The pitter-patter of rain rippled against everything in the cemetery. Only a light drizzle, it was still almost a prerequisite as far as all those in attendance were concerned. Funerals were seldom dry, whether it was from the precipitation or the shallow tears shed for the one lost.
The remains of Kevin Hitchens, called Hitch by his fellow Guardsmen, lay within the closed casket. A large part of the crowd was comprised of his co-workers from the Vault, with a few relatives interspersed throughout. His ex-wife sobbed while his brother remained stoic, a stern look of determination on his face. He regretted not visiting his brother last Christmas like he had said he would, as now he was unable to even recognize Kevin’s remains.
The sad fact was that this was only one of the funerals being held recently in remembrance of the vicious massacre that the Super Adaptoid had partaken in several weeks prior. Kevin had been the first casualty at the synthetic hands of the android, and unfortunately not the last.* It had taken them longer than expected to dig out the remains from among the rubble.
* [Back in issue #2 – D]
The service concluded and the crowd began to disperse, some quietly chatting amongst themselves. James Rhodes stood removed from the rest, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets. Rain water dribbled down his face and off his chin, splashing onto the ground to mix with the rest of the streaming puddles. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, deciding to just deal with whatever nature handed him.
As he finally pulled his eyes away from the coffin and turned to leave, another man briskly trotted up behind him. “Rhodes,” he called out just loud enough for the chief of security to hear him. It was the warden, Miguel Jones. “Jim, hold on.”
Rhodes reluctantly turned around to face the stout warden. A Cuban cigar hung from his mouth, unlit. His face was kept mostly dry from the black umbrella over his head, but his shoes had been drenched from sloshing around in the mud of the cemetery ground. Small bags had formed under his eyes, giving away the fact that the warden hadn’t slept for days. Rhodes had been shaken by recent events, too, and could imagine what the warden must be going through.
“Yes, sir?” Rhodes said on impulse. Even under the circumstances it was hard to get away from his reflexive militaristic attitude.
“We need to talk,” Jones said, motioning for them to continue walking toward their parked cars. “How are you holding up?”
“Well enough. I’ll still be reporting back for active duty tomorrow morning.”
“Good, good. Listen, Jim…we have a lot of lost ground to make up for. The Adaptoid really showed us where we need to improve so that the monkeys don’t have another chance at a coup. The repairs to the facility are nearly complete, and we’ve got a lot of new gizmos to play with.” The warden caught Rhodes’ shoulder, making him pause. “Still…there are some things you’ll need to know before the Commission pays us a visit.”
Rhodes raised an eyebrow in response. “Why would the Commission on Superhuman Activities visit again? I thought the investigation into the Adaptoid and Octavius was finished. We were cleared.”
“We were,” Jones said as he shifted his stance. “About the attack and the takeover. I just want to get us both on the same page before something else gets dredged up.”
“You mean get our stories straight. The Commission isn’t exactly like an internal affairs division—”
“It might as well be. They’re the ones who are always looking over our collective shoulders to make sure things like this don’t happen.” He casually pointed his thumb over his shoulder toward the lowering casket. “Hitch deserved better. He was a good man, a real fighter. I made a wise decision when I brought you on board, Jim. I know I can count on you. That’s why I want you and me to be on the same wavelength, especially since the Commission is going to be looking at us a lot closer.”
Rhodes glanced around to see that most of the crowd had left. Only a few had stayed to watch the last remains of Kevin Hitchens be lowered into his final resting place. It was a solemn scene, one that Rhodes felt he shouldn’t be present for.
Rhodes cleared his throat, saying, “If you have something that the Commission is going to come down on me about, I need to know about it.”
“Glad we’re on the same—”
“You can start with what you’ve got cookin’ with this new Guardsmen armor,” Rhodes broke in. “I noticed that it wasn’t commissioned by Stark Solutions. I also noticed it seems to have been left off of any shipment records.”
It was Warden Jones’ turn to raise an eyebrow. “Looks like I definitely made the right choice when I brought you in.”
“So what are you waiting for?” Rhodes asked as he turned to leave. “Bring me all the way in already. I’ll see you in the morning when I report back…we can start the VIP tour then.”
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| Rhodes had to admit that the new Vault was impressive. He had only just arrived on Jailbird One, the Vault’s private transportation helicopter, when a swarm of the new Guardsmen had dropped down to welcome him. Not only had the building undergone a complete overhaul, but so had its security force. The Guardsmen armor looked similar to the older model, but it appeared to be totally redesigned, complete with a sidearm slung over the shoulder of each unit. He stepped out of the chopper and onto the helipad, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu. It hadn’t even been a full month since he had reported in for the first time and already he was returning from mandatory leave. Several broken ribs and a wrecked leg had kept him in the hospital while the complex had been rebuilt. Remembering his first five minutes at the complex, he rubbed the knuckles that had knocked out the Looter.* He hoped that sense of déjà vu would remain just a feeling as he looked around to see if any other transports had just arrived. * [That would be the very first scene of the very first issue! – D] “Welcome back, chief,” one of the Guardsmen said. There were four altogether, with the leader strutting over to usher Rhodes into the complex. “Sims,” Rhodes said, nodding. He hadn’t gotten a chance to really know any of the Guardsmen before the Adaptoid had struck, but he recognized the voice of Gabriel Sims. “Fancy rig you’ve got there.” “Mass disrupter rifle,” Sims replied, hefting a bulky weapon off his shoulder and into his hands. “MDR for short. It really packs a punch. More so than your standard repulsors. It’s held in place by magnetics so it stays out of our way while we’re flying. We can cycle through various types of output in order to adapt to different threats. Anything from plasma discharges to sonic bombardment. Non-lethal, of course. Keeps the kids in line you might say.” Rhodes nodded again as he began to head for the entrance. He let his eyes glance over the new Guardsmen, admiring the more sturdy appearance of the armor. Stark’s original design for the Guardsmen armor was outdated by his own admission. It was different, but the engineer inside Rhodey told him that it was also an improvement. “You’ll have to wait here a moment, chief,” Sims said. He told the other three Guardsmen to return to their positions as he moved to a console stationed against the wall. “Since this is your first time back since the rebuild, we’ll need to input your info back into the system. Just hold still.” He noticed that he was standing on top of some type of large plate embedded into the paved floor. He heard a few controls being pressed from the nearby console and quickly took in a breath when the world around him disappeared. It was as if someone had blotted out the sun and dulled all his other senses. “What’s—” “Try not to speak, chief,” Sims responded. “You’ll screw up the calibration. Just another second and…there we go. Okay, you can step off now.” His senses returned to him, allowing light to spill into his pupils once more. “What the hell just happened?” Rhodes demanded. “New entry protocols. That plate you’re standing on is actually the target area for that big thing over your head.” Sims lifted a finger casually straight up, drawing Rhodes’ attention. Hanging directly over him was a large metal arm that had extended out from over the entrance. At the tip of the arm was a metallic sphere, dangling just a few feet from the top of his skull. Wires protruded from the side of it, leading back up into the air and plugging back into the wall. Rhodes blinked, unsure of what had just been done to him. He hadn’t even been given an opportunity to learn the old protocols and now there were new ones, complete with strange devices. “And that would be…” “It’s a mental probe that not only assures us of your identity, but makes a record of your brainwaves for future reference. That brainwave template is going to be uploaded into your new armor, chief, ensuring that only you can use it. That temporary sensory deprivation is a side effect, but don’t worry. The probe doesn’t bore that deep into your noggin. It’s powerful, though. Hell, even one of those mutant telepaths would have trouble getting one over on it.” Stepping off the plate, Rhodes followed the Guardsmen the remaining few feet to the entrance. Sims punched in a series of authorization codes into the keypad, then pressed a button on his gauntlet. A small pin jutted out of his index finger, which he promptly stuck into the top of the keypad. “This another new protocol?” Rhodes asked. “You got it. Installed a couple weeks ago when we reopened. The new armor interfaces with you by using that brainwave template I mentioned, which in turn grants you access to the Vault computers. What I’m doing right now is logging us into the system by directly connecting with it. You’ll see once you grab your new armor. You can’t open a single door in the Vault without using the template protocols.” “Let me get this straight: is that suit jacked directly into your brain?” “Not exactly. More like its monitoring my brainwaves and responding accordingly. Makes for better movement, plus it guarantees that Vault personnel are the only ones that can have access to the systems.” Having personally witnessed the facility takeover led by Octavius, Rhodes understood the need for such precautions. With the world’s most dangerous criminals all locked up in one place, you could never be too careful. He had learned that the hard way and still had a few bruises to prove it. The main entrance swished open, revealing a sterile chamber that Rhodes and Sims both walked in to. The doors slid shut behind them, hissing quietly as jets of what appeared to be steam suddenly burst into the room. “Once we go through the decontamination process I’ll escort you to your quarters, chief. The warden has requested that you get acquainted with your new War Machine armor before reporting to his office for debriefing.” Sims turned to face him as the sterilizing steam overtook them. “Hold your breath for a second, by the way. You’ll need the suit to get through the corridors. Without it you’ll be marked as an escaped prisoner by the sensors. That means you can’t even go to the mess hall without your armor on, unless you feel like getting rushed by a platoon of Guardsmen.” “And your interface allows you to tell the sensors that you’re escorting someone? Like for prisoner transfers?” “Bingo again, chief. We found out that the Spymaster had figured a way to disable the sensors.* Now that won’t be a problem, because there’s no way anyone could fake the brainwave templates.” * [Last issue – D] Vents in the ceiling switched on, sucking the decontamination chemicals out of the chamber. Another door in front of them slid open, granting them access to the actual prison. Sims led the way in as Rhodes carefully took note of his new surroundings, remembering everything he might need to know. Cameras, panels, doors, hallways…everything. “Your quarters are just down here,” Sims said as he turned to the left. “Welcome back to the House of the Damned, chief. We hope you have a pleasant stay this time around.” “Enrollado ya?” the Tarantula asked as he easily ducked underneath the leg of his opponent. “Getting tired, old man?” “Old man?” his adversary, a dark-skinned man named Elias Wirtham replied. “You’re about to get schooled, kid.” There were only two lights on in the expansive room, both of them fixated on the pair of fighters. Their shadows bounced as they did along the cold cemented ground, shortened only by their proximity to the light. Elias could see the edges of the ring they fought in, but beyond that was only total darkness. This was his first time in the ring, his first fight. He had heard that a few men had died there, unable to defend themselves properly from their forced opponents. He didn’t think he was going to die that day, but he wasn’t sure he could win either. The Tarantula hopped into the air and quickly swapped which foot was in front of him, scissor-kicking with deadly accuracy. Elias dodged to the side just in time to avoid the impact of the trained assassin’s feet, still feeling the wind move from the kick. If he had been a fraction of a second slower he probably would have been knocked off his feet. They had been going back and forth like this for several minutes already. The Tarantula’s strength was obviously in his legs, but Elias had more endurance. He threw a series of punches, only one of them connecting. The Tarantula shook his head and retaliated with a backhanded punch, quickly following it up with an uppercut. As the vigilante known as Cardiac, Elias had been in more than his fair share of street fights. But this was something else. The Tarantula was a trained killer that wouldn’t hesitate to put him down the first chance he got. Elias was just a surgeon, a brilliant one, but a doctor nonetheless. Even though Elias had gone up against Spider-Man, Chance, the Rhino, and a few others he was still in a lower class. He had experience beating down his targets, but not nearly as much as the Tarantula. He didn’t have to be stronger or even faster…he just had to be smarter. He kicked again, watching the Tarantula duck under his foot once more. Elias spun around, using the momentum from his kick to position himself for a direct hit into the Tarantula’s solar plexus. As soon as his palm touched the skin of the Tarantula, Elias unleashed a wave of beta-particles through his hand. The energy shocked the Tarantula’s nervous system, sending him flying back a few feet. The killer landed in a heap on the ground, unable to move. “Well done,” a voice said from out in the darkness. “Innovation, adaptation…good, good.” “You can save your praise for someone who wants it,” Cardiac said. “Just throw me back in my cell already.” “Dr. Wirtham,” the voice responded, echoing slightly in the darkness, “if you hadn’t been so careless with your medical practices, maybe you could have saved your research from the uncaring corporations, and then maybe you wouldn’t have been apprehended for murdering a respected CEO. Maybe you wouldn’t have ended up here in prison. But…here you stand. That means your every action is run through me, including when you return to your cell.” Elias pulled in a deep breath, focusing his attention on the downed Tarantula. Normally the prisons power dampeners would make it impossible for anyone to use energy like his as a weapon, but he was wholly different from a metahuman. In truth, he wasn’t a metahuman at all. The beta-particle generator that beat within his chest in place of his heart was the true source of his power, an instrument that couldn’t be siphoned off by the facility’s dampeners. Even still, he had been lucky to win the fight. “La Tarantula is no small fish,” the voice continued. “You should be proud of yourself. He’s already taken out three others. Of course, you just arrived here when the Vault reopened, so you wouldn’t be aware of that fact. Still, I congratulate you.” “Glad you feel fulfilled. Can I go now?” “Yes, doctor. You’re not like the rest of the monkeys. No, no. You may go, but the next round will begin soon. I suggest you get some rest while you can.” A door opened in the background, spilling light into the otherwise darkened room. Cardiac stepped out of the ring, leaving the still unconscious Tarantula behind him, and walked through the door. A pair of Guardsmen met him, each of them clutching an arm. They walked him down the long and empty hallway to his containment cell, deactivating the laser grid and depositing him inside. The laser grid reactivated, sealing him into his lonely cell. The Guardsmen promptly left him behind as they stalked back down the hallway. He had only been incarcerated in the Vault’s fourth sublevel for a couple of weeks, but already it felt like Hell. He had been ordered to fight, and fight he did. The only people he had seen since arriving were the Guardsmen and now the Tarantula. No one had been allowed to visit and his connection to the outside world had been completely severed. It was like the fourth sublevel didn’t exist. It had all played out like a bad movie, only he was the unwilling star. He realized that even when his sentence was finished he would never be allowed to leave alive. “I suppose you want to make some type of forfeit then.” Hammerhead grimaced as he stared at the man who had made the comment. A technological genius, Bentley Wittman, also known as the criminal mastermind called the Wizard, simply smirked from where he sat in one of the warden’s comfortable chairs. “Nah,” Hammerhead shot back. “Just hopin’ to try and pull a rabbit out of your ass, Wizard.” “Gentlemen,” the warden said as he lit another cigar. “I didn’t agree to hold this meeting because I felt lonely. Let’s get down to business and save the innuendo for another time.” Warden Jones’ office was very lavish compared to the rest of the prison. Air-conditioned, well furnished, and even somewhat stylish, Jones felt like it was a little piece of order amid the general chaos that was the Vault. He sat behind his mahogany desk before the pair of inmates that rested uneasily in his plush chairs, Hammerhead and the Wizard. He hated being in the same room as them, but he maintained his civility as long as the situation deemed it necessary. “Don’t gimme that shit,” Hammerhead said. “You’re holding this meeting because we’re forking over tons of cash. Don’t act like you’re better than us, Jones, and don’t act like you ain’t on the take.” Jones was just about to respond when Wittman spoke up. “Be that as it may,” he said, “you called this meeting, Hammerhead. If you aren’t willing to forfeit then why are you wasting my time?” “I’m changing fighters.” “Oh, please,” the Wizard said. “As if that would make a difference. Your ego is still bruised from when the Tarantula upended you on Octavius’ orders.* You can’t change fighters now. We’re too far into the Brawl.” * [Hammerhead was ‘upended’ at the end of issue #4 – D] “Fuck you,” Hammerhead muttered. “Jones says that Spanish whack-job got taken out this morning anyway, so I don’t give two shits about it. Stilts just ain’t working for me. Put him back in the general pool and gimme Constrictor.” The Wizard shook his head and smiled. “That still won’t help. Not when Batroc represents my interests. You may as well give your criminal empire over to me before my fighter embarrasses you even further.” “Enough,” Jones broke in. “Hammerhead, things changed after you got released last time. When Octavius took your spot on the top of the prison totem pole I put the tourney on hold. That nutcase wasn’t interested in brokering deals like a gentleman. Not like us. He and I could never reach an agreement…but us, well, we got history.” “I don’t know how you can call this cretin a gentleman,” Wittman stated as he stroked his goatee. The warden cleared his throat and said, “We’ve got a good deal here with the Brawl. You’re both the big guns around here, especially since Octavius is in isolation. I help broker your disputes by way of the tournament, and in return you keep the monkeys in order.” “Along with truckloads of our money,” Hammerhead said. “Gimme Constrictor or the whole thing is off.” Once more, the warden went to object but the Wizard cut him off. “Allow him his opportunity to bend the rules. I’m more than satisfied being the bigger man here, Jones. Give him what he wants, it won’t make any difference. He’ll lose eventually and I’ll have what’s left of his empire on the outside while he is left with humiliation.” “Fine,” Jones answered. “Constrictor is yours for the next bout, Hammerhead. This is the only time you’re getting a change-up, understand?” “Yeah, whatever.” The pair of inmates stood and walked toward the door. Jones watched as the four Guardsmen that had been stationed inside his office placed the restraints around the appendages of both Hammerhead and the Wizard, pleased that he still had control over them regardless of how they spoke to him. They were fools really. They had no idea just how much he was actually controlling them. The recent destruction of the Vault and Octavius’ attempt to takeover had presented the perfect opportunity for his plans. He couldn’t bide his time any longer. He had learned from his mistakes, and from others. When Hammerhead and the Wizard realized how he had been playing them it would be too late to do anything about it. In fact, it was already too late. There was just one piece left to his little game. The new War Machine armor fit perfectly. The synthetic skin that covered Rhodes’ body underneath the bulk of the armor molded to his musculature amazingly well, allowing him more maneuverability then his old armor had. Tony was going to hate hearing about this. He glanced at the mirror hanging in his quarters, taking in the full view of his new armor. The color scheme was different, but it still looked good. Better even. He could get used to this very easily. The uni-beam was still mounted on his chest, along with his usual assortment of repulsor weapons. Compartments interspersed throughout the armor held various explosives and tools that were duplicated of items he had as part of his old armor. There was a detachable MDR canon mounted on his right shoulder blade, which felt nearly weightless in his strength-enhancing gauntlets. The only thing left to put on before meeting the warden for a debriefing was his helmet. He held up the helmet, looking into its sunken eyes. The emotionless shell stared back at him eerily. The last time he had worn armor it hadn’t been enough for him. He ended up having to take down the bad guys with his own ingenuity. Even though it had nearly cost him his life, he was proud of that fact. It had been James Rhodes that had come out on top, not War Machine. He had once gone through a dark time when he had filled in as Iron Man, becoming almost addicted to the armor. Now he had proven that was just another shadow in his past and he could be his own man. He slipped the helmet into place and secured it. It latched onto his shoulders and neck, clamping shut and sealing his head in. The HUD switched on automatically and he began to feel something buzzing in the back of his head. He reasoned it was the new brainwave interface taking effect, connecting his thoughts with the armor. Several diagrams appeared on the HUD, showing him the level of connectively as his systems booted up. 70%...80%...90%... The warm buzzing in the back of his head suddenly turned into a roaring fire. It felt like someone had turned the stereo up as high as it would allow and then placed the speakers on opposite sides of his head, only there was no sound ringing in his ears. A steady thumping sounded again and again, disorienting him. As the HUD told him that the interface had been completed, his mind went blank and his actions became not his own. Letters From Prison Thus begins the second arc for The Vault! What did you think? Huh, huh, huuuuh? TELL ME! My inquiring mind truly wants to know. Fire me an e-mail at h4hdave@yahoo.com or post a review on the M2K message board. I'll reply in kind (or maybe in hate...you never know). Anyways, on to our only letter, this one from our current writer of Avengers, Fallen Angels, and Storm - Brent Lambert:
Thanks for the review, Brent! First, I really wanted Rhodes to be in the series so that the reader would actually have someone to root for. It doesn't seem quite right to have a no 'good guy' that you want to pull through. Plus, Rhodes sort of serves as the readers' vehicle into the story. He's new at the Vault - so are we. When he experiences something for the first time, we have to deal with it right along side him. His presence in the book helps give us some perspective on just how messed up things can get in prison. I hope this issue has helped to further distance Rhodes from Stark. He deserves to be his own man, not an Iron Man knock-off, dammit! The Vault has been a project that has developed through feedback (big nod to the message board there). From developing the characters and situations, to adding plot twists, and especially in the relationship/rivialry between Octavius and Hammerhead (thumbs-up to Meriades). I had a lot of ideas to cram into this title and I'm really glad that people let me use them as a sounding board. Glad you liked Taskmaster! While I can't promise he'll be back soon, I will guarentee that he'll be back eventually. Abbot had better watch his back. I admit that the Super Adaptoid portion of the first arc got away from me. I had to throw Tracer in there to help solve things. The first ac was originally broken down into three seperate arcs, but I decided to combine a bunch of things, and that's why I sort of dropped the ball concerning the Adaptoid. It was a learning experience I'll certainly say. Again, I had so many ideas that I wanted to cram in to the story right away that I probably should have let sit for awhile. I thought it melded, and I guess it wasn't quite up to snuff. At the same time, however, I wanted to use Tracer to juxtapose the difficulty that Rhodes has in the Vault with how the villains are able to handle a situation. Maybe I fell short on that. Paint my face red...or something less corny. I've been planning on revamping the Guardsmen since Day 1, believe it or not, but in order to do that I first had to demolish them. That's mainly why they were used as cannon fodder in the first arc. With this issue, they now have a new look, a new design, a new purpose, a new...everything! Plus Rhodes got a makeover, too. But was it for the better? Queue creepy music. That's all for now, hit me back with more letters, people! -D. Golightly 5-31-07
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