MVI Fanfiction / Vigilante Branch / Super
Villain Teamups
Part 1: Attila's Arm --
Introduction:
1980, New York City, Central Park. Night.
Far above the trees, ROM The SILVER SPACE KNIGHT and The THING battle FIREFALL, KEEPER OF The LIVING FLAME (believe it or not). Below them, among the trees, a man is watching, his back to us. He's wearing rugged work clothes and a newsy cap. He lifts his hand ... it glows with unspeakable power!
"[I have traveled far,]*" he says. "[Lead by the alien technology of my Makluan rings. I have sensed that a valuable source of alien technology was near, technology which might allow me to finally overcome the despicable Western demagogue Iron Man. To avoid detection...]"
Watching the combatants streak across the sky, he turns so that we see his face.
"[…the great MANDARIN has traveled incognito to this decadent West to witness this battle.]"
Rom delivers the coup d'grace, and with a flash of purple light Firefall shatters, his armor falling to earth. Watching the shards rain about him, the Mandarin smiles.
"[And now I know why.]"
*translated from Mandarin Chinese.
POWERS LONG FORGOTTEN
Part 1: Attila's Arm
A Super Villains Team Up
By Colin Rankine
TONIGHT, in the Russian port of Guryev on the Caspian Sea, near the border of the deadly Kirgiz steppe, in the deep of a freezing night. A Turkish cargo ship, crawling with longshoremen, is loading up cargo with an enormous winch. A team of welders blows sparks like fireworks down onto the dock. Far out on the sea, just below the horizon, the glow of an offshore oilrig illuminates the low nighttime clouds.
Two figures, clad in heavy coats with fur hoods, stand watching. One is bulky, muscular, and the other is slight. Long white-blond hair blows from under the slender one's hood.
A sailor approaches them, wearing a greasy turtleneck sweater with the sleeves torn off, exposing his heavily muscled arms, covered with Cyrillic tattoos. Despite the cold, he's sweating profusely. His wide Slavic face is sooty from work, yet when he grins at them his gold-plated dentures flash.
"[Hey, Comrade,]" he barks in Russian. "[Are you waiting here for the Mongol?]"
"[The bastard! He double-crossed us!]" The slender one - a woman - mutters, and starts to run - but the bulkier figure catches her wrist.
"[Kazakh, I am no comrade of yours,]" he snarls. "[State your business or you'll regret it!]"
The sailor throws up his hands and grins even wider.
"[My business is being loaded on the ship right now, Whitey: A case of Scotch, which is what the Mongol gave me to fetch you. If you don't want to go, it's no blood on my pumpkin!*]"
*[possibly a mistranslated idiom.]
"[All right, then,]" 'Whitey' says. "[Where is the miscreant?]"
"[He's in the tavern called Attila's Arm. Take that street there for three blocks and make a left at the culvert. Look for a big wooden scimitar. That's the place.]" He roars with laughter like a pirate. "[Now get off of my dock!]"
The pair leaves without speaking. The woman speaks under her breath.
"[I don't like it, Nikolai, we shouldn't be here. It's too close to the center of Valentin's influence. I feel like everyone we pass must be on his payroll.]"
"[I agree, Lania, but we must secure supplies somehow. Thanks to new U.N. regulations around the world, only the Russian black market can provide what we need with discretion, and I wouldn't trust an underling in such dangerous territory. At least, you can get us out of here if it goes bad.]"
Lania points down a side street.
"[There. A wooden scimitar.]"
They head toward it, a cracked wooden sign shaped like a scimitar, handing over a heavy steel door. There is no other opening on the low concrete building, and it is abutted on both sides by industrial warehouses. The sign is scrawled with Cyrillic writing.
They head inside. It is smoky and rank, blue drifts of smoke lit at irregular intervals by hanging bulbs. Instead of a bar there is a huge dredge-crate, a steel and wood contraption used to drag the seabed for salvage, in the middle of the floor, topped with scraps of plywood. Several milk-crates hold unlabelled liquor bottles, and a black-haired giant with scars all over his face and neck leans against the dredge-crate, rubbing a glass with a dirty rag.
The other patrons sit around card tables, swaddled in shadows. Our two figures stand in the doorway, squinting into the haze. One of the shadowy figures rises to his feet. He's a tall Asian man wearing a mink coat, a silk shirt with a disco collar, and two heavy revolvers worn bandito-style across his chest. His glossy black hair falls across his shoulders, and an elaborate collar is tattooed on his neck.
"[Heyyyyy, the White Russian and his little white rabbit have finally arrived,]" purrs The MONGOL with a grin. "[Please, pull up a chair. You're among friends here … my friends.]"
MEANWHILE, in a secluded robotics laboratory somewhere in the Gobi desert. Present are the Mandarin, dressed in a lab coat, two RESEARCHERS, and a young Chinese woman in formal garb.
The Mandarin tinkers with Firefall's armor which, recognizable but clearly not functional, is scattered around him, wired in to various meters, doohickeys, and vacuum tubes. Books, websites, and papers by Victor Von Doom, Forge, Tony Stark, and others are in evidence.
The researchers stand by nervously, monitoring various displays. The young woman doesn't appear to be paying attention. She's fiddling with a broken gasket.
The Mandarin pounds his workbench with frustration.
"[Blast it!]" he snarls. "[The extra-dimensional properties of this armor make even Doctor Doom and Iron Man obsolete, but even after all these years I cannot repair this blasted Galadorian technology. The science - and sorcery - is simply too alien.]"
"[Calm yourself, my Lord,]" murmurs the girl. "[Fits of passion are unbecoming in one so powerful as yourself.]"
The Mandarin straightens, and casts a sour glance her way.
"[You propose to lecture me, Ling, on the conduct befitting a lord? You take a great deal of license. Insolence is most unwise for a woman in your position.]"
Ling smiles. The researchers cast alarmed glances at each other and bury their noses in their work.
"[You will not harm me, my Master. As your hostage, I am the only thing protecting you from the wrath of my grandfather, your rival of old.]"
"[Bah. I begin to think you are not worth the trouble, girl. The old man, powerful though he may be, has been licking his wounds too long. Perhaps the taste of blood has slaked his thirst for power.]"
Ling approaches him, casually plucking a doodad from his fingers and examining it.
"[I hope that is not so, my Master, for then my life would surely be forfeit. But should he struggle with you, when his sorcery has rendered him immortal? And should he hurl his resources against the Western dog-heroes, when you do such an admirable job of it yourself?]"
The Mandarin is taken aback, and gives her a calculating look.
"[You are suggesting that the Yellow Claw would help me in this endeavor.]"
Ling appears untroubled, setting the doodad on a bench.
"[O my Lord, my venerable grandfather has been a master of the Celestial People since the days of antiquity. There is no truer Han in all the Middle Kingdom, and I know of none who is his equal in the mystic arts.]"
"[You do not know much, Ling,]" The Mandarin laughs. "[A degenerate American has stolen the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme from its traditional holdfast in the East. ]"
"[The ancients have said, 'Though the water be calm, the crocodile may be watching the goat.']" Ling's easy demeanor goes hard. "[You shouldn't mention degenerates, my lord. It only brings to mind that you have polluted yourself among the Gwailo and the execrable Japanese. A true Mandarin would not behave this way. A true Mandarin would remember that my grandfather is not, as the dog-heroes call him, the Yellow Claw, but a warlord of old: The GOLDEN TALON.]"
The Mandarin clenches his fists, quivering with outrage, and the RESEARCHERS duck behind a computer cabinet.
"[You invite a terrible fate,]" he spits. "[If I had my rings about me, I would shatter your mind and body where you stand. All you have said may be true, but as long as men like your grandfather hide from the Western dogs, girding themselves only with the memory of bygone glories, I am the sole hope for the return of the ancient way. As your ancients say, if you want dinner, don't insult the cook.]"
Ling falls to her knees in supplication.
"[What you say is true, O powerful Master. It is for this reason that I say he will help you. I beseech you not to harm me, not to waste the opportunity I suggest. Go to him, and your household will become great again.]"
The Mandarin glares at her prostrate neck, and at the researchers, poking their heads out from behind their cabinet, and stalks out of the lab. His coat swirls about him like a cape.
MEANWHILE, in the Attila's Arm, Nikolai and Lania are seated at a card table across from the resplendent Mongol, who sips delicately at a shot glass. It's cold in here - their breath hangs in the air after they speak.
"[What's the meaning of this, Mongol?]" says Nikolai growls. His face is shadowed by his fur Tyrolean hat, though a bit of coarse blond hair peeps out. "[We wanted to be finished with you by now.]"
The Mongol waves a hand, encrusted with gold and diamond rings, dismissively.
"[I know, you're a busy man. No time to waste on Eastern scum like me. Well, Whitey, the polizia have been devils on the docks. Someone is creating heat in what is normally a tranquil port, with respect to the law. Normally, when in Guryev on business I worry about cutthroats and pirates, not policemen. It is the influence of the oil cartels, hoping to reform our pleasant wilderness along more civilized lines.]"
"[But these are the 'Smuggler's Blues', are they not?]"
The Mongol tosses his head back and laughs, a laugh echoed by a chorus of sinister chortles in the shadows. Everyone is listening.
"[Too true, Byeloruss. Down to business, then. I don't have everything you need here. You'll have to give me the money up front, and I can deliver the fuel to you in Shanghai, in two weeks time.]"
"[Nonsense. If you don't have what I need, I'll go somewhere else….]"
Nikolai is cut off… everyone leaps to their feet as sirens are split the air! The Mongol glares evilly at Nikolai, who shakes his head as the gang of criminals mobilizes.
"[It's not me, Mongol. We weren't followed, and I want nothing from the polizia.]"
All around them, pirates produce handguns, shotguns, nunchuks and machetes, and tip over tables to use as barricades. The brutish bartender, looking like Sisyphus pushing the boulder, pushes the dredge-crate forward to block the door as one of criminals smashes out a grimy window in the front and bellows,
"[STAY BACK! WE HAVE HOSTAGES!]"
"[That's it,]" Lania cries. "[We're getting out of here.]" A wavery yellow spot appears behind her and expands rapidly. Inside, it is deepest black.
"[No, Lania, we need them…]"
The door implodes, raining splinters everywhere. Energy discharges through the shattered frame, and several pirates are killed instantly. The Mongol roars with fury and those remaining open fire.
"No!" Nikolai cries. Half of the wall is torn away in the next blast from outside, but this time a shimmering yellow field springs into existence, guarding the pirates. The dust blows aside to reveal The Crimson Dynamo standing in the wreckage.
"[Nikolai and Lania Krylenko!]" his tinny voice issues from his suit, loud but curiously uninflected. "[You are under arrest. Resist at your peril.]"
~Many men have worn the Crimson Dynamo armor,~ Nikolai thinks. ~Since the Red Ghost's coup collapsed,* they are nearly as common as warheads on the Russian black market. But only one is mad enough for a display like this.~
*See Crusaders: Shadows #16-18 for this wild tale! - Comrade Colin
Lania dives across the room, away from Nikolai, her arms thrust toward the Dynamo; bolts of yellow-and-black energy fly from her outstretched fingers. Nikolai hurls himself in the opposite direction - one hem of the force field whips edgewise and also flies at the Dynamo, like a curtain in a sudden gust of wind.
The Dynamo raises one gauntlet, vibrating furiously. It emits a widening corona of vibrations and the simultaneous energy attacks are immediately dispersed. The other hand is brought to bear, with its wrist-mounted cannons whirring.
The Mongol, screaming with rage, rushes forward, his mink coat flapping like a vulture's wings, with a revolver in each hand, firing madly at the Dynamo - the bullets ping harmlessly off of the burnished armor. The whirring of Dynamo's cannons becomes a shrill whine.
"[Nikolai!]" Lania cries. Another portal has opened behind her. "[Now or never!]"
Nikolai glares at the Crimson Dynamo and balls his fist.
"[I would like nothing more than to destroy you, Shatalov,]" he snarls. "[Another day!]"
He propels himself toward Lania's portal, scooping The Mongol up as well. The trio vanishes into nothingness…
… and reappears outside. Down the street, a fleet of police vans converges around the sign of Attila's Arm, and the Crimson Dynamo pours rounds of ammunition into the hole in the wall. Police in riot gear stand around, looking tense and disappointed at the same time; with the Dynamo along, they are unlikely to see any action. One of them, off to the side, has his faceplate up as he lights a cigarette.
As the three fugitives touch down, Nikolai's momentum carries him into the wall, dashing his head against the brick. The Mongol falls to one knee as he lands. One of his pistols clatters to the cobblestones.
"[It's only the Dynamo,]" Lania says. "[Where is the rest of Remont 4?]"
"[I can't begin to guess, sister. They must be around here somewhere. They won't rest until they've captured the…]"
He's interrupted by screams filling the air - The Mongol's men are being slaughtered. He whirls around, horror spreading over his face. Before he can rush to join them, Nikolai seizes his lapels and spins him around again.
"[If you double-crossed me, you've got what you paid for,]" he sneers, slamming the Mongol into the wall. Blood streams from his nose and a cut on his forehead. "[If you want to die I'll let you go.]"
The Mongol's hands are wrapped around Nikolai's wrists, and his face is contorted with anger, shock, and grief, but he is struggling to get himself under control. He's a professional, after all.
"Get your hands off me, Byeloruss." His voice is deadly cold. "It just so happens that the man I must see now about a small matter of revenge is the same man who holds your goods - I'll take you to him. He can get you your diesel fuel, too."
"[You think your supplier double-crossed you?]"
The Mongol laughs bitterly.
"[No, I think my supplier will donate guns, men, and money. I'll see the Crimson Dynamo dead for this. Now, get your hands off me.]"
"[We have to go.]" Lania urges, looking to the conflagration of the Attila's Arms.
Nikolai looks over his shoulder. The Dynamo is airborne, his head swiveling like the sweep-arm of a radar antenna. Nikolai lets go of The Mongol. He is still watching the Dynamo, jaw clenched, as The Mongol dives through Lania's portal.
End, pt 1
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT ISSUE....
How will the Krylenkos save themselves from the fury of Crimson Dynamo and Remont 4? Who is the Mongol's mysterious supplier?
What does the Yellow Claw, aka the Golden Talon, have to do with all this? Find out in Part II: Threats and Omens coming next issue!
Part 1: Attila's Arm --
What did you think? The author would love to hear from you.
crankine@bintinc.com
