WF #1

[Lissilambe]

WORLD’S FINEST
Issue #1
Edited by David Charlton
An Earth-X Title!

[Lissilambe]

Superman #1
“Man of Tomorrow, Part One”
Written by David Charlton
Art by Carlos Galvez

[Lissilambe]

“Rocketed from the dying planet Krypton by his father Jor-El, this strange visitor from another planet was raised by a kindly old couple from Smallville, Kansas, and possessed powers beyond those of mortal men, to fight for truth, justice and yada-yada-yada…!” The script in one hand, the cell phone in the other, Kent Armstrong snorted in amusement and shook his head, earning a disapproving glare from the stylist working on his wavy blonde locks. “I mean who writes this stuff?” He asked his agent, flipping the script over to look for a name.

“Kent, baby, they can’t all be Citizen Kane!” Came the harried voice of his agent, Mort Seigel, who was also--- Kent could tell with his enhanced superhearing--- shuffling through contracts, chewing on a sandwich, and allowing an antacid to fizz in a glass on his desk.

“Yeah, I know, but another Superman-type picture…?” Kent checked his make-up in the mirror he sat in front of, the stylist continuing to fuss with his hair. Behind him, he saw the reflection of an Assistant Director impatiently glancing at his watch. Kent ignored him. “I mean we just wrapped on Superman Saves the Solar System, and now this…? What’s a ‘Brainiac’, anyway?”

“Brainiac! You know, super-smart, like you’re super-strong!” Mort explained as if it were obvious. “Brains against brawn. Good against evil.”

“Brains against brawn?” There was a note of outrage in Kent’s voice, and he waved away the stylist. “What does that mean? Am I supposed to be a muscle-bound buffoon?”

“Buffoon? What? No!” Mort objected, and Kent could hear him clearly smacking his balding pate with his hand. “Who said buffoon?”

But Kent wasn’t listening. “It’s like we do the same movie over and over again. All I do is fly around, use my heat-vision and let them bounce bullets off my chest! And these scripts are ridiculous: ‘You just get on home now, son, and don’t forget: study hard and eat your vegetables!’ I don’t talk like that? Nobody talks like that! I’m a good actor, Morty! I can do more than Superman! I want to do more. I want to do…” He fished for an example. “Citizen Kent!”

“Sweetheart, sweetheart, shuddup and listen to me.” Mort cut in quickly. “You are Superman. It’s not just a character, it’s who you are. And the public love you for it! It’s made you the biggest box-office draw in the whole world, and it’s what people want to see from you. Besides, your contract is iron-clad. Just one more picture, and we can kiss Morgan Edge and his Coast City Studios goodbye. Then we’ll do your Citizen Kent, or Gone With the Wind II, or whatever the hell else you want to do! Now just do me a favor, and make the stupid picture!”

And with that, he hung up. Kent Armstrong stared at the razor-thin phone for a moment, impressed by what Morty would have called the chutzpah, and gave a small shrug.

“Mr. Armstrong, the director needs you back on the set.” The waiting A.D. said, testily.

With a resigned sigh, Kent rose. He checked himself one last time in the wall-length mirror. The blue and red and yellow costume was as familiar to him as his own reflection. He stared at the stylized ‘S’ on his chest, the single electron revolving around it. It seemed he was never going to escape Superman.

He joined the A.D., and headed for the soundstage, where his leading lady Lana Lang was waiting for him to go over the big rescue scene again. Up ahead, he could see Lana glaring at him, and taping her toe on the cement floor. She was beautiful--- and boy could she fill out a dress!--- but was she ever high maintenance!

“Oh, and Mr. Edge wants you to add this to your costume from now on.” The A.D. passed him a bundle of red fabric. It was a cape.

“Oh, that is it!” Kent exclaimed in disgust, and letting the cape fall to the ground, he rose into the air, and flew across the soundstage, through some open doors, and out off the lot…

[Lissilambe]

“He did what?” Morgan Edge chewed the end of a cigar, and growled, unnecessarily close, into the speaker phone.

“He walked off the set, Mr. Edge!” Came the shaking voice of the director. “Well, flew off, really, but you get---.”

Morgan Edge jabbed the disconnect button, and sat there fuming for a moment. What the hell was that kid doing now?

He got up, and paced the length of the wall-sized window. The view from his office was spectacular; all of Coast City stretched out before him, from the studio lots below, to the ultra-modern town beyond, to the palm tree-lined Pacific Coast Highway and sparkling blue ocean on the horizon. Morgan Edge felt like a king surveying his domain when he looked out this window--- which was as it should be! The town had sprung up around his studio, and the marketing and merchandising empire he had created out of Superman! It was he who had first approached that awkward, whitebread national hero and made him a superstar! Without him--- Morgan Edge!--- Superman would still be a low-paid government stooge, and Coast City just a pit-stop for aviators and military personnel.

But he had seen this coming for a while. Armstrong had delivered his worst performance yet in Superman Saves the Solar System, and rumors had gotten back to him that the kid wanted out of his contract. Well, that was too bad! Edge had too much money invested in Superman Vs. The Brainiac to halt production now…

He jabbed the intercom button on his phone, and snarled to his secretary: “Get me Morty Siegel!” Then he changed his mind. He would go over both their heads, and call the kid’s father. “No, forget that, get me Colonel Armstrong on the line---.” Then a better idea hit him. His contingency plan. The one he’d hatched just in case something like this were to happen... “Forget that, too, Lupe.” He took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm down. “Get me Winslow Schott!”

[Lissilambe]

The sight of Superman in the sky was such a familiar one to most residents of Coast City that few even bothered to look up anymore. Which suited Kent just fine, as he just needed to get away. He glided over the town that had been his home these last five years, sailing almost leisurely past the cliff-top offices of Coast City Studios; he caught a glimpse of Morgan Edge glaring out the bay window and puffing furiously on a cigar, then he rose higher, and shot out into the desert, away from the setting sun.

He half-considered stopping by the AFB to visit his mother and father, but he could already hear the lecture coming from the Colonel: Kent, you know I never approved of you going into the entertainment industry, but you have a contract with Mr. Edge, and a responsibility to fulfill. And an Armstrong never reneges on his word…

Yeah, but Colonel, I’m not a real Armstrong, am I? Kent thought moodily to himself. Nobody knows who or what I am. It was just chance that you and Ma found me on the side of the road, out in the desert that night… Just a bright flash, and then…me. A baby with freakish powers ‘beyond those of mortal men…’ Maybe that screenwriter was right. Maybe he was a strange visitor from another planet.

Shuster Air Force Base passed by below him, and he did not stop, angling himself a few degrees north. He needed to see someone that would make him feel better. He poured on the speed, and in a moment, the sprawling facilities of Ferris Aerospace came into view.

Carol was out on the airstrip, talking with a couple of her engineers as they watched an experimental fighter-jet being put through its paces. Deciding to have a little fun, Kent caught up with the jet, and matched it maneuver for maneuver, then literally flew circles around it.

“Armstrong, get the hell out of my skies!” His super-sensitive hearing picked up Carol yelling at him--- and he didn’t need super-vision to see the rude gesture the test-pilot shot him from the cockpit of the jet. Wearing a rueful expression, he descended, landing in front of his childhood sweetheart.

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing, Kent?” She tore into him, her green eyes flashing, and her ebony hair stirring gently in the desert wind. “That’s an expensive piece of equipment up there! Do you have any idea how much time and effort went into designing the X-13? Not all of us can fly around like birds, some of us need metal wings, and if you think you can just---.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Carol…!” Kent held up his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m sorry. I was just having a little fun. I didn’t mean anything by it. Peace, okay?”

The engineers with her at least had the grace to look embarrassed--- here was their boss chewing out Superman!--- but Carol seemed less than mollified. She fixed him with a scowl that was not diminished by the wide, boyish smile he gave her.

“Look, I just wanted someone to talk to for a minute.” He told her, defensively. “I just needed a friend…”

This worked. Her expression thawed a little. “What, were all your starlet girlfriends too busy?” She grumbled. “Was what’s-her-name--- Lana Lang?--- getting a boob job or something?”

“Carol, Lana Lang doesn’t need any work, if you know what I mean.” He said, despite himself.

“I do.” She glared back, but now she was having a hard time maintaining her stern expression. “I saw your last film. Nothing to the imagination. The hussy.”

Kent laughed, and Carol found herself smiling. And just like that the tension seemed to leave the air.

“Excuse us for a second, willya, fellas?”

Kent and Carol walked apart a ways, sharing a companionable silence. The daughter of Air Force General turned entrepreneur Carl Ferris, Carol had grown up on Shuster AFB next door to the Armstrongs. She had been Kent’s first friend, his first kiss--- his first many things! There was no one in the world he felt more comfortable around, though they had many times gone their separate ways. She to learn--- and later inherit--- the family company, he to serve his country, and then later to pursue his career in show business. Kent often thought he would one day end up happily ever after with Carol, but one thing or another always got in the way. They had long ago decided it was unfair to each other to ask one to wait for the other. It had been a sad, difficult time, but the bond between them was just too strong, so they still often met.

“Actually, it’s exactly about my movies I came to see you…”

Kent told her the whole story as they walked around the perimeter of Hanger Bay 12, the sun dying in a blaze of orange in the distance. He told her of his frustration, of his disappointment, and of his increasing feeling of indenture to Morgan Edge and the Studio.

“Can’t you get out of it?” She asked him, her arm looped comfortably through his. “I mean, you’re Superman! Can’t you just have the President write you a pardon, or something?”

“I’m not in jail, Carol.” He chuckled. “And I can’t just trade-in on my past good deeds and services all the time. I don’t do those for pay or reward, you know.”

“I know.” She sighed. She had asked him once before, just after he’d gotten back from stopping the meltdown of a Chinese nuclear reactor, to stop putting himself in the most dangerous of situations. He refused. He often wondered if that was the moment he lost her.

“I mean, Superman is separate from Superman, you know?”

“I know.”

“But I have ambitions, too! Dreams and aspirations. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living up to everyone else’s expectations of me… Sometimes, I feel like I just want to fly into space, and see how far I can go…!”

A small frown creased Carol’s brow. She had never known Kent to talk like this before. It bothered her more than she let on. “What do you mean? You want to go away?” She kept her voice carefully calm.

“No, it’s not like that…” He looked off into the desert and seemed to be searching for the right words to say. “It’s just… I want to know who I am! Why I have these incredible powers… What I’m supposed to do with my life…”

“Pretty heavy questions for an Air Force brat.” Carol remarked. She had never heard him so introspective before. He had always just accepted things, and seemed to be pretty happy with his place in the universe. Of course, who wouldn’t be? He was Superman!

“Carol, do you think I’m from outer space?” He blurted out in a rush. “Is that why I’m so different? Am I from Mars or Krypton or something?”

“Krypton?” She scoffed. “Who came up with that one? Krypton’s a gas!”

“Some stupid screenwriter, but you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do. You mean you’re feeling sorry for yourself.” Carol looked him straight in the eyes, ignoring his stricken expression. “Kent, everyone wants to feel that they belong somewhere, that they have a purpose in life. Anyone who knows you, anyone who’s seen your films, anyone whose life you saved--- there’s no doubt in their minds what the answers to those questions are! You could have red skin and a fin on your head--- like that Martian Manhunter fellow out in Metropolis--- and you would still belong to us, side by side, and lifting us up. You have a gift, Kent, a gift no other human has been blessed with, and with it, you show us all what is best in us.”

He opened his mouth to interject, but she forestalled him with a finger pressed to his lips.

“I’m not done, flyboy.” She said. “Now, some might argue that with great power comes great responsibility, but that doesn’t mean you have to bear the weight of the world on your shoulders either. If you’re not happy, if there are things you need to come to terms with, than I think you should find a way to tell Morgan Edge to go to hell. You’re a smart guy, Kent. If you want to escape your contract, I’m sure you could find a way. After all, what’s he gonna do? Sue Superman? America’s hero? It’ll ruin him!”

He just stared at her a moment, already feeling lighter in his heart. She just had a knack for slicing through the Gordian Knots of his life.

“Carol, you’re a genius.” He shook his head in admiration.

“I know.” She gave a small shrug, her mouth quirked in a crooked smile. That mouth that seemed to glisten in the last light of the sun, that mouth that invited his. He was already bending his head down to meet it--- she lifting hers in response--- when someone came running towards them, calling his name.

“Superman! Superman!”

“What is it?” He suppressed an annoyed groan, and looked to the panicked-looking engineer heading for them.

“It’s on the T.V. and radio, sir! It’s Coast City…” The engineer paused to regain his breath, doubled over from the unusual exertion.

“What is it, man?” Kent asked again with some urgency.

“It’s under attack…! From a 100 foot ape!”

Kent and Carol shared a confused, appalled look, both of them recalling the monster Superman fought in his second film.

They gasped at the same time: "TITANO?!?"

[Lissilambe]

To Be Continued!

[isketch29]

Batman #1
“Evensong, Part One”
Written by David Charlton
Cover by Vanessa Munoz

[isketch29]

I’m Batman.

At least that’s what the papers call me. Usually that moniker is followed by: Friend or Foe? They don’t know what to make of me. I’m nothing like that poster boy for superheroics out in Coast City, Armstrong--- or Superman, as he’s known in all his films. I shun the harsh glare of day, and the flash of cameras and fame. I have a job to do, a mission to accomplish. I inhabit the shadows. Darkness is my ally, and fear my greatest weapon. Some don’t even believe I exist. They call me an urban legend, made up to frighten children off the streets, or to sell newspapers. But the evildoers know I am real. To them, I am most real...

[isketch29]

There’s a killer on the streets tonight. In the alley below me, a man lay eviscerated. The police are there, but I’ve already examined the crime scene. In the horror of the scene, none of them have yet detected the odor of raw sewage, or the trail of blood that ends at the manhole cover. But he will. Detective Jim Corrigan is there, and though the smell of whisky is on him, he still doesn’t miss much.

“What the hell could have done this?” One of the uniformed cops asks, his voice trembling. The man has already vomited a few feet away.

“Get a hold of yourself, officer.” Corrigan’s voice is steady, if disdainful. He’s been a cop in Gotham for twenty years. He’s seen it all before.

“Do you think it’s that Red Hood guy?”

The name commands a moment of hesitation. The Red Hood. He’s been terrorizing the streets of Gotham for weeks now, a vicious serial killer who preys almost exclusively on women and children. His third victim survived long enough to tell police about the red cloth mask he wore, the eyeslits cut out to reveal a glimpse of demonic bloodlust. He appeared in Gotham shortly after I did, and some have suggested he appeared because of me. An equal number to balance the scales. A yin to my yang. I don’t know if this is necessarily untrue. Whatever the truth of it, I have made it a priority to find and capture the madman, to end his reign of terror at all costs.

But this is not his handiwork. Though the crime is equally motiveless, the Red Hood kills with a straight razor, his butchery precise and calculated. This murder was inelegant. Messy.

“Are you blind, Cooper?” Corrigan has come to the same conclusion. “This guy looks like he’s had a shark gnawing on him. He’s missing half his torso, and both his arms are broken. This ain’t how the Hood operates. We’ve got someone new on our hands.”

He’s right, of course. Another one. Is this one my fault, too? I need to talk to Corrigan. I shift my weight, intentionally causing the firescape I’m crouched upon to squeak. There’s a faint intake of breath, and a feel his eyes rake the shadows above where I wait.

“Clear the alley.” He snaps to the other cops and forensic investigators. “Give me a moment, here. I need to reconstruct this.”

His eccentricities legend in the GCPD, they obey without question. When it is just he and I, I drop lightly to the ground, allowing my cape to billow out around me: Corrigan is an ally, but I never want him to be comfortable around me, either. I don’t want anyone to get too close.

“I thought that was you,” He grunts, not coming any closer. “What do you make of this? Looks like we have another whack-job on our hands.”

“Nothing human did this,” The micro-vocoder in my mask distorts my voice to a low, rasping whisper. “This man was killed by an animal of some kind… And whatever it was crawled into the sewers afterward.” I point to the manhole cover.

Corrigan lets loose with an explosive expletive, going to the manhole. He prises it open, and peers below, his service revolver in one hand.

“It’ll be long gone, detective.” I tell him. “The Gotham sewer system is extensive; it could be anywhere in the city right about now. You’ll have to put out an APB.”

“What, and start a city-wide panic?” He snorts dismissively. “Commissioner Dent will have my head.”

“I wouldn’t advise going down there alone.”

He turns back to me.

“You’ve seen what that thing can do. It’s a mankiller.” And I hold up what I found in the alley, just before the police arrived.

“What is that?”

“A scale. I found it on the victim’s jacket. There are a few others scattered on the ground. I suggest you check it out.”

Not waiting for an answer, I shoot a wrist-launched jumpline into the air, and pull myself up out of the alley, leaving behind only the sound of snapping leather. Corrigan will have his hands full dealing with this monster, and the trail of the Red Hood has gone cold for the night. And I have an appointment across town…

[isketch29]

It had been years since the area of Gotham City known as Crime Alley had seen such a gathering of local glitterati and intelligentsia. Long the haven of street gangs, prostitutes and the desperate homeless, the inner city neighborhoods that had once been the fashionable Park Row had a reputation for poverty and lawlessness that drove away businesses and honest folk alike. But at the corner of Kane Street and Sprang Boulevard, the Jackson Reed Gallery was having its Grand Opening, and heralded what was hoped to be a renaissance of art and culture, and a showcase for the spirit and vitality of the good people who still struggled to take back the Alley.

For the first time in decades, limousines rolled down the streets, and ladies in high-heels were escorted by gentlemen in tuxedoes into the old converted movie palace. It had once been a Rialto Theater, showing such classics as The Maltese Falcon and The Mark of Zorro. But it had been abandoned in the 1940s, standing derelict and dark since then. It had been purchased with grant money from the perpetually-ailing Crime Alley Rehabilitation Project, and renovated by its current owner into a highly-anticipated cultural mecca. Now the marquee boasted the name of Crime Alley’s biggest cultural attraction. Jackson Reed was a neighborhood kid who had made good; after graduating from Gotham’s own Hudson University, he had spent many years abroad, returning home with a reputation as one of the most original and innovative young artists in the world.

It always surprised people to learn he had been blind since birth.

[isketch29]

Bruce Wayne yawned demonstratively as he looked the canvas up and down, a glass of champagne in one hand, his other on the curve of a lovely young lady’s back. The strand of pearls that he had given her earlier that evening gleamed around her neck.

“I don’t get it.” He finally admitted. “It’s like he just splattered it with paint and rubbed his hands around in it while it was still wet.”

The lady gave Bruce a scornful glance, tossing back the length of soft amber hair that always fell in front of one eye, like Veronica Lake. “Really, Bruce! You’ve got to actually think about it, not just look at it.” Vesper Fairchild’s voice was low, throaty and smooth. Like a perfectly aged bourbon, she liked to think. “Notice the tight, disciplined lines in the center of the canvas; they almost form a pattern of colors and shapes. But the further you go from the middle, the broader the strokes, the darker the colors and the less distinct the shapes. It reminds me of that Edvard Munch painting…” A small crease appeared above her nose. “The Screech.”

“The Scream.” A polite voice corrected her. Bruce and Vesper turned to see a young black man standing behind them, dressed rather more casually than they, in jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. His head was cocked, slightly, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, and he carried an extendable sighting cane. There was the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Actually, I call this piece Fray.” He told them. “It’s about losing control, and I’m extremely gratified you picked up on that, Ms. Fairchild.”

Obviously confronted with the artist, Vesper blushed slightly, and made an unconscious effort to arrange her hair… then remembered the man in front of her was supposed to be blind.

“Mr. Reed. I’m sorry, have we met before…?”

Jackson Reed shook his head. He was handsome; clean-shaven, with neatly trimmed hair and flawless skin the color of polished mahogany. And there was no disguising an athlete’s body beneath his tight sweater.

“No, but there’s no mistaking that voice. I heard you sing a few nights ago at the Gilded Cage. You were wonderful.”

“Thank you.” Vesper didn’t blush. She was used to compliments, but she was aware of a certain quickening of her pulse. “And this is---.”

“Bruce Wayne.” Reed finished for her, extending his hand to her amused-looking escort. “Everyone knows the son of Gotham’s First Family. In fact, we were at school together. At Hudson.”

“Of course. I remember.” The lie was easy, if harmless. “Look, Reed, I confess, I don’t understand any of this stuff at all, but I appreciate what you’re trying to do out here. I’d like to make a donation on behalf of the Wayne Foundation.”

“That’s very kind, Mr. Wayne.” Jackson Reed’s head bobbed. “You can make the check payable to the Crime Alley Rehabilitation Project.”

The artist moved away to greet others, and Vesper followed him with her eyes. “What a remarkable man…”

She hadn’t realized that she had spoken aloud until she was answered.

“Yes. Yes he is.” The speaker was a bespectacled man in a priest’s collar, with graying hair and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He had been studying a nearby painting, when he had overheard Vesper. “Jackson Reed is a remarkable man, indeed. He’s overcome so much, and never let his blindness be an obstacle to him.”

“Do you know him well, Father…?” She asked.

“Jim. Jim Gordon.” The priest smiled at them; Bruce smiled perfunctorily back and took out his checkbook, but Vesper listened with genuine interest. “I’m the parish priest at St. Bruno’s, and I’ve known Jackson--- and his family--- for years. His brother Alfred was the original director of the Crime Alley Rehabilitation Project, and we worked closely together. Jackson’s exhibition tonight is dedicated to him.”

“Oh. Is here tonight, as well?”

“Alfred is dead, Ms. Fairchild.” Father Jim told her solemnly. “He was gunned down not far from here, trying to break-up a mugging. It’s been five years now, but his vision has been Jackson’s guiding light. I don’t think he’ll ever stop trying to live up to his brother’s example.”

Vesper’s hand fluttered involuntarily to her breast, and her eyes were bright.

“Yes. It’s a tragedy.” Bruce finished writing his check, and passed it to the priest. “I’m glad the Wayne Foundation could do its small part to help out. Would you give this to Mr. Reed for me? We really must be going now, Vesper. My parents will be waiting for us at the Opera…”

[isketch29]

“An unqualified success!” Declared the outlandishly garbed man in a stentorian voice, holding court in the center of the gallery. His white and red robes would have fluttered about him, if two scantily-clad nubile young ladies weren’t clinging adoringly to his arms. “A tour de force of startling originality and creative innovation. Reed deserves to stand on Olympus with us as one of Gotham’s leading lights! Wouldn’t you agree, Arkham?”

Dr. Amadeus Arkham’s long, thin face looked pinched, as if he had just tasted something sour. He glanced at the blustering man through the monocle he preferred to spectacles, and sniffed. “You are perhaps too fulsome in your praise, Zeus. There is potential and promise in the works displayed here, but it lacks the coherence and discipline of a well-ordered, mature mind.”

Maxie Zeus, leader of a popular New Age cult that had taken Gotham by storm, looked surprised, and stroked his goatee thoughtfully; the girls on his arms glared at Arkham, who merely curled his lip and lowered his monocle.

“Nonsense, Arkham. You spend too much time in that nuthouse of yours! You think everyone is demented. You simply must get out more.” Chortled Zeus.

The artist, who stood quietly, listening to the exchange, merely thanked them both for coming. Next to him, the somewhat scruffy-looking man in horn-rimmed glasses dismissed the exchange.

“You know, they’re both crazy.” Kirk Langstrom whispered to his old friend.

As Maxie Zeus promenaded around the gallery with his sycophants, continuing to declaim, Jackson Reed could only agree.

[isketch29]

Outside the converted movie palace, Bruce Wayne and Vesper Fairchild left the lights and sounds of the gala behind them, and walked hurriedly towards the direction of the car. The night was cloudy and dark, and all of the street lamps seemed to be broken or burnt out.

“Couldn’t they have held this exhibition in a better part of town,” Bruce grumbled as he led his date across the road, looking for the side street where he had parked the car.

Vesper rolled her eyes. “Bruce, you really missed the whole point of this evening, didn’t you? And could you have acted more rudely? I was so embarrassed…” She hastened to catch up to him, but it was difficult walking on the cracked pavement in her high heels.

“Excuse me, I was bored,” Bruce shot back over his shoulder. He turned down an alley, hoping it was a short-cut to the street he was looking for, Vesper coming up quickly behind him, not wanting to be left alone.

The alley was dark, and obviously, a wrong turn. But neither of them could turn back. They stood--- stunned!--- confronted with a pair of glowing, reptilian eyes! It rooted them to the spot, like deer caught in headlights, a fierce and sudden fear welling within them.

The thing struck with lightning speed. Something slashed for Vesper, but Bruce recovered himself in time. He shoved her out of the way, but a clawed hand managed to swipe across her throat, catching only the string of pearls. The precious stones erupted in the air, like a cloud of milky bubbles, then fell to the ground, bouncing in all directions. Unhurt but terrified, Vesper screamed, stumbling back. It was then the moon decided to emerge from its cover of clouds, and shine down upon the horror in the alley. Denied one, the monster turned upon the other. A powerful, green-scaled arm slashed at Bruce Wayne, and a spray of blood erupted from his throat. Bruce’s hands went up to his throat to staunch the bleeding, and the monster moved in on him, catching him in a crushing bear-hug. Vesper Fairchild kept screaming and backing away. The last thing she saw before she turned and ran for her life was a mouth filled with teeth like knives clamping down on the head of the billionaire playboy…

[isketch29]

My god, it’s my fault…

Bruce Wayne is dead, and it is my fault. The same monster that killed the man earlier this evening has struck again--- and instead of choosing to go after it, I had to hurry back to the gallery for my grand opening..!

What had once been a night of hope and festivity has turned to horror and despair. All the guests have poured out in to the street, and the police have sealed off the area. Poor Vesper Fairchild is sobbing hysterically in the arms of Father Jim. She saw it all, she said. A monster out of anyone’s worst nightmare…

From where I stand now, I can hear Det. Corrigan questioning my guests. I can smell the iron tang of spilled blood on the air. Bruce Wayne is dead, and it’s my fault.

I turn to my friend and confidante, my ally in this war I wage.

“I’ll meet you back at the Belfry. This thing must be stopped.”

I feel Langstrom leave my side, and I spare one more moment for Ms. Fairchild, listening carefully…

“… a crocodile that walked like a man, with claws on it’s hands, and scale all over it’s body! But its eyes were the worst…! Oh, father, I’ve never seen such cold, terrible eyes…!”

The Red Hood would have to wait. The Gallery would have to wait. The mission comes first. Alfred’s crusade. My crusade.

My name is Jackson Reed. I’m the Batman. And I won’t rest until I catch the thing that killed Bruce Wayne…

[isketch29]

To Be Continued!

[isketch29]

Wonder Woman #1
“Birthright, Part One”
Written by David Charlton
Cover by Carlos Galvez

[isketch29]

Astrid Morgan awoke from her dream with a gasp, bolting upright in her four-poster bed. The alarm clock read 3:09 A.M. Her heart still pounded in her breast: it had been the old, familiar dream, the one she had had as long as she could remember. The one of a lost world of relentless savagery, and untamed mysteries. In the dream, she was a Princess, and her mother was a proud and beautiful warrior queen.

“One day, you will rule Shamballah, Astara.” Queen Tara had told her as they gazed out upon the glittering city. “You are a gift of the gods, our most treasured wonder.”

In Star City, the Morgans were a kind-of royalty, but not the sort that wore tiaras and carried scepters. Astrid’s Uncle Travis--- all the mother and father she had ever known since her parents’ death in a plane crash when she was still a baby--- was fabulously wealthy, if something of a recluse. He rarely left the grounds of the estate--- preferring to spend time in his library--- but his philanthropy was well-known in the city. The Morgan Foundation sponsored most of Star City’s charitable organizations.

Not that Astrid knew much about that. She rarely rose before noon, spent most her days shopping, and most her nights at the clubs with her friends Donna and Cassie. Wealth had allowed her a life of ease and frivolity. It had not yet taught her the harsh lessons life had to offer. Little did she know, that was about to change.

There was no way she was getting back to sleep now. Maybe a nightcap, Princess, she thought ruefully. Throwing a silk robe over her camisole, she padded quietly out of her room in her barefeet, heading for the kitchens. Maybe the night maid would mix her something…

The mansion was always a little creepy at night. It had always seemed too big for her, as if made for giants. She started down the sweeping staircase to the first floor, one hand on the marble balustrade. From the corner of her eye, she caught the flutter of movement. She gave a small start, and stared--- but only shadows and silence stared back. Unbidden, she recalled her dream: it always ended the same way: with the descent of the Shadow upon Shamballah, with smoke and screams. And murder. The good queen, her mother, blood trickling from her outstretched hand as she passed Astara to hands that bore her away…

“Go, my sweet child of wonders! He must never find you! Travis, take her; hide her from Deimos! She is the hope of all Skartaris…!”

Her uncle, who seemed to share a name with Queen Tara’s most trusted retainer, never scoffed at her dreams. “There is power is dreams, Astrid,” He would tell her. “Power and truth. We can learn much from our dreams.”

But it was never more than a fantasy, right? She had a fleeting vision of a tiara nestled amidst the silvery locks of her platinum hair, a single ruby bringing out the fire in her sparkling blue eyes. A giggle escaped her lips--- but it quickly died: there it was again! She was sure she saw something out of the corner of her eye!

Coming to a halt at the base of the steps, she craned her neck around, trying to pierce the darkness and shadows.

“Mariah…?” She whispered the name of the night maid.

Only silence answered her. A moment passed, and she just waited, peering intently around, to no avail. It had to be her imagination, she finally decided, stirred up by that stupid dream. Dismissing it all as nerves, she walked across the cold marble floor of the foyer towards the kitchens. The light was on. Good! That meant Mariah was still up.

The sight that greeted her there made her blood freeze. Slumped against a wall, a smear of blood leading down to her, was Mariah. The young Russian domestic glanced up at Astrid’s arrival, her eyelids drooping.

“Vashek Assassins in the House…Find… Machiste…” She gasped, before flopping to her side, and laying still.

Vashek Assassins? What the hell did that mean? Astrid could only stare a moment, clamping both hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. What was going on?

Backing slowly out of the kitchen, her mind racing, Astrid looked around frantically for the controls to the lights. She needed to dispel the darkness, to banish the omnipresent shadows. But she couldn’t find them. She wasn’t sure if she had ever even turned them on before, always having the servants for that sort of thing…

There was a noise--- a crash!--- from across the foyer, then a thump as something big and meaty hit a wall. Mr. Machiste! Astrid thought of her uncle’s African valet. The big, fierce-looking man had always been very protective of her--- and Mariah had told her to find him… But his rooms were in the direction of the scuffle she heard now. Was… Was he being attacked by those Vashek Assassins, too?

She wasn’t going to wait around to find out. She bolted across the foyer towards the front door, intending to flee into the night, but a glance through the bay window showed her multiple figures running across the lawn in the moonlight. A phone, then! The one in the foyer was dead, the line obviously cut. Her cell phone was upstairs. Before she reached the grand staircase though, she caught sight of someone moving on the landing above her. Something in its hand glinted on a stray beam of moonlight. Clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering, her bare feet slapping on the cold marble floor, she ducked into her uncle’s library, and as quietly as possible, she locked the door.

“Astrid…?”

A gasped escaped her lips: she was not alone. Amidst the stacks of books and glass cases of exotic artifacts from around the world, was her uncle. Despite his solitary, studious nature, Travis Morgan was a solidly built man, with white hair, flowing mustaches and a pointed goatee. He staggered towards her now, both hands clutching a gushing wound in his belly.

“Uncle!” Astrid moved to catch him, gently lowering him to the carpeted floor. Only then did she notice that there were two bodies lying in spreading pools of blood. They were dressed in dark robes and keffiyeh.

Travis Morgan moaned in her lap, gritting his teeth in pain. Tears wet Astrid’s cheeks, sudden grief vying with the horror of her uncle’s blood on her nightclothes.

“Astrid, my dear, stop crying,” Travis hissed at her, his breath labored. “I have much to tell you, and so little time…”

“What is going on?” She sobbed, her voice verging on the hysterical. “Who are those people trying to kill us?”

“They are Vashek Assassins, the deadliest killers in all of Skartaris… Listen to me, my dear, before it’s too late!” He fixed her with an intense gaze. “Go to the cabinet behind my desk. There is a small wooden box inside. Bring it to me!”

Astrid obeyed, not looking at the two dead bodies, even as she stepped over them. The box was of a deep red wood, and carved with strange symbols. Something about it was familiar…

“Open it, my princess.” Travis commanded her, as she knelt by his side again. “Your destiny is finally upon you!”

For a moment, Astrid hesitated. Deep down, she knew if she opened this box there would be no turning back. She opened it.

Within was a whip made of softly glowing golden coils, a pair of silver bracelets carved in the same familiar sigils that were on the box, and a weathered book that looked on the verge of disintegration. Expecting to find a gun or some kind of more effective weapon, Astrid looked over at her uncle, confusion in her eyes.

“Put the bracelets on. Take up the whip. Guard the book. It is all we have left of our precious, lost world…”

“Uncle Travis!” Astrid shook her head, seeing him fading fast. “I don’t understand! What am I supposed to do? What’s going on?”

Summoning the last of his strength left to him, Travis Morgan reached out to her and seized her by the wrist. “My child! You were not born of this world! You are the Princess Astara, daughter of Queen Tara of Shamballah, of whom I was but a loyal retainer. In your tenth year, the Dark Lord Deimos overran all of Skartaris, the land of your birth, and I was bade hide you away, to protect you until such time as it was safe for you to return…”

“What…?”

“Astara, you must understand: you are a child of wonders, conceived of a union between a mortal and a god! You are special, and your destiny is at last upon you… I only wish I could have lived to see you…” He coughed, and blood flecked his white beard.

Suddenly, there as a bang on the library door. They had been heard! Those killers were coming!

“The book will tell you more,” Travis wheezed. “Mariah and Machiste will help you, if they live still…”

The door rattled on its hinges, and there came the sound of splintering wood. Astrid looked in panic from her uncle to the door to the box of strange artifacts on her lap.

“What am I supposed to do?” She whispered, knowing the span of her life was to be counted in seconds now.

“There is a glamour on you, child. To dispel it, simply put on the bracelets and crack the whip… Reclaim your heritage! If you are to survive this night, you must remember who and what you are, my child of wonders… My wonder woman…”

And with that, Travis Morgan breathed his last.

The library door gave a final shudder as well, and exploded in a shower of wood. In rushed figures in dark robes, brandishing long, wickedly curved knives. At the same time, Astrid Morgan stood up, slipping on the silver-engraved bracelets. She drew back her arm, trailing the whip on the floor--- then brought it forward in a slashing motion.

The crack of power shattered glass and eardrums! The Vashek Assassins were blown backwards off their feet, and where Astrid Morgan once stood, was now Princess Astara! To say that the two were one and the same, was not exactly true: Astrid Morgan was a child of privilege, soft and spoiled; but Princess Astara was the scion of warrior-queens of Shamballah, and their blood was a fire in her body! The ten-year old glamour that clouded her body and mind finally dispelled, Astara stood revealed in her true form, clad in ancient Skartaran armor, a silver tiara---inset with a blazing ruby--- upon her brow!

She looked down on herself in amazement, barely able to believe her transformation. The dream… It wasn’t a dream at all… This is who I was meant to be…

“It is she!” A harsh, rasping voice intruded upon her reverie. The Vashek Assassins were back on their feet, circling her warily. “The Princess Astara! Take her!”

As one, they rushed her.

Astrid--- no, she told herself, I am Astara!--- reacted instinctively, as if she did battle everyday of her life. The golden whip whirled over her head, then came snaking down with a loud report, sending the targeted Assassin sailing across the room, unconscious. She spun around, lashing out with her foot, connecting with the face of one of her foes, dropping him, his body knocking another off-course. The others kept coming, but Astara was ready for them. The knives flashed at her, but she met them with her silver bracelets, moving so fast her arms were a blur. Sparks flew in the air, illuminating her blazing, furious eyes. These killers had invaded her home, they had killed her uncle; Mariah and Machiste were probably dead, as well. They were going to find out just how she felt about that.

With a flurry of blows, she drove them back. Grabbing one by the arm, she was pleased to discover she had the strength--- and then some!--- to use him as a club, knocking the Assassins down like dominoes, scattering them across the library. A perfectly-aimed throwing knife was deflected by a bracelet, and the thrower dispatched with a blow that sent him crashing into a shelf of books, bringing the whole thing down around him. A new wave of the killers--- probably the ones she had seen skulking around outside, poured into the library, but Astara had had enough. She brought he whip down in a mighty crack, the force of which was like unto a concussion bomb. It blasted everything around her, flattening the library like the wind of a hurricane… Her foes lay at her feet, defeated.

She looked at the whip in her hand, shaking her head in surprise. She was going to have to learn to control that better…

Tentative footsteps got her attention. But it was not another Vashek Assassin picking through the remains of the library, but Mariah and Mr. Machiste! They stumbled forward, supporting each other. The tall, noble-looking black-skinned man was cradling the bloody stump of his right arm, and Mariah’s hair was matted with blood--- but they lived. And they stared at her in astonishment.

“Astrid---.” Mariah began, her voice choked with emotion. “Princess…”

“No,” Astara pronounced, remembering with sudden clarity Travis Morgan’s last words to her. “You can call me Wonder Woman!”

[isketch29]

To Be Continued!