| _ _ __ .|. COHERENT \ / /\ | ) WarStar #2 - Mean Streets --X-------------- \/\/ / \ | \ ------------------------------------------- '|` COMICS __ ___ / \ __ An ASH Universe Miniseries | PRESENTS (_ | / _^^_ \ | ) copyright 2000 | __) |/' '\| \ by Dave Van Domelen ============================================================================ [cover shows Arn, wearing a t-shirt and suspenders, looking over his shoulder at Black Opal, who is leaping out of the shadows inside the roof of a warehouse, arm cocked back to throw a handful of blades.] ============================================================================ [The Mediterranean Sea, near Haven - August 2, 1992] It has been a long flight, even at the supersonic speeds I can reach using the full power of the Astro Spear for thrust. Fortunately, something like a day of non-stop effort isn't enough to tire me, and with the armor enhancing my already formidable constitution, I almost feel as if fresh from sleep. The instructions transmitted to me had turned out to be very useful. For while I had mastered every direct combat application of the Astro Spear on my own, there were a number of other functions I hadn't even thought to try. For instance, the 'Spear can absorb electromagnetic radiation, very useful in avoiding detection by the primitive detection gear of this world. Picket lines around the northern pole of the world registered nothing as I arced in a great circle towards my eventual destination. Suddenly, red triangles appear on my visor, and the smugness vanishes. Perhaps not all detection systems on this planet are quite so primitive. Three missiles of some sort are coming over the horizon, and seem to be locked onto me. It would appear that Haven is on the paranoid side when it comes to uninvited guests. And for all the wondrous things the Astro Spear can do at short and medium ranges, I have little way to knock the incoming missiles away at long range. So be it. I wait the three heartbeats it takes for the missiles to come into view with the naked eye, and then generate a plasma pulse, like the ones I used against Fracture. The missiles strike the leading edge of the pulse and detonate, far enough away that I am merely buffetted by their shockwaves. "Attention, intruder," a voice suddenly comes over my communication array. "That was a warning shot. Leave our airspace or we will cheerfully atomize you." I give them no response. This is a closed culture, I am not going to talk my way in. Perhaps if I demonstrate enough persistence they will relent? I turn the Astro Spear back to the task of thrust, and within moments can see the imposing artificial island of Haven on the horizon. Of course, at this point, they can also see me, and direct energy weapons come into play. Green laser beams seek me out, and while the 'Spear sucks in their power, I recognize a targeting system when I see one. I've always been more of an infantryman before, and aerial evasion is a new skill for me. But I manage to avoid the first few particle cannon pulses. Then one finds me, and despite the power of my armor, I am nearly stunned by the impact of charged particles. I quickly drop towards the water, getting back out of their line of sight. The water opens up suddenly, disgorging a man in red who glows like the Sun itself. He is faster and more maneuverable than I am, and within seconds we have stopped in midair, facing each other warily. "Go home, WarStar," the man sneers. "We don't accept losers. Yeah, we've seen news footage of you running away from ASH. Twice. If you want to enjoy the benefits of Haven, you're going to have to prove yourself first." "What if I prove myself by defeating *you*?" I say as evenly and calmly as I can manage. I am a bit nervous, as this man has a ragged edge to his voice that I've heard before many times. He is insane, holding onto reality by the most tenuous of threads, a man who kills so readily because he no longer has that connection to humanity that makes even the most seasoned warriors regret what they must do in battle. Beneath his mask he smirks. A sword that seems to be made from a slice of the Sun extends from his right fist. "Your Astro Spear against my Solar Blade? Tempting. To challenge the Challenger. But I don't think so. Y'see, it's not just about power...it's about trust." His voice drips with irony as he continues, "If you'd done something unforgivable, managed to be wanted for some major crimes, we might let you in. After all, if you betrayed us then, you'd still go to the Pit for your own stuff. But all we've seen you do is tussle with ASH a couple times, and that doesn't even rate jail time anymore. You might be a plant, some new hero trying to make a name for himself by infiltrating the supervillain city on the sea...so we can't really let you in. Well, Sutekh likes you, but he likes anyone who gives his 'brother' a hard time. But his opinion doesn't count for a whole lot here. In short, don't call us, we'll call you." I briefly consider simply killing him. Generating a black hole in his chest would certainly do the job, and his solar powers could be blunted by the absorption systems in the Astro Spear. But I am seeking allies, not more enemies, and I have no real idea how well-liked this Challenger is. He's a madman, but madmen can be quite charming and persuasive. "I'll be waiting for that call," I reply, then turn to leave. * * * * [A small village near Izmir, Turkey - August 4, 1992] I had hoped Haven would accept me, as it would have made many practical matters so much simpler. I could have gotten clothing, acquired currency, eaten food I did not hunt down myself. Compared to my own, this world is fairly primitive, but not so primitive I can simply walk around in full armor and make my purchases with gold. Fortunately, some parts are still primitive enough that the latter is less of a problem. This town I am in shows obvious signs of technological civilization, yet also has a thriving barter economy in the lower classes. Gold should be acceptable to them. And as for the former problem, well, I can deal with it for now. A tattered tarpaulin found by the side of the road makes for a crude cloak, covering my armor, with part of it wrapped around my 'Spear. To complete the disguise, another of my small magics, a spell I found useful in my rise through the ranks. It is a little bit of a mind-magic that causes those who look at me to consider me un-noteworthy. They may see an abnormally large stranger, but will not think of me as someone to comment on. Unfortunately, the results are only temporary, and I cannot linger long in any one place lest someone's curiosity penetrate the spell. Worse, it has no effect on those seeing me remotely, and as major cities are full of cameras even on this backward world...well, the village I am in will do for now. Thus disguised, I walk into the small shop of a local tailor. With my frame, I cannot buy clothing that has been pre-made, naturally. He raises an eyebrow as I walk in and close the door firmly behind me. "I require a suit of clothing, appropriate for visiting the city," I tell the man. "I will pay handsomely for your best work," I pull out a few square plates of gold I manufactured hours earlier, "and for your silence," I add as I remove the ragged cloak concealing my armor. He gasps at the sight of me, but the glint of gold holds his attention. I may have never mastered enough mind-magic to do more than minor tricks, but gold has a magic all its own. "Will, ah, the gentleman remove his...current attire while I take measurements?" the tailor nervously ventures in heavily accented English. He obviously took my own halting Turkish as a cue that I was a foreigner, and wants to put me at ease somehow. I grin. "I will need some good boots, but assume that I will wear the new clothing over the old," I assure him in Turkish. While he nervously starts running his tools over and around my body, I tune into the local radio traffic and continue to refine my command of his language. Having been on this world only a short time, I am already astounded by the number of languages they seem to need. I could spend years just learning them all...it will certainly be a challenge keeping them straight. Something else catches my interest on the radio, a news report concerning recent riots in Istanbul. Again it concerns these strange "gods" I had never heard of before coming to this world. The government officially denies the existence of gods, which would seem a sensible thing to me, except I have tasted the lightning of one such god. And worship of the deity Apollo seems to be taking hold in the western parts of Turkey, something the government finds even more abhorrent than the several other religions which had coexisted in the country of late, like Christianity and Islam. The government is overreacting, squeezing the people too hard. Rebellion is in the air, even just listening to the censored government news broadcasts. I pause to think about what I have seen of Turkey so far. Technologically advanced in many ways, if lagging behind the more powerful nations of the world. But also full of places like this town, backwaters from an older age. Once the government falls, this place will be an excellent staging ground for raising an army and conquering the richer nations to the north and west. Yes, I will have to remember Turkey.... * * * * [Harlem, New York City - August 20, 1992] The room is filthy and small, and the security would be laughable if I actually feared the downtrodden inhabitants of this city. Oh, I could have my throat slit easily enough, but my training for survival in a war zone is just as applicable here as it was in the muddy holes of Planet 3424. It was a border world that didn't even rate a name, nor did we bother to learn what the natives called it before slaughtering most and enslaving the rest. Simply placing the massive Astro Spear on the floor in front of the door ensured that none could open the inward-swinging door, although the floor did creak and protest at the weight it was being asked to support. And the window's glass I transmuted to a far stronger crystal. From gold to Turkish lira to American dollars, I had managed to discreetly build a bankroll sufficient to pay the advance on this room and buy me some less conspicuous clothing. And once I found a "pawn shop" I could trust, I could directly convert my gold into dollars. For now, I keep my armor hidden in a burlap satchel and the 'Spear wrapped in canvas, but I have a few ideas for better cases for both. Satisfied with the minor precautions I had been able to take in securing my valuable items, I change into a baggy shirt and some pants made from a rough blue fabric, transferring my roll of bills to the pocket of the pants. Time to examine my surroundings. The hotel manager grunts as I leave, one of the few people not to be a little surprised when they see me, although he seems the type to be unimpressed by everything. I don't bother with my spells of concealment, since there are too many people in this area to reliably affect anyway. Besides, after getting over the shock of my size, most people regard me with contempt and hatred, not fear. It is a look I have seen often in the past...and one I have given in my youth. It is the look of an embittered underclass citizen gazing upon a noble, envy turning quickly into even darker emotions. The light color of my skin marks me as an outsider here, although I have seen men who nearly match me in size, and thus I am only marked in a "normal" way. While the idea of poverty being based largely on skin color still strikes me as odd, it is a useful bit of primitive thinking for my purposes. Anywhere else, I would stand out because I am huge. Here, I stand out because I am fair-skinned. They may recall me as large, but they will think of me first as "white." Like gold, hatred also has a magic of its own. I hide my smile as I set out to work some of gold's magic. * * * * [Chinatown, New York City - September 3, 1992] "So, Arnold...you always been big, or what?" a man asks from the shadows. While my continued study of languages is not progressing as quickly as I'd like, I can tell he's probably not one of the Chinese-Americans living in this part of Manhattan. More likely a resident of Little Italy. We've already gotten past the formalities, such as him asking if I'm a member of the law enforcement establishment. Odd that the police would have to tell the truth if asked about their identity...a good way for them to be killed, I should think. But they still don't trust me enough to step out of the shadows of this cramped apartment. "I don't think so," I reply with studied hesitation. "I don't remember a whole lot from before I woke up in that hospital. Didn't even remember enough to testify against that mad doctor guy who they say kidnapped me and experimented on me. But I remember being poor, and I remember not wanting to be poor anymore. And now I'm strong enough to not have to be poor," I flex the muscles of my arms to emphasize the point. My t-shirt strains, and I can hear stitches popping. "That you are," admits another voice, this one sounding older. "Stick with us, and you'll never be poor again, Mr. Black." "You sure?" the first voice asks the second. "Artie, Artie...I haven't lasted this long without being able to spot a cop. This guy is not, and never was, a cop. Or if he was, he's so crooked he'd never dare turn on us. Give 'im the...beeper." A man, presumably Artie, steps into the lighted center of the room. He has short black hair with a little grey in it, and slightly darker features than mine. He holds up a small black box with a strap attached. "You want the job?" "Sure. Who do I have to pound?" "Anyone we say," the man replies. "Stick out your ankle, I gotta strap this on." As I extend my leg, glad that I didn't decide to wear any armor under my clothing today, I ask, "What is it?" The man cinches the strap tight around my ankle. "It's a beeper. Y'know, so we can let you know when we need you for a job, get you out of bed in the middle of the night if it's an emergency. I'm strapping it on here because I don't want you losing it, or breaking it when you punch someone. Just don't take it off." I nod, feigning innocence. I know he's lying. At the very least, it's a tracking device. I make a mental note to examine it as soon as possible. As if this is what the others were waiting for, someone turns off the harsh spotlight and turns on the regular room lighting. Several other men stand around the edges of the room, including a white-haired gentleman who must be the second speaker. "Welcome to our employ," the old man smiles. "Play your cards right, and you'll be a made man in no time. But don't worry about that, we need to get you set up with something better'n that fleabag you're staying in over in Harlem. Why a nice boy like you'd stay in Harlem I can't even *begin* to guess...." A few hours later, I'm back in that "fleabag," collecting my things, as well as my thoughts. Vincent, the old man, explained the situation in Chinatown to me in very simple terms, but I was able to read between the lines based on what little I knew of the area. Manhattan had been very short on superhumans for some time, with the exception of an abortive attempt to found a chapter of ASH there three years ago. This was one reason I picked the city...less chance of accidentally running across someone who would be my match outside the armor. What Manhattan *did* have was a number of homegrown vigilantes of low power, some with no Gift at all. Most led short and bloody careers that ended in an unmarked grave. But one had managed to not only survive, but thrive over more than fifteen years. Called Black Opal, he ranged all over Manhattan, but concentrated many of his efforts in Chinatown. As a result, the Tongs had been crippled and almost destroyed...their one ill-fated attempt to bring in superhuman help had been during the few months ASH had had a presence in town, and it served only to bring ASH down on the Tongs like Raiden's lightning. Now the criminals of Italian and Sicilian descent wanted to muscle into Chinatown, since the Tongs were no longer able to protect their turf. But they needed someone to keep Black Opal away, and that someone would be me. I check the bass fiddle case that conceals my armor and Astro Spear. I've needed to reinforce it a few times to keep it from breaking open, but it serves me better than the old burlap bag. I remove one of the gauntlets and put it on. The scanner indicates I was right about the "beeper." Not only is it intermittently broadcasting a tracking pulse, it also contains an explosive charge. They do not trust me THAT much, apparently. One wrong move, and I lose my foot. Well, I would, but the Transmuter in that gauntlet changes the explosive charge to harmless silicon. No sense in risking an accidental detonation, or the wrath of someone I might step on in my climb up the political ladder in this organization, yes? I am about to put the gauntlet back into the case, when I remember the windows. A quick pass of the Transmuter turns them back to normal glass, erasing one of the more blatant signs of my presence. Then I put the gauntlet in with the rest of my armor, close the case, and leave the room forever. * * * * [Docks, Lower East Side, New York City - February 2, 1993] It is cold in the crate, but I don't mind that. No, what irks me is the boredom. This is the second night I have hidden in a crate as drugs were unloaded (concealed within other cargoes, of course). My mind turns to the idea of chemical stimulants like the cocaine being smuggled in tonight. We don't have anything like it back home. Oh, there's some minor stimulants, like what's called caffeine here, but for serious mind-bending, we use Inducers. Metal caps with field coils in them, they induce electric fields within the pleasure center of the brain. Clean, cheap, no side effects, and not physically addictive when used properly, for no more than an hour a day. Some criminals modified Inducers to overcome the built-in timer, or to deliver a more intense stimulation, but anyone caught doing so was convicted of murder. After all, given the ability to run an Inducer for more than an hour a day (ownership of multiple Inducers was illegal, of course) was a death sentence for the user. He'd waste away of thirst, dying happily. Those who modified Inducers were generally forced to wear their own creations and die the way their customers died. A simple justice, and a warning to those who might tamper with the technology. Myself, I'd only tried an Inducer once...I prefer to get my pleasure honestly. The thought did occur to me, though, that I could probably decimate the population of this nation by marketing Inducers without timers. But a population of drooling addicts with burned-out limbic systems did not make for a satisfying kingdom. Smoke suddenly starts to fill the area, and I break out of my reverie. My trick has worked! Black Opal has been wisely avoiding me for months, always hitting operations I was not present at. But I set up a decoy across town and hid here, the most tempting of the Mafia operations aside from the one I was supposed to be protecting. I slip on my mask and infrared goggles and carefully open the crate. "Gaaah!" one of the dockworkers screams. He stumbles back into my view, a pair of throwing blades imbedded in his shoulders. His holster is empty, and his gun no doubt already kicked into the river. There! The legendary Black Opal, in his nonreflective black bodysuit and featureless black helmet, the shape and color of which resemble the jewel that is his namesake. I reach for his leg, but he sees me just in time and jumps away. "Why, if it isn't Mr. Black!" he exclaims cheerfully. "But aren't you supposed to be in Chinatown tonight?" No banter for me. It would just give him time to find an escape route. Without a word, I draw my Colt .45 and place three rounds in the center of his chest. His paranormal speed almost lets him dodge, but I have shot faster targets than him, and with weapons whose kick I could actually feel. Black Opal is thrown back into a pile of crates, and oranges spill out, revealing a few duct-taped bags of cocaine behind them. His costume is bulletproof, but the heavy bullets still knock the wind out of him. And his costume won't keep me from crushing his chest with my bare hands. As I approach, he lashes out with a savage kick, trying to knock my gun aside. I am a bit surprised that he recovered so quickly, but I'm harder to disarm than that. I rapidly re-aim and pull the trigger. Nothing happens. By the Elements, he's a clever one! He knew I was strong enough to hold onto the gun, so he took advantage of that by actually destroying the action of the automatic pistol! I throw the useless weapon at him, but this attack he is able to dodge. However, his movements are slower, he's obviously hurting. He hurls a trio of throwing blades at me, aimed at my face. I manage to interpose my arm, saving not only my features, but also the goggles that are letting me track him in the thickening smoke cloud. The blades sink in almost a finger's width, attesting to the man's moderately superhuman strength. Blades thrown by a normal man would only have scored my skin, the dense muscle being too much for them to penetrate. While I was protecting myself, Black Opal jumped over me and drew his sword. Now he is swinging it at the back of my legs, attempting to hamstring me. He is certainly being more vicious than I was led to expect from him. Perhaps he simply realizes how much more powerful I am, and is taking no chances. I leap over the strike, then slam my feet into the pier as hard as I can on landing. Boards break and fly up into Opal's face, knocking him backwards. Unfortunately, by the time I have regained my balance, so has he. The smoke is starting to clear, and a few of the regular guards have found their weapons again and are moving to cut him off, although they still lack a clear view of what is happening. Good, I'll need that. Visualizing the correct mental construct, I let loose with a magical bolt of energy. Black Opal is caught completely be surprise...after all, Arnold Black is just a strongman, maybe with some gunplay skills. Not a magician. And, to be truthful, I am not much of a magician. But a bolt that could stagger a member of ASH is more than enough to drop an already wounded Black Opal to the boards of the pier. "Hey, Arnie got 'im!" one of the guards shouts, finally able to see through the smokebombs Black Opal had sown around the area. A ragged cheer goes up. I grab Black Opal around the waist with one of my massive hands. He's rather thinner than I'd expected. He struggles a little, but is still too shocked by the warmagic to do much of anything. Then the explosion blasts both of us into the water. A few hours have passed. Apparently, the Tong were not quite as destroyed as Vincent had thought, and had their own plans for the supposedly unguarded cocaine shipment. The homemade grenades only stunned me, but that was enough for Black Opal to get away. The shipment was lost, and by the time I got out of the river, the Tong had melted back into the night. Oddly, this doesn't bother me. I never really had to kill Black Opal for my plan to work, I merely had to soundly defeat him. Now I had established a reputation as Arnold Black, and could start looking to find work as a henchman for one of Haven's regulars. I snap the legband off and toss it back in the river. I'll tell them it was blown off in the explosion. They'll suspect I'm lying, but I doubt they'll bother to give me another "beeper".... * * * * [Haven - May 12, 1993] The "Jolly Robert" finally clears the last of the security buoys and comes in to dock at Haven. The crewmen look at me any my companions with some amusement and perhaps a little disdain. The disdain is directed at Meathead, who's been in a moderate panic attack from claustrophobia all the way in from England. Fortunately for me, I do not need to depend on the good graces of the crew, as my employer, the Fomorian, has paid them well for transport to Haven. The Fomorian, with only one arm and a single eye, is easily a head taller than I am, and has had trouble getting around the submarine. His taste in henchmen runs to the "big dumb guy" like Meathead, or like I have been pretending to be. I've had to be careful not to display any mystic skills around him, however, as he seems to be some sort of servant of a god, and he can detect magic in use. It's been difficult keeping my armor and Astro Spear secret from him, but soon enough it shouldn't matter. We dock, and naturally Meathead is scrambling for the airlock even before the water has all been pumped out. One of the reasons the Jolly Robert is here at Haven is to repair that leaky outer door. I collect my luggage and follow the rest of the bulky band of warriors into Haven itself. It is an odd place...all around are decorations intended to make everyone appear to be giants in a miniature city. Ah, the workings of the human ego. Then I spot Herr Stark. Large enough to give the Fomorian pause, with long blond hair and a thick mustache, he was reputed to be the strongest man in the world. And he was also reputed to not like competition for that title. "How's it going, Meathead?" he asks, in a thick German accent. I get the impression that it was he who named my erstwhile partner. Meathead does his best to look small and smiles. "Much better now that I'm out of that submarine, Herr Stark." Stark waits for me to approach, then blocks my path. "And who might you be, Baldpate?" He reaches out to rub my scalp, which I keep shaven in order to make better contact with the helmet of my armor. "I am Arnold Black," I reply, trying to keep any tone of defiance out of my voice. "No, you are Baldpate," he smiles, amused at his own weak humor. "Or perhaps you are the Fiddler?" he reaches for my luggage. I can't move it out of his reach without slamming it into the man behind me, so he gets a hand on it. "Heavy for a fiddle, isn't it?" he asks, pulling at it experimentally. "Maybe you learned from the gangsters in old movies...they kept machine guns in violin cases, so are you keeping a howitzer in here?" Before I can react, he has opened the case, his strength being too much for the locks I placed on it. "Oh ho!" he booms as one of my gauntlets clatters to the floor. "No, you are not Baldpate after all! I think you are that schwachling WarStar...!" ============================================================================ Next Issue: WarStar first faces the strongest man on Earth in single combat, and if he wins he gets to face something even more dangerous...Haven's internal politics! ============================================================================ Author's Notes: Okay, I suppose I should take a paragraph or so to explain the whole Set/Sutekh thing. It all starts several thousand years ago (real life... this isn't just some unholy amount of backstory I've been carrying around), when Egypt was becoming unified. Before Egypt coalesced, every city-state had its own gods, which were gradually merged into something resembling a pantheon (although, IIRC, it was never as cohesive as the sort of layout you'd get in a children's book of myths, or a gaming supplement). As the political fortunes of various factions changed, so too did the fortunes of the gods they worshipped. Set was one of the guys who kinda got hosed in this process, turning into a bad guy, someone you pray to just to avert his wrath. (As a side note, he's usually depicted as a man with the head of some unidentified critter. It's close enough to a jackal head that it's often convenient to simply say it *is* a jackal head, but it's not really. The snake and scorpion aspects are less common.) Now for the unholy amount of backstory I've been carrying around. Well, an abridged version. Set's "demotion" reflected a setback in the Causality Wars, and he resented being saddled with all this Evil God baggage. Thus, int he late 1980s, he empowered an avatar who was more like the god Set used to be...strong, vicious, a defender of the people, but a little politically naive. But his bitterness needed an outlet as well, so he soon empowered a second avatar: Sutekh (an alternate name for Set). Sutekh was everything people claimed Set to be...vile, manipulative, a spirit of chaos and the desert. The avatars Set and Sutekh, needless to say, did not get along very well. And when you throw the alternate-dimensional avatar Horus of the original CSV into the mix...let's just say that it's standing policy on Haven to not let Horus and Sutekh in Haven at the same time. Black Opal created by Matt Rossi. Sutekh might be the creation of Mike Molinsky, it's been years and I can't remember if Mike made him up or if I did. WarStar's views are expressly his own, and do not necessarily reflect those of the writer. He's a supervillain, after all, yes?