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Post by Lissilambe on Aug 22, 2008 14:07:55 GMT -5
Roll Call
The Mighty Atom! Sandman, Master of Dreams! Johnny Thunder, Super-Mascot!
As the winter months pass into spring, and the United States sluggishly awakens to a war-time economy, rallies are held to raise funds through war bonds. Stars of all stripes are recruited into these endeavors, patriotically touring the nation, and among those requested stars are the mystery men grabbing the attentions of the people! But it’s at the mid-way point of this rally tour that the ugliest truth of war squares off with…
The Justice Society of America!
“Prisoners of War!” [/b][/center] |
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Post by Lissilambe on Aug 22, 2008 14:15:08 GMT -5
Executive Order no. 9066—
… I hereby authorize and direct the Secretary of War, and the Military Commanders whom he may from time to time designate…to prescribe military areas in such places and of such extent as he or the appropriate Military Commander may determine, from which any or all persons may be excluded, and…the right of any person to enter, remain in, or leave shall be subject to whatever restrictions the Secretary of War or the appropriate Military Commander may impose in his discretion.
Gotham Airfield
March 25th, 1942
“This is gonna be great!” Johnny Thunder said as he settled into the airplane seat. “Don’t you think so, Atom?”
The diminutive mystery man looked over at his team-mate and gave a shrug of his thick shoulders. “I guess.”
“It was nice of the others to let us take this trip, kinda apologizing for cutting us out of that Mediterranean mission a couple of months back,” Johnny continued, as he slid out of the red suit coat he wore, leaving him in his lemon-yellow shirt, red suspenders and slacks. He leaned back into his seat, his hands running through the short blond hair and lacing at the back of his head. “Getting to see the country, helping to sell war bonds for the war effort, getting to see the sights. Makes me feel like we’re actually doing something to help the country out.”
“I guess so,” Atom answered again, sounding less convinced. “I mean, yeah it was pretty good of the others to make it up to us. I should be working though, making money, saving up for school so I can make something of myself. Or signing up for the military or something. Acting like a show dog at rallies just doesn’t seem right for a guy like me.”
“I thought the money issue was settled?” Johnny asked as he slipped off his sheriff’s badge and shined it up with a cloth.
“Sort of,” Atom answered, sounding still less pleased. “Sandman and Hawk are handling that, since it’s for the team, and for the war effort. And it’s nice of ‘em to do it, sure. But that doesn’t mean it makes me feel better about the fact that I should be working, and not sponging off of rich JSAers.”
“Well then, how about loans from well-off friends then, Atom?” Sandman suggested as he stepped onto the plane. Johnny and Atom looked up at him, and were taken aback somewhat by the sweeping brown cloak that covered his beige-suited body.
“I didn’t think people could be friends if they’ve never seen each other’s face,” Atom replied as he sank into his own seat. “Never mind not knowing each other’s names.”
“Perhaps you have point,” Sandman answered as he seemed to glide down the aisle, his stately pace helping to aid the illusion. He paused in front of the Atom and looked down at him through the unnerving gas mask he wore. Even the Atom found the glassy stare of the mask disconcerting. “At our first destination, we will find time to be apart from our entourage, and we’ll correct that. We shouldn’t be strangers to each other.”
“A beer? On me,” Atom replied with a grin under his hood.
Wesley Dodd was happy that the mask hid the grimace he gave at the notion of beer, because that would not help ease the Atom’s worries. Instead he nodded, and replied, “Yes. Sounds good.”
“Hey, Sandman,” Johnny spoke up now. “What’s with the cape? Don’t you wear that trench coat of yours?”
“My…’press agent’ felt that it would be more theatrical, more in keeping with the image of the mystery man” Sandman answered, turning the glassy gaze on Johnny now. “And it is a cloak, not a cape.”
“I kinda like the look, whatever the difference,” Atom said approvingly. “Who’s this press agent? You ain’t mentioned something like that before. Heck, you’re one of those ‘Shadow’ types, ain’t ya? Should you even have a press agent?”
“He’s just teasing me, Atom,” answered a young woman who now moved up behind the Sandman. She was short, just over five feet in height, with thick black hair bobbed at the shoulder, and dark eyes that seemed to take the whole world in at a glance. Cream-colored skin off-set the dark hair, and she wore a smartly-tailored dress that helped to downplay her physical attributes. Far from the figure of the female crime-fighters the JSA knew, and indeed, not even the beauty of a starlet from Hollywood, this woman still somehow had a look to her that easily turned the heads of John Tane and Al Pratt, and kept their attention. “I’m Sandman’s…companion. Dian Belmont, and it’s a great pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard so much about all of you Society fellows.” She held a slim hand out to shake.
“Pleasure’s all ours, Miss Belmont,” Atom answered as he stood up in her presence. “So you help out our resident gas-passer?”
Dian chuckled at the nickname and blushed a bit. “I do, from behind the scenes. None of the crime-fighting for me, but I do my part to help him out. Hope you don’t mind me intruding, but I couldn’t pass up the chance for a cross-country trip.”
“Not at all, Miss Belmont,” Johnny answered. “It’ll be great to have you along.”
“Gotta say, Sandman, after this revelation,” Atom teased the nightmare of criminals, “we definitely have a lot to talk about.”
Arcadia, California
April 7th, 1942
“I can’t believe how easily you are taking this! This is so utterly wrong, and you’re both just taking it lying down, like it’s the right thing to do!”
Miya Shimada stared at her parents in anger and shock as the two older people stared back from their seats at the kitchen table. The young woman, only just turned sixteen, continued to rant at them as the parents sat and let their daughter unleash her anger.
“Are you done with your tantrum yet?” Her father held his hands on the table in front of him as he waited for his daughter’s answer.
She took a deep breath and stared back at Jiro Shimada, and then her shoulders sank and all the righteousness of her posture melted away. “Forgive me, Father.”
Midori Shimada stood up and walked around the table to put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “We understand your anger, Miya. But you must remember not to talk to your father in that tone of voice again.”
“I’ll let it pass this time, Miya. Because you are right. This is unfair, this is wrong, but this is also war, and we must be good citizens of this nation that’s taken us in,” Jiro explained, remaining in his place.
“How can you both say those things? I don’t understand. If it’s wrong, then it’s wrong! We have to stand up to this! We can’t let them get away with this!” Miya’s voice began to rise again, but she controlled it as she felt her mother’s hands.
“The government finds our presence unsettling to their efforts,” Jiro said. “I’ll hear no more about this. Have your bags packed for tomorrow, so we can go to the race track. It is what is expected of us in a time of crisis. I’ll have no dishonor fall on our family, I’ll not have us be disloyal Americans!” He stood up sharply and headed off to his room, visibly upset, and not just with his daughter’s defiance.
“Mother.” Miya shook her head and turned to look at the older woman, face pale and drawn from all the worries.
“Hush, Miya. It’s settled. Your father is right. Now go, make sure you have your things, and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a…tough day.”
Miya Shimada trudged up the stairs to her room and slammed the door behind her. She glanced around her bedroom and sat heavily on her bed. It wasn’t much, her family worked hard for what little they had, but she loved her home and she loved her room and now the military was going to make them move far away to some camp, and she felt very angry and very powerless. She stood up hard and stomped to the window, to look at the tree that stood near her window. She bit her bottom lip and struggled to breath through the leaden emotions sinking in her chest.
She then leaned against the pane of glass and stared into the darkness, and then squinted, shading them with her hand. “Is someone watching us?” she muttered to herself as she made out the truck, parked alone in the dark of night. “They’re watching us now?” Her face turned dark and her mouth formed a thin, angry line at the thought.
Looking back up at the house from down the street, the two men watched carefully, noting every action and motion they could. They remained hunched in their seats, hats down low to hide the Japanese features that would alert anyone who paid attention to their presence. In this climate, their activities would bring down all manner of suspicion no matter how innocent, they know. Of course, their activities were less than innocent to start, and that made them all the more nervous.
The driver looked over at his partner, who sat in the back of the truck. <”Are you done yet?>* he asked the other man, then turned to stare back at the Shimada residence as the house went completely dark.
*translated from Japanese
<”Just about,”> the scrawny, unkempt looking man answered. He was hunched over a lap desk, papers scattered about with genealogies and bizarre symbols, candle stubs of various colors lit with guttering flames. He stared at the shadows the candles cast against the walls of the truck, and made notes and performed calculations, and then scratched more marks onto the family trees. <”We’re done, partner.”> The man grinned as he started to collect the items, blowing out the candles. <”We can report to the master that we are positive, beyond all doubt, that Momotaro’s blood is present in this family, this Shimada family. And that enough of his spirit is present for the master’s needs.”>
<”Excellent,”> the driver answered with a shiver. <”To think, this time tomorrow, Jiro Shimada will be our champion!”>
The same city,
Later that night
The sun blazed red on the horizon as the Sandman stood his ground at the center of the whirling landscape. About him marched numberless hordes of people, in an endless stream away from the rolling, gentle beach, and despite trying to reach out to each one of them, the mystery man could find his fingers failing to make contact. Instead, the red sun continued to blaze, and to rise into the sky. The waves crashed in closer and closer, growing angrier and angrier the higher that scarlet sun rose, and the Sandman searched for help, spinning around desperately as he saw the figure of Justice, her scale tilted dangerously out of balance, the blindfold over her eyes growing wider, to cover her face, to mute her cries as the waters rose, higher and higher, and then the glassy stare of the Sandman locked onto the gigantic wave. It roared and raced toward the lone figure and pounded into the land with the force of a hurricane…
“Hey, you okay, buddy?” Atom said as he shook the surprisingly slim shoulders hunched under the thick brown suit and heavy cloak of the Sandman.
“Huh? What?” Wesley Dodd’s eyes fluttered open with a struggle behind the round panes of smoked glass in his helmet. He moved slowly, sluggishly as the images of his nightmare faded into the reality of the dim plane cabin, to look up at Al Pratt’s wide, worried face. His short-cut light brown hair topped the young appearance, dark brown eyes trying to meet the unblinking gaze of the gas mask. “I…I dozed off.”
“Yeah, and you were having a heck of a nightmare, apparently,” Johnny said as he leaned over the back of Sandman’s seat. “I thought you gave nightmares, not had ‘em?”
“I suffer glimpses of the future, shrouded in imagery,” he explained to his two young friends. “It’s what drove me to take up the mantle of Sandman. I’d have dreams of terrible crimes. They’d be relentless, driving me to solve them. There was something about this dream…something that makes it the worst I’ve ever had.”
“It comes from spending all your time in that helmet,” Dian suggested as she walked up to join the others. “Atom can take his mask off, no one knows who he really is. Johnny doesn’t wear one. But you’re always in that helmet whenever anyone’s around. Don’t you think you should give yourself a break?” she admonished him, and ran a slim hand over his shoulder to soothe Wesley out.
“I’m a recognizable figure,” Sandman answered. “You know that, Dian. I’m sorry, but no.”
“Well, we just wanted to let you know that the plane was landing, Sandman,” Atom said. “Time for our next stop. It’s kinda late at night, so we’re gonna be going straight to the hotel from the airfield.”
“What was your dream about?” Johnny asked, more curious about that after Sandman’s explanation of prophetic dreams. “Is it a case to solve?”
“I don’t know,” Sandman answered honestly as the plane rolled to a stop and the three mystery men stood up and stretched before heading for the open cabin door, followed by Dian. “There is a great injustice that is or will occur, that much I’m certain. But there was a brilliant sun and a roaring wave and mobs of people headed in one direction, none of which I could touch, no matter how close I was to them.”
“Jeepers, I’ll say that’s a weird dream,” Johnny admitted as they stepped into the warm night air. “I’d have been all moaning too, if I’d been having that dream.”
“Yeah, nothing good in that dream,” Atom agreed, more quietly as they reached the car that would drive them to their hotel. “Let’s hope it was just that. If it wasn’t, we’d better keep a close eye out on things. Better safe then sorry.”
The car took the quartet through the city streets of Arcadia, a mixture of booming residential developments and scattered farms and chicken ranches. The four each took in different views as the car drove to the hotel, but it was the wary and rattled Sandman who noticed the large number of boarded off homes, darkened even for the dead of night.
As the car came to a stop and the four people stepped out, Sandman asked the driver, "What is with all the empty houses?"
The driver cringed a bit as Sandman leaned over to look into his window, and turned to keep from looking at the ghastly mask. “Um, well…I don’t know. Maybe the relocation?” He shrugged and then drove off, leaving Sandman more bewildered.
“Relocation? What’s happening here?” He asked and then marched toward the hotel’s main entrance. The others shrugged helplessly and raced to follow after him, finding him already questioning the night clerk about the empty buildings.
“By military order,” the young clerk squeaked. “Haven’t you heard? The whole coast is declared a military zone, and all Japs, they gotta clear outta here and get relocated. To protect the war effort.”
Sandman continued to stare, the horror on Wesley’s face kept cloaked by the unmoving helmet he wore. He found words escaping him, and he turned to his companions, finally saying, “Some of my dream makes sense now. In the morning, we’ll have to talk to the appropriate authorities about this.”
“Why?” Atom asked, puzzled. “Sounds perfectly sensible to me. What’s wrong? What part of your dream are you talking about?”
Again, Wesley Dodd’s actual face was hidden from all, but none could mistake the sudden sharp turn on his heel as he snatched his room key and marched down the darkened hall, the cloak fluttering angrily behind him.
“What did I say?” Atom asked, and looked at Dian Belmont. She pursed her lips, stared down after her dear Wesley and shook her head.
“Everything,” she answered cryptically.
Johnny Thunder sighed in disappointment as Dian pursued Sandman and he looked down to the Atom. “This trip isn’t fun anymore,” he pouted.
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Post by Lissilambe on Aug 22, 2008 14:16:03 GMT -5
Opal City
“So it’s time for you to go?” Ted Knight asked as he stood by the front door of his sprawling ranch-style home. He looked into the deep blue eyes of Libby Lawrence, ace radio reporter, who looked back up at the tall, debonair man with a touch of regret.
“Yeah, it is,” Libby admitted, as much to herself as to Ted. “You’ve been a great host, and I’ve had a wonderful time. Even that week Johnny hung around,” she said with a mischievous wink. “But I’ve got to work for a living, unlike some people.”
“Yeah, Johnny wasn’t so bad once you got used to him,” Ted agreed with a smile. “And it was kind of interesting to watch you two hit it off when we learned he was Johnny Chambers, ace newshound.” They both chuckled at that evening. “So where are you off to?”
“Well, in the last couple of months, I’ve made friends with Hawkgirl, Starman and Johnny Quick,” Libby started to explain. “So I pitched the idea of my going after some of the other mystery men out there to my editor, and he loved the idea. I think I’ll use it as an excuse to find these people, make contacts and get to know how to reach you all. If this war shapes up like it has so far, it can’t hurt to be coordinated to one degree or another.”
“Not a bad idea at all,” Ted said as he accompanied Libby to the end of his driveway, carrying her bag as the cab pulled up to take her to the airport. “You’ll be coming back, I hope?”
“You bet, Ted. Heck, there may be another team in all of this. The Justice Society can’t handle it all by themselves right?” Libby chuckled as she watched the playboy put her luggage into the trunk. “You be careful out there, flitting around the streets at night.” She wrapped her arms around Ted Knight and felt the warm, tight embrace returned.
“Sure thing. Where you headed?” he asked as he held the door open for Libby.
She settled into the backseat and looked up at him. “Portsmouth City, I think. Enough red and gold and green for now. Time to seek out some darker colors.”
“Doctor Mid-Nite?” Ted asked with a bit of awe and apprehension. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Ted. For everything.” She blew him a kiss as the car pulled her away from him, and slowly from the Opal, leaving her feeling momentarily alone.
Portsmouth City
“Next!”
Doctor Charles McNider sat at the table, running his fingers over the encoded sheet on his clipboard as the nurse accompanied a man who had responded to her call. Tall and slim, the woman was attractive with her auburn curls and bright green eyes and tanned skin. Willowy would be the word to describe her, and she seemed to carry herself in a way to emphasize just that, putting the nervous arrival at ease.
“Thomas Ianucci?” Dr. McNider asked as stared ahead at nothing, the dark glasses disguising his blank eyes. His fingers danced over the Braille bumps as he listened to the man sit down.
“Yeah, that’s me,” answered the thick, tall man as he looked around uncomfortably. “Hey! Don’t I know you? Ain’t you that doctor we…er…that is, I read got blinded by those Mob guys?”
McNider’s mouth ground to a narrow, angry line, but he held his anger in check. “Yes, I am. I’m merely here to assist the nurse with your fitness exam for the draft board. And I must say, Mr. Ianucci, I’m surprised that your…employer saw fit to let you be eligible to be drafted. I know he has a lot of pull in the city. I never expected to see one of his key…’associates’ arrive here.”
“Yeah, well, that was the plan,” the thug grunted in return as Myra Mason, Dr. McNider’s trusted nurse and aide, started the exam, taking a blood pressure reading and then testing his reflexes. “But apparently, you ain’t right. Apparently, Mr. Monterro don’t got the pull you think he does.”
“Apparently,” McNider replied with a bit of surprise as the made man passed his physical easily. “Otherwise, I would think you’d have gotten in line with my colleague, Dr. Parsons down the hall. Isn’t he the ‘family doctor’ after all?”
“Yeah,” Ianucci answered glumly as he got up at the end of the physical. “Well?”
“Congratulations, Mr. Ianucci. You’re A-1. You’ll get a notice in the mail for your reporting orders in a week or so.” Charles McNider stared up into the direction of Thomas Ianucci and gave a wicked grin. “Good luck overseas.”
Ianucci looked rattled and stomped off out of the office as Myra started to put the room in order. “That’s our last one of the day, Charles,” she said as she walked over to him. “You ready to go home?”
“Not yet, Myra,” Charles replied as he leaned his head to one side, letting it rest on a hand that rested on his broad shoulder. “I want to talk to the draft board, and see if they’re really putting Ianucci’s paperwork through. That and the other three thugs we’ve seen get processed the last couple of days. There’s something strange when the crime bosses in this city aren’t holding onto their men.”
“And you have to check into it,” Myra sighed gently. She stood and headed for the door. “I’ll get the car, you meet me out front when you’re ready, Charles. Don’t take too long.”
“I won’t,” Charles replied, then he listened as her heels clicked against the floor, indicating her departure. He stood up and retrieved his cane, seeking out and grabbing the files safely stored into his briefcase by an attentive Myra, before heading up to see if indeed, somehow, the bosses of Portsmouth City were losing their grip.
“Ahh, Dr. McNider, how good to see you,” Wilfred Shackley said as he stood up and reached a hand out to the doctor. Thick and imposing despite being of only average height, Shackley was dressed in a stylish, tailored suit, with slick-backed hair and a smile that he’d slick as well, if it were possible. Wide and hungry, that was the way his smile could be described as he waited for Dr. McNider to shake his hand, and then stared down at the fingers and shook his head. Blind, you dolt, he admonished himself. Put the hand down and get on with it. “What can I do for our respected consultant?”
“Well, Mr. Shackley, I’ve got the files of four men,” Charles replied as he found a seat and settled into it. He reached into his briefcase and pulled the folders out, running his fingers over the coded bumps. “All of whom are excellent candidates for drafting except…”
“Except what?” Shackley asked. He moved around the desk and reached a table with bottles and glasses. “Some scotch, Doctor? I have only the finest single malt.”
“No, thank you,” Charles answered. “I’m driving later.”
“What?” Shackley asked and glanced over his broad, rounded shoulder. “You’re jesting with me, good doctor. Oh good one.” He laughed and poured himself a glass of liquor. “You were saying something about these four men?”
“All of them are suspected criminals. Noteworthy soldiers for different crime families that have our city in a death grip,” McNider reported in a hesitant voice. “That they’d get drafted, that they’d be approved…it’s surprising.”
“It is! It is indeed,” Shackley admitted as he sat down. “If the death grip hadn’t been loosened by Doctor Mid-Nite! I daresay that our city’s champion of the shadows has made it possible for the corruption eating at our city’s structure to be driven off. And now, we can strike, weaken these predators further, aid the good Doctor by sending these boys off to fight for a good and just cause!” Shackley’s voice rose to a thunderous roar as he spoke. Then he coughed, gaining control of himself. “Anyway…what’s the problem if this is the case?”
“Nothing. Nothing, Mr. Shackley,” Charles answered quickly as he stood up. “I was just wondering if they were actually making it to the military, making it all the way through the board. Clearly…they are. Thanks.” He put a hand out and felt the stubby fingers, the blubberous hand of Shackley wrap around his own.
“Anytime, my friend, anytime. Have a good evening.”
Dr. Charles McNider slowly made his way down the hall, more confused than ever. There was something he was missing, something that escaped his notice. He knew though, that tonight, whatever it was, would not escape the notice of Doctor Mid-Nite.
Elsewhere in the city
The figures skulked and scurried down the dark and narrow alley, mixing in with the rest of the trash scattered along its length. Night added to the shadows, offering cover to the three men as they huddled close, to whisper, to feel safer.
“Tommy’s gone now too?” The shortest of the three asked his question in a coarse hush, his eyes darting all around. “Damn! The wise guys, there’s what, a dozen of us left, scattered over the three families?”
“Less,” answered the tallest of the three, staring intently at his two companions. “Eight. And the crews are getting shut down too. Without our friends to run them, they’re just folding.”
”I heard dere joinin’ up wit’ some new group,” the third one said. This one was a stout man with a few too many beers in his lifetime, all having settled at his gut. “Dat’s what’s happenin’ to all of us. Dis new guy, dere getting us scooched off to da army, gettin’ us outta the way.”
“Damn!” The short one kicked at a bottle near his foot. “Any of us could be next?”
“Wonder how to get in touch with this new guy, if he’s for real,” the tall one mused. “I mean, family’s family, but not if it can’t keep you from getting your head blown off in a war.”
“Gentlemen,” a fourth voice whispered from the dark. Slowly dropping from above, the upside-down form of a man, curled up and clutching at a cable that remained invisible in the gloom, appeared. In browns and blacks, his face disguised with a brown mask wrapped around his eyes, this man stared at the three criminals. He pointed toward them, the jet-colored gun also remaining unseen by its targets due to the shadows. “It’s time for you three to go away now!”
“It’s the new guy! I’m outta here!” the portly one cried out in fear, turning and dashing away down the alley as he heard two odd, quiet whistles in the air and the grunts and thuds of the two men. “No way I’m goin’ down, no no no!” he insisted as he felt something wrapping around his ankles.
He tumbled in the darkness, his jaw cracking on the muck-riddled concrete, stunning him as he felt himself being dragged back to the others. He looked up at the dark-clad figure over him, a spider-like symbol splashed over the right side of his chest. “You know so much about me, then you get to stay alive and tell everyone the Tarantula’s in town, and it’s his law now!”
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