“Alpha Squad preparing to engage the target,” Kevin Hitchens spoke into his helmet communicator. “Request orders; over.”
{{ Commander, this is Warden Jones. Engage the target and tear him a new one; over. }}
“Copy. Over and out,” he replied, switching the microphone off. The low buzzing of static in his ear also quickly faded away as he swooped down through the midmorning air, joining the rest of the Guardsmen at the head of the formation.
The United States Maximum Security Installation for the Incarceration of Superhuman Criminals, a.k.a. The Vault, passed underneath the armored men, its tall walls standing silently among the Rocky Mountain range. At times he considered it a blessing to be able to fly through the air, thanks to the Guardsman armor he proudly wore. This morning, however, his blessings seemed few and far between.
Kevin, called Hitch by most, had signed up with the Vault’s security force a little over two years ago and had risen through the elite ranks faster than usual. Foiling a jailbreak attempt by the infamous Lightmaster tended to gain favor with the people who handed out the promotions. His colleagues respected and trusted him, two important elements to have when you’re charged with guarding the most dangerous men and women on the planet. Even though he was younger than a handful of his other green-armored brethren they held no resentment when he was appointed commander of Alpha Squad, the first and best wave of Guardsmen in the Vault.
Hitch led the contingent of flying guards over the helipad, their trajectory placing them directly in the path of the incoming bogey. The long-distance scanners had alerted those on watch that something resembling human form was headed straight for the facility, something that refused to respond to their hails. The world was filled with levitating nasties, and Hitch supposed it could even be one of the Avengers making a trip out to check on an inmate. Even still, Alpha Squad wasn’t paid to take chances. It wasn’t like Iron Man or Captain America had even seen the prison in the eighteen months.
“Alpha Squad, power up repulsers,” Hitch ordered after he flipped on the squad’s private frequency. “Maximize force field output and double check your plasma dischargers. Let’s take this guy down fast and clean.”
The six other members of the squad silently did as they were told, preparing for whoever was stupid enough to rush them head-on. Their armor had been personally designed by Tony Stark himself, the genius behind the most powerful weapons systems in existence. Anyone dumb enough to drop in on the Vault unannounced deserved a demonstration of what a Guardsman could do.
Hitch tracked the incoming individual on his H.U.D., making a note of the speed. Their scanners back in the Strongroom, the tactical base of operations within the Vault, had first picked up the intruder seven miles out from the local perimeter. Seventy-four seconds later, after Alpha Squad had launched in the air, the bogey was barely a mile away. Fast and furious was just how Hitch liked it.
“Okay, everybody. Let’s keep this containment tight. I want two--HYUK!”
The dark green, almost fluid form of the intruder slammed into Hitch in the blink of an eye. The squad leader tumbled through the air as the formation broke up, the other members taking evasive action. Hitch pumped up the throttle on his boot jets, desperate to try and level himself out. The horizon finally flattened itself in his H.U.D. but his equilibrium was still a bit off.
{{ Holy shit! }} one of the Guardsmen screamed over their frequency. {{ He just ripped the head off of Simmons! Jesus Christ, who the fuck is this guy? }}
Hitch looked up to see a limp armored body plummet toward the ground, minus one head. The commander mashed his teeth and shot into the fray, his thoughts turning from professional soldier to relentless mercenary. The five other remaining Guardsmen were arcing over and under the android, blasting away at his green hide with their repulser rays. The onslaught of energy didn’t seem to actually harm their opponent but it was enough to keep him in one place while Hitch rocketed in to deliver an uppercut. The hit was much harder than something Hitch could have dealt on his own, the strength enhancers adding to the power while the force field doubled the density.
The momentum of the punch snapped the strange intruder’s head back but Hitch hadn’t risen more than three feet before he felt something grab his leg. Stealing a glance down, he saw the “man” start to squeeze his right calf muscle in its vice-like grip. Alarms went off on his display, accentuating the pain he felt growing in his leg. The damn guy was actually penetrating his force field and applying pressure to his armor.
:: Defense grid activated, :: he heard it say. :: Level nine personal force field. File acquired. ::
Its strength was incredible. Hitch felt the outer shell of his leggings crack as the creature continued to squeeze. Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse he saw the green skin of his attacker briefly flash with white, like a thin cocoon had momentarily materialized around it. That’s when it finally donned on him: this thing had activated a force field exactly like his own. When the Guardsmen activated their own fields the same white flash enveloped them. This was bad. Very bad.
Blinding light cut between the two, forcing the intruder’s vice grip to waver and finally release. Hitch felt a wave of pressure against his whole body pushing him up and away but he didn’t care. He knew the blast had come from one of his own and it saved him from thinking about what might have happened to his leg in the next few moments.
{{ Sorry about the repulser blast, Hitch, }} someone squawked over his helmet receiver. {{Fastest way to separate you two.}}
“Don’t worry about it, Stevens. Everyone move back into an overhead attack formation and take this mother down!”
Hitch flew out wide, keeping his enemy at the apex of his swing. He turned his head momentarily to check on the group gathering behind him when the heavens seemingly erupted in fire, brilliant flashes of energy sweeping over him again and again. The pain was agonizing, even through his armor.
As he fell toward the unforgiving ground below and unconsciousness threatened to overtake him, he caught a glimpse of his assailant floating steadily in the air. His features had somehow morphed slightly and the same energy that had washed over him slowly slipped out of the intruder’s eyes.
The last thing Hitch thought before he blacked out was that they were all as good as dead.
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Marvel 2000 Proudly presents... |
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| “Would
someone please tell me just who the fuck is out there?” Miguel Jones,
the heavyset warden of the Vault, asked with a touch of hysteria in
his voice. “It’s plowing through Guardsmen like they were made of tinfoil.
Give me good news, people!”
James Rhodes stood silently beside the warden, taking in the situation. He wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with the types of individuals that carelessly attacked sanctioned officers, but he held his opinions for the time being. They stood at the forefront of the Strongroom, a tactical center for the prison where the facility’s personnel had called him and Jones. The equipment housed within the room reminded Rhodes of the impressive monitors used by the Avengers and Fantastic Four, although he assumed they weren’t nearly as advanced. The staff of at least a dozen technicians yelled information back and forth to each other in a desperate attempt to decipher the situation. They weren’t in a state of panic yet, but they were close. “Scanners recorded everything they could, Warden,” answered a female technician with thick glasses and long red hair. “We’re analyzing now, sir,” said a young man with a fresh crew cut from the opposite side of the room. “Accessing recognition software and uploading templates for cross exam. SHIELD database has been opened and verification is coming…umm…sir, you need to see this.” The warden jumped around the various workstations and shot across the room, his cigar bouncing in his mouth. The tension was growing by the second and Miquel Jones was not a man who dealt with tension well. “What the hell is a Super-Adaptoid?” he asked after looking over the information. Jim’s ears perked up and he spun in place, mimicking the warden’s movements and making his way over to the console. “That’s an Adaptoid?” “You’ve heard of him?” “Not a ‘him,’ it’s a thing,” he replied, quickly regaining his composure. “An android created by AIM* with the express purpose of fulfilling its programming. I’ve never tackled one but I know some people who have.” * [Advanced Idea Mechanics; a pack of evil mad scientists…sort of. – D] “So what exactly are we dealing with here?” Jones asked. The crushed tip of his cigar was spilling tobacco onto the floor but the warden paid it no attention, regardless of the horrible taste it must have been putting in his mouth. “There have been various models over the years, each with varying levels of intelligence. It can copy any number of powers used against it, even going as far as emulating fighting styles. When it mimics a power from someone its body changes shape to match. I watched a video of it decking Luke Cage once.” Jim studied the monitor that displayed a close up shot of the Adaptoid, scratching his facial hair as he tried to remember certain facts. “I’ve never seen one that looked quite like this, though.” “The database identified it with only a seventy-three percent chance of a match, sir,” chimed in the young man sitting before the console. “A new model then?” Jones commented. A slight commotion from the main workstation caught everyone’s attention as a horrific sight played out on the big screen towering over them. The Adaptoid had rushed another Guardsman and relieved him of his right arm while blasting his limp body into the terrain with an orange optic blast. There only three defenders left were pelting away at the android but to little effect. “A new improved model,” Jim added. They say that a person’s eyes are the windows to their soul, which is why Otto Octavius made sure to always keep his covered. He didn’t care if the other inmates made fun of him behind his back for refusing to remove his sunglasses even at night; they would never dare say it to his face. Not here. On the outside they could poke fun at his many defeats at the hands of the wall-crawler, but on the inside they feared the retribution. Accidents had a way of happening to those who went against him. “Mind if I sit down?” Octavius asked. “I mind,” the large man sitting at the long lunch table replied. “Ain’t gonna stop you, though, is it?” Octavius motioned to the lean, crazed looking man beside him who then pulled out the chair for him to sit down. Obedience was a trait he valued, especially in one such as Norton Fester, formerly known as the Looter. The large man across the table bit down into the morsel of steak on the tip of his fork, the bloody juices spilling back onto his tray. The prison kitchen staff didn’t typically serve steak to anyone, but the large man had gained many things on the inside that most inmates weren’t privy to. In fact, if the walls didn’t keep him confined one might not see any difference between his life before and after his apprehension. “Saw your man there beat the hell out of Vulture* ,” he commented between bites. “I was never a fan of Toomes, especially when he tried to rip me off.” * [Last issue; about twenty minutes ago in “comic book time.” – D] “I’ve also had a few quarrels with him over the years,” Octavius responded, crossing his arms over his pudgy stomach. “I thought a display would be in order to welcome you back home, Hammerhead.” “So you want me to take you in now that I’m back or somethin’?” Hammerhead blurted out, shaking his massive head back and forth slightly. “Looking for some protection, eh?” “Not exactly.” Otto leaned forward, his wide, dark glasses bouncing the crime boss’ image back at him. “I meant it was a display of my own authority. Things have changed since you were last paroled, Hammerhead. I have plans in place that I can’t afford to have you screw up with your inevitable pissing contest.” “You challenging me?” Hammerhead demanded. “You grab a lil’ taste of power and now you think you can take my place as the king in dis here castle? Is that it?” “I’m not challenging you,” Octavius calmly replied, even though his face showed keen resentment, “I’m telling you to stay on your fucking side of the playground.” Two men on either side of the disgruntled Hammerhead stepped forward, finally breaking their stiff postures. The silent figures grimaced at Octavius but remained by their boss’ side, as Hammerhead raised his hand casually to halt their offense. “Not the same squid anymore, huh, Doc?” Hammerhead said, a level of arrogance in his voice. “Using the big boy words like that. You’ll have to excuse Shocker and Stilts. Unlike you they respect me. Also unlike you they’ve come to realize that on the inside I’m the law. You ain’t nothing out on the street and you ain’t nothing in here. But at the same time I can respect the fact that you’ve been a busy little squid while I’ve been away. So, I’ll make you a deal.” “Your deals aren’t something I’m interested in.” “Oh, you’ll be interested in this one,” the gangster replied. “I’ll even go as far as to offer you somethin’. You let me borrow your boy there for a couple days and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll make sure my guys don’t mess wit your plans and I’ll even get the Guards to ease off you.” “Your assumption that I don’t already have some of the security force in my pocket is an incorrect one.” Octavius adjusted his dark glasses as he stood up from the table, his thin lips twisting into a smile. “I didn’t begin this dialogue to mend any fences, Hammerhead. I don’t even want to know why you want my associate. I merely wanted to let you know that your time as the top goomba is long since passed.” Fester leaned over the chair and grasped the spoon off of Hammerhead’s tray, squeezing it between two fingers until it snapped in half. He let both pieces hit the table and then turned to follow Octavius as he made his way back through the cafeteria. “Un-fucking-believable,” Stilts commented under his breath as he shook his head. “What do you want us to do, Mr. Hammerhead?” “Nothing for now,” the large gangster replied. “Let that squid think he’s tough shit for a little while, it will keep him out of our business. Just concentrate on our own plans. We’ll squish him flat before he even knows what’s going on.” Hammerhead sliced off another chunk of the bloody steak, savoring the tender animal flesh. He was a man that could appreciate the finer things in life, and now that he was incarcerated again, there was no way he would let go of what he had come to appreciate. Not even an upstart wannabe that was too much of a coward to show his eyes.
“La quemadura en infierno!” the Spanish man called after his jailors. He knew that he could yell until his throat was raw and that it would do him no good. He might as well scream at the naked wall for as much as the Guardsmen paid attention to his ranting. The cursing and complaining was meant to make the new Tarantula seem tough and fearless, when the truth of the matter was the exact opposite. The government that had chosen him as their next top assassin had disavowed him, choosing to let him rot within the American prison. He had no friends, no allies. “Please, could you keep it down? I’d really like to get this crossword puzzle done before they let our cellblock into the cafeteria.” He turned to face his cellmate, the unfortunate oaf who he had only met minutes ago but already hated. The guards had taken him straight from the medical wing to his cell, introducing him to the bulbous man he would be confined with. He hadn’t even been officially admitted to the facility for a full hour before he was ready to kill a man. “You would do well to shut that disgusting mouth, usted tonto gordo,” Juan de la Vega replied. “I fought to keep my mask and I will fight to keep you quiet if I must.” “What’s a six letter word meaning an Australian ruler in the nineteenth century?” the fat man asked absentmindedly from his cot. “Idiota…” “No, no. It has to start with a ‘K.’ Third letter has to be…ah! I got it! Kaiser!” The Tarantula turned away from the inside of the cell, choosing to stare through the laser grid that served as bars. He felt like shaking the energy beams in an attempt to let out his building fury but he knew it would only burn his hands and make him angrier. This prison was more advanced than any he had ever seen in his native Boca Del Rios, but he would survive. He was a fighter, a killer. Even though his government had abandoned him he would not abandon himself. “My name’s Hubert, by the way,” the stocky man continued to mumble. “What’s an eleven letter word for emancipation?” The Tarantula spun around, slapping the flimsy paperback out of his cellmate’s chubby fingers. He leveled his knee with the cot, jamming it into Hubert’s face and breaking his nose on contact. Blood splashed out on the already dirty linens as Hubert fumbled to sit back up. Juan, intent on not letting this outlet slip away from him, gripped Hubert’s smashed nose between two fingers and led him to the center of the cell, ignoring the wails of protest. “Cuál es su nombre?” the Spanish assassin asked. “The Otter? Or Manatee? Is that what they call you?” “I…I’m the Walrus,” Hubert spat out through the bubbles of blood. “Do not ever speak to me again, comprende?” Hubert nodded in both an obvious statement of understanding and a subtle hint of obedience. The taste of his own blood was spilling onto his tongue, instantly causing him to gag, but he held it back with his fear. “You may be the most revolting creature I have ever laid eyes on,” the Tarantula continued. “The stink of worthlessness wafts off of your fat hide. Maybe I cut myself some of your blubber for dinner, eh?” Hubert sobbed as his fear changed to terror. He didn’t belong in a place like this, a place with people so tormented by their own demons. He was an innocent deer caught in the system’s headlights. “Look at yourself!” Juan screamed. “I feel sick just looking at you crying like a little girl!” The Tarantula shifted his weight, gaining enough momentum to actually toss the oversized prisoner the few feet into the laser grid. The Walrus’ flesh sizzled as he briefly collided with the energy bars and then fell to his knees, his gray uniform burned and smoking. The Spanish assassin followed the hostile throw with a kick to Hubert’s face, knocking one of the portly man’s teeth loose. He suppressed the need to cry out in pain, choosing instead to bottle it up and retain what little dignity he possessed. After all, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. At times he wished he had the courage to do something, but what could be done? He knew that in time things like this would just slowly fade away… The Tarantula began muttering in Spanish once again but Hubert ignored him like he tried to plot out the intense pain in his face and lower back. It used to be difficult but he had enough practice to know he just needed to focus on something else. Something like his puzzles. An eleven letter word for emancipation. Deliverance. “We’re up the river now,” the warden commented as he, along with the rest of the staff housed in the Strongroom, stared open-mouthed at the central monitor. The Adaptoid had not only decimated Alpha Squad but had completely obliterated the ground forces located at the front helipad. The small building, used mainly for admitting new inmates, was connected to the main facility via a monorail system. The Adaptoid finished crushing the plasma rifle he had liberated from the barely living hands of a technician and turned to face the transit system, blasting the entrance away with stolen repulser rays. “What other counter-measures do we have in place?” Jim asked. “Short of calling the National Guard?” Warden Jones replied. “Not a whole lot. If that robot gets in the Vault it will have access to any number of powers to emulate. As a last resort we can detonate sections of the place. Maybe that will stop it.” Jim noticed the anxiety washing over the staff. He knew that simply blowing up chunks of the prison wouldn’t do much to stop a machine capable of taking down an entire squadron of Guardsmen. He stole a glance over to the far corner of the room where he had placed his thick, black briefcase upon entering the Strongroom. He hesitated about using the case’s contents but at this point their options were running dangerously low. “How many Guardsmen can we spare in a final assault?” he asked the warden. “If we move all the monkeys back in their cells and leave behind a skeleton crew,” Jones responded, “maybe twenty-five.” “Do it.” Jim, his mind made up, slipped off his blazer and made his way across the expansive room to where his large briefcase sat waiting. During his time spent in the service, Jim knew that a good leader would never ask those under him to do something that he wasn’t willing to do himself. It was time for him to step up and earn his position as Security Chief. Letter From Prison Thanks to everyone who has provided feedback regarding this new series! Seriously, I love finding out what people do and don’t like about projects I’m working on, so PLEASE, don’t hesitate to let me know your thoughts. I’m astounded that the first issue had such an impact and I hope this second installment doesn’t disappoint readers. With that in mind, I wanted to reprint a review from Jeff Melton (originally posted on the M2K Message Boards):
I think Jeff Melton is twice the writer I am, so this puts a huge smile on my face! Thanks for the review, Jeff. I really appreciate the feedback. This is a series that's been waiting to be launched for about five to six months. I had to wait and wait for other writers to clear the characters I needed for the first issue. I'm very excited about the direction I'll be taking some of the stories, and I plan to delve deep into the psyche of certain characters I feel that are swept under the carpet in Marvel. Regarding your question of Rhodes being able to knock out the Looter just after he smashes an armored Guardsman into a wall? Rhodes says it all, "Steel grip; glass jaw." One running gag concerning the Looter is that he's an idiot. He's superstrong and supposedly a smart scientist...but he always gets taken down with one punch. I'm also of the opinion that just because you can benchpress a tractor doesn't mean you're invulnerable. I mean, it's two totally seperate powers. If this seems like a goof to anyone, I apologize. I plan to handle this series as sort of a mini anthology. I'll have several plot threads going at once, which may or may not cross over with one another. This series is about the entire complex, not just James Rhodes or Doc Ock (even though they'll be featured heavily). Once I finish a plot thread, I'll move on to the next one. I'm hoping to keep at least three seperate stories going in each issue. Thanks again, Jeff, and to everyone else for their support! -D.
Golightly |
