thing about having no body,” came the voice again. “Is I can make my fist come from anywhere, anywhere at all.”
In seconds, Dollman’s world dissolved into a hailstorm of fists, coming from above, below, behind, and before. And all he could do was flail helplessly in the grey void.
Minuteman was one of the two most powerful Legionnaires, aside from the Reaper. Alexander Luthor knew that, despite having a few good goes at Dr. Chaos in the past, magic was not is forte. Better to leave the Reaper to experts.
Therefore, he charged toward Minuteman at full thrust, hoping to catch him between pills. Yellow Lantern followed close behind. It made sense to consolidate their heavy hitters.
Unfortunately, they were both too late. Rex Tyler had habits born of long addiction, and had swallowed another pill by the time the Defender’s armored gloves impacted his midsection.
The mighty combatants careened through three walls, before Minuteman managed to score an uppercut which sent Luthor literally spinning off at an angle. Fortunately, his gyroscopes compensated and automatically engaged his boot jets to stabilize him. Tyler bought himself little peace. Yellow Lantern had followed closely behind his leader’s charge and knocked the criminal chemist back into another wall with a huge yellow fist.
Minuteman recovered from the blow and began grappling with the huge yellow hand, which was now trying to enclose him. Nostromo grunted softly and squinted his eyes with concentration. He was bringing all his mighty willpower to bear, but could not close his grip. It’s amazing that such relatively primitive earth science could give a man such power! With a thought, he created another hand to squeeze from the other side, forcing Minuteman to hold off each one with one hand and driving him to his knees.
“Keep him in that pose Nostromo.” The Defender let fly with yellow solar concussion blasts from both gauntlets, sending the marauder of the minute flying across the room again.
But not for long. Rex Tyler pulled himself out of the rubble, popped another pill, and rejoined the fight.
This fellow’s as tough as Ultraman! Luthor thought while Nostromo enclosed him in a force bubble. I’ll have to try another trick.
Just as the bubble began to crack and break under the punishing bows of the black and yellow clad villain, Luthor signaled Yellow Lantern to drop the barrier. Meanwhile, a strange apparatus unfolded from the shoulder of Defender’s armor.
As Minuteman charged, the device engaged, focusing an intense burst of ultrasonic noise on him. Tyler tank to the floor clutching his ears, feeling like somebody was massaging his brain with a jackhammer.
Luthor was pleased with the effect. He had designed the device to incapacitate enemies without killing them, with a side-benefit of being extra-painful to Ultraman’s ultrahearing. In a matter of minutes, this opponent would be unconscious.
Mind-Wave also chose his target from the moment he and his new allies broke in. He had always hoped for a chance to restore sanity to the (in his opinion) most pitiable the Legion’s members, the Glass Man. If this notorious serial killer could be healed, he would finally have a chance to repent of his crimes.
As Dr. King strode toward the gas-masked villain in the shadowy cloak and fedora, he created a series of illusionary doubles. This was his standard opening gambit. It was the least invasive way of confusing he enemies and allowing him to safely approach them. It would take time to unravel the knots in this killer’s subconscious, and he would have to be disarmed first.
For a long moment, as Mind-Wave approached, Wesley Dodds just stood, seemingly staring into space. Maybe this is going to be easier than I thought, Henry King ventured hopefully.
Then Dodds spoke. “I have reflecting glasses in my mask lenses, so my glass may always counsel me. You cannot deceive me with your tricks Mind-Wave. I see all.”
Without another word, he fired his gas gun directly at the real Mind-Wave, now just six feet away.
Henry King’s superhuman mind barely had time to register complete astonishment, and the thought I’m about to die, when a tentacle of shadow leaped across his field of vision. The tip exploded into a great black envelope, capturing and containing the cloud of pale gas.
“Apparently you didn’t see that coming Glass Man” announced Dr. Shadow sarcastically as he shunted the gas harmlessly into the Shadow Dimension.
Glass Man attacked this new foe with savage ferocity, kicking, punching, and wielding his gas gun with little concern about which combatants might wander too close. Wilfred Knox soon found himself on the defensive; too busy defending himself with shields and shadow hands to strike back. It certainly didn’t help that the villain kept spraying down a light-reflective mist that made the shadows even weaker.
Mind-Wave was in a quandary. For some reason he couldn’t understand, his illusions were not affecting the Glass Man. He was reluctant to use his powers to more directly attack his opponents mind, both because he considered such attacks unethical, and because he was worried about the effect this would have on someone as unstable as Wesley Dodds. Still, he saw the way the fight was going and he had to act. Reaching out mentally, he dived into the weird contorted sea of fractured images and repeating reflections that was Glass Man’s higher consciousness. Probing deeper, he reached the villains lower brain functions, and temporarily shut down his optic centers.
The effect was instantaneous. With a scream, Dodd’s began to claw at his mask, whirling around in bewilderment and fear. “My glass! I can’t see my glass!” Dr. Shadow seized his chance and knocked the gas gun clear with a bolt of darkforce.
Dodds was long past caring. Clutching his mask to his chest, he had dropped to the floor in a fetal position. “I don’t know what to do.” He sobbed. “I don’t know what to doooooo!”
Heaven help him. Mind-Wave thought. I hope he’s not past saving.
Luthor had tasked the Magician and the Wizard with one mission when the heroes planned their attack, stop the Reaper. The two of them were the only heroes with any expertise in the mystic arts. Alexander had fought well in the past against Dr. Chaos, but he knew their odds would be better if he left dealing with magical foes to his “specialists.”
Growing to a towering height, the snarling Reaper hurled lightning bolts from his hands at Faust and Zard. Faust swept his hand in from of him and snapped three words in old Babylonian. His hand left a shimmering golden curtain in its wake which harmlessly absorbed the lightning.
Meanwhile, the Magician fired back. Wiping off his top hat, he twirled his wand around the brim. At his cry “Presto!” four white doves flew from it and closed with unnatural aggression on the Reaper. Each dove was trailing a long rose vine that they began to wind around the ectoplasmic evildoer with lightning speed.
But the attack never reached completion. With an evil grin, the Reaper, divided his body into segments and allowed the vines to pass harmlessly through him. He reached out with enlarged hands and, snaring the birds, hurled them into his mouth and devoured them with gusto. A passing glimpse of his maw revealed a disturbing image of a shaft of jagged teeth leading down to a burning pit.
Faust had Zard had nonetheless found their rhythm, alternating attack and defense. While the Reaper disposed of Zard’s attack, the Wizard abandoned his Babylonian curtain-shield and switched to a Latin incantation, launching twin spurts of fire from his hands at the enemy.
This time the Reaper laughed. “Fool, you think you can overwhelm my defenses.” He swept the flames into his scarlet cloak and smothered them. “And such an archaic incantation. Let me show you how a master wields fire!”
Drawling back his hand like a baseball pitcher, he let fly with a barrage of fireballs that lit up the end of the room like an inferno.
The Reaper planted his hands on his hips, through his head back and roared with laughter as he surveyed the charred remains of about three rooms. His attack had burned a hole all the way to the far wall of the hotel. Nothing remained.
“Now you see us…” The voice came from behind, and it was familiar. The sinister specter glanced over his shoulder…
… to witness the two sorcerers standing behind him.
“… and now you DON’T” the combined force of their repulsion spells sent him reeling through the ceiling before he could even react (cracks began to spider-web across what was left of the ceiling, indicating its end was near).
“We’ve been playing his game, hitting him one at a time.” Announced the Magician. “We need to combine our strength. Shalabam Presto Locus!”
He released a column of black smoke from the tip of his wand which wound around the reaper like a python. The villain began to distort his body again in an effort to break free.
“That’s an umbraic containment spell you’ve dressed up, right?” said the Wizard. “I can enhance it.” He raised his hands and chanted. “Umbra peritylisso tastahlik!”
Ribbons of darkness sprang from his hands and interwove with the dark cloud from the Magician’s wand, forming an enveloping back shroud which completely covered the Reaper.
Then, at a joint command from the heroic mages, the bag of darkness began to shrink. The Reaper’s thrashing form could be seen struggling within it, as the spell of shadow entrapment crushed him and drained his strength.
At the last moment, the Reaper ripped free and with a savage roar sprang back to the floor, facing his opponents, all, trace of mirth gone.
Breaking the spell had cost him dearly. His formally emaciated form was now nothing but a pale skeleton. His lush red cloak was in tatters. In the burning deeps of his yellow eyes there was an animal hunger.
Then, for a second, he seemed to flicker. In the villain’s place there stood a young Caucasian man with brown hair, dressed in the fashion of the late 1930s, his face a mask of agony and despair.
“Please,” the man hissed, as though every breath was his last “Do it. Please end this.”
Then the Reaper was back. “I MUST FEED!”
“No monster,” proclaimed the Magician, “You will never feed again.” He and Faust renewed their assault with waves of lightning and eldritch force that drove the Reaper back. Without fresh sacrifice to feed his finite powers, he was waning. Soon he dropped to one knee. He could not hold back the assault much longer.
* * *
As the fight went on, the members of the Syndicate freed themselves.
Owlman used the distraction to extract his lock picks from the concealed slot in his glove and opened up the manacles holding his wrists. The Legion had taken his utility belt, but had not realized he carried other devices on his person.
He quickly removed a throwing knife from his boot and disabled the sun lamp. He and Ultraman often worked together and he knew his partner had a plan for situations like this, but the light had to be put out first.
Ultraman bit open a lead-lined false tooth released a concentrated capsule of kryptonite. He got the idea to start carrying this emergency measure after Luthor’s robot Amazo knocked out one of his teeth. Around that same time Luthor had disabled him (again) with his yellow-solar energy cannons and Clark had been frustrated that there was no kryptonite around to use to renew himself. He swore he would never be caught like that again.
Back when he teamed up with the Luthors of Earth-1 and 2, he had tried wearing a belt full of kryptonite, but it was too obvious a target. The kryptonite pill only gave him a couple of hours at full power and then wore off fast, but it would do in a pinch like this.
The Microbe simply activated the size changing controls in his glove with a touch. It was a little-known fact that his uniform became invisible when he returned to his full height. He kept the fact quiet, since it made retreating to safety of his secret identity easier. The Legion had thought his costume destroyed when they enlarged him, but he was actually still wearing it. All he had to do was shrink out of the cuffs and he was back in action.
“Hey, Microbe” Ralph Dibny was chained next to him. “Be a pal and jimmy the locks on my cuffs.”
Microbe sneered. “Why should I help you, useless?”
Rubberneck snarled. He wouldn’t soon forget this. “Because, genius, I have a spare flask of gingold serum in a secret compartment in my boot, and we’re going to need every hand to break out of here.”
Microbe was, in fact, a genius; and he could find no fault in this argument. With a touch to him miniaturizing controls he shrank down and slipped into the locking mechanism, opening it in a trice.
Just at that moment the ceiling gave way, and an enormous metal object crashed to the floor near the Syndicate’s pit. It was the Legions storage vault for particularly powerful weapons and devices captured from their enemies or stolen in heists. The moment the vault stuck the floor it split open, spilling an arsenal of wonders across the ruins of the subbasement level.
Bill Baggitt had eyes for only one item, however, a glowing emerald ring.
“YES!” with a thought he summoned his power ring back to his finger and disintegrated his shackles. “Power Ring is in the house!”
He turned to blast the cuffs of Isis, who he still felt he owed a little for helping to restore him and dispatch his brief successor Kyle Raynor. Adrianna Tomaz didn’t spare him a word of gratitude. It was humiliating for one of her power level to have to be rescued. She knew she was one of the mightiest villains in the syndicate, but as the new girl she still had to prove herself.
Superwoman had spotted her lasso when the vault broke open. Come she commanded mentally. The Lasso of Proteus, which she had long ago captured from the heroic sorceress Circe, transformed into a snake and slithered over to its imprisoned mistress. Coiling around the shackles, it shattered them with a squeeze.
“That’s better,” Diana said, rubbing her wrists as the lasso returned to its normal state at her hip. “Those shackles reminded me too much of the accursed bracelets my Amazon sisters bind themselves with.”
“So, what do we do now fearless leader?” Microbe asked. He was one of the only Syndicate members arrogant enough to be flippant with Ultraman.
Ultraman grit his teeth, planning for later. His command of the Syndicate had been questioned too much of late. He couldn’t understand how he had let his control slip so much. He’d only started noticing recently. Discipline would have to be more rigidly enforced in the future.
“OK, here’s the plan. It looks like these Crime Legion upstarts are about done in.” He shrugged. “A good thing too, the last thing we need is some super-has-beens pushing us around. Then we hit Luthor and the Society hard, and all our enemies will be dead.”
“Bad plan boss” Owlman said without looking up. He was still sifting through the Legion’s treasure vault, supposedly looking for his utility belt. “You’ve only got an hour of kryptonite power left, we can’t afford a waiting game right now.”
“Uh, guys?” Johnny Quick dogged three large pieces of falling masonry. “Could we come up with a plan sooner rather than later? This place is coming down!” Power Ring responded to the unsaid request with a green umbrella shielding them from the rubble. “Here you go JQ.”
Ultraman was not happy about Owlman mentioning his upcoming power failure. He also didn’t like attacking now before the Legion members were completely beaten. Suppose they recovered their strength while the Syndicate fought the Society? Ultraman’s gang could be caught in a two-front war. The Legion had no reason to love them after all. Still, running went against his better nature.
Superwoman preferred fighting to running herself. But she was also pragmatic. “This place is collapsing anyway Ultraman. At least most of the people still in here in two minutes will die. Let’s just make sure we aren’t among them.”
Isis sent a subtle spell of persuasion toward Ultraman. She liked Superwoman’s argument. This building was at least eight stories tall, and she wasn’t completely indestructible.
Ultraman felt his indecision fade. They were crooks after all, not soldiers. There was no profit in staying here. “Ok then, Power Ring, get us back to the Aerie of Evil, now!”
Just as the bright emerald glow began to surround the villains, Owlman spotted something in the ruins of the collapsed vault, something he’d read about in many secret sources but never dreamed was real.
“Wait, not yet…!” it was too late. The Crime Syndicate vanished, just as the building collapsed, burying everything inside.
* * *
Alexander Luthor saw the flare of Power Ring’s signature weapon. He ground his teeth at the Syndicate’s escape, but at the moment he had bigger problems to worry about.
He had seen the signs of imminent collapse a bit later than Owlman had (to be fair, the world’s greatest mastermind was not involved in battle at the time), and for any other man it would have been a minute too late.
But Alexander Luthor, the world’s greatest scientist, had a mind faster than any computer, except for his old friend Brainiac. Also, he had trained the Society of Super-Heroes in pre-planned operations for just such split-second emergencies.
“Dr. Shadow,” he called over the communicator, “Maneuver 7, now!”
Without a moment’s question, Wilfred Knox sent out nine questing tentacles of darkness that latched onto his teammates. As per-standard escape procedure, the Wizard had dusted their essences with a spell to make them more attractive to shadow-magic. It was short-lasting, but an easy spell to cast. It enabled him to snag his partners wherever they were in the building with nearly no thought, and send all ten heroes to the Shadowland in half the time it would have taken Nostromo to teleport them out with his alien ring.
As the dust from the old hotel settled, a circle of darkness appeared in the air and the ten heroes stepped out.
“Berr,” the Clown gave a theatrical shiver. “I hope we don’t have to do that again Doc. That darkland, or whatever you call it, gives me the creeps.”
“What about the Crime Legion, and the Syndicate?” asked Lynx.
“I know the Syndicate got out,” said Luthor, “as for the Legion. . .”
“I’m on it,” Yellow Lantern began scanning the rubble with his ring, anticipating his leader’s request. “I can’t find any trace of them.”
“I cannot hear their thoughts either,” added Mind-Wave. “Magician, Wizard, can either of you sense them?”
Faust shook his head. “This area is so corrupted by dark magic that mystic probes are unreliable.”
“Until I see the bodies, I’ll assume they live” the Magician asserted. “I’ve seen the Legion escape from certain death too many times to let my guard down.”
“We’ll all keep our guard up.” Luthor stated with finality. “This world is growing more and more filled with superhuman threats every day.” He smiled and extended his hand to the Magician. “But it’s good to know that it is also filling with powerful new friends and allies. I hope you four will soon make the 1980s as much your home as the 1940s were, and that we’ll be seeing more of you.”
“Yesss. . . about that,” The Magician glanced at his three time-tossed comrades. They had spoken together in private about this decision before they left the tower, and were in mutual agreement.
“The truth is that this new world is still very strange to us, and we’d appreciate it if you could put us up for the time being, at least until we adjust. After all,” he chuckled, “we seem to have more in common with you people than anyone else in this time.”
“Absolutely compadre!” The Clown delivered a heart backslap that nearly knocked Zard over. “The more the merrier!”
Alexander was pleased as well. Since the Invisible Creator’s death, Rose Sapphire’s dis-empowerment, White Orchid’s defection, and Cataclysm’s recent decision to take a leave of absence, he had been looking to bolster the Society’s flagging membership. The decision of the Wizard to join them had been a great blessing, since they had needed a mage anyway. Four new heroes, even on a temporary basis, would be much appreciated. He made sure to tell the Magician so as they talked out the detail on the flight back to the Law Tower.
* * *
Epilogue
Behind them, deep within the ruinous pile of rubble, something was stirring.
It stirred deep beneath the surface, in what had once been the basement execution room. It stirred in a small open space made from crisscrossed, dust-covered beams, amidst piles of crumbling stone and crushed furniture. It was unseen by the departing heroes, hidden from the light of day my mounds of insulation and dissolving plaster covered in worn-out wall-paper. It remained unnoticed by the band of battered and bleeding street toughs, who had had the good sense to run out when the building began to fall and now slunk back to their homes to rethink their lives.
The thing that moved was the lid of an ornate sarcophagus. It might have belonged to an ancient pharaoh, except that the gold finished and brightly painted designs looked only decades old. It lay next to the shattered remains of the Legion’s vault of trophies, and did not look out of place among the other precious treasures strewed across the floor.
An archeologist might have cocked an eyebrow at the lid. The face of the pharaoh displayed none of the usual timeless serenity common in such motifs, but instead glared out at the world with hatred and challenge. All the traditional Horus iconography was replaced with the symbols of Set, except that the pharaoh’s body was framed by a pair of enormous wings.
No one was there to see the lid slide back, or to see the bronzed hand and muscular forearm that emerged. . .
As the Man-Hawk rose again.
The End?