"It's not about throwing punches. It's about taking them." Deathstroke punched Catman in the chest again. Thomas Blake spat blood, groaned, and then hung on the rack like a piece of meat, waiting for the next round of tenderising. "You agreed to this, remember Blake? You agreed to my methods to make you a better fighter."
Blake looked up through swollen eyes, his skin covered in bruises and cuts, blood dribbling from his nose and mouth. "Hhh... shut up... and... and..."
"And what?" said Slade Wilson, as he moved in close to Blake's face. His own fists were bandaged, Thomas Blake's blood caking them, and his knuckles had split and healed over countless times. He couldn't say he was enjoying this, but it was the only way he knew to make Catman better.
"And teach... me..." Catman said with a sneer, spitting blood to the side and straightening up, trying his best to support his weight with his weak knees. "Hit me..."
"What did you say?"
"Hit me!"
** *
Metallo's eyes opened slowly. He couldn't hear the metallic throb of his Kryptonite heart, but for a split second, he thought he could feel blood pumping through his veins. He thought he could feel the air on his naked flesh, and after a minute of analysing that feeling and their effects on his being, he smiled. "You... gave me back my feeling..."
<You are a friend, John. As such, you are given options. Not only have we increased your cyborg body's abilities, we have also enhanced the possibilities your heart offered. You do not just have one option anymore, Metallo. Concentrate on your chest. Imagine your sternum opening up.>
"I... I don't know if I like the sound of that..."
<Please, John. For your friend.> The Voice's... voice... was so persuasive, so gentle, that Corben couldn't say no.
He closed his eyes. He imagined chest panels unfolding, and then realised that he was fully aware of his body in ways he had never been before. In his mind, he could see the schematics of it, he could see run downs and mineral analysis of... "Oh, you didn't..."
Metallo's chest cavity hissed open. A rainbow array of colour shone out. <Green Kryptonite. Capable of slowly killing Superman the more he is exposed. Red Kryptonite. This element is one that Superman himself has not been exposed to enough. From the files on it, this iteration of the mineral can create painful, horrifying changes in Superman's Kryptonian structure. You should have fun with that. Gold Kryptonite, the rarest of all Kryptonite, able to remove Superman's power with the briefest exposure for a short time. The longer he is exposed... the longer he will be as vulnerable as any man. Do these possibilities excite you, John?>
John Corben smiled. "Hell, yes." He then looked over to the man who had done all the work on his body, and then to the computer screen where The Voice's face was projected. "What about him?"
<Do not worry about him, Corben. He is under my control.>
"Jesus Christ..."
Secret Society of Super Villains
Issue Three: The Underground
Part Three (of Six): "The Gauntlet"
Written by Charlie Wilkins
Cover by Nathan Kilburn
Edited by Kevin Feeney[
* * *
Thomas Blake awoke naked, his damp, bloodied body lying on the cold metallic floor of somewhere. "Whu... what?" He climbed up and checked his wounds. Gone. Even the broken ribs he'd experienced at the hands of Black Spider were healed and his body, for the first time in a long time, felt whole. Was this part of Deathstroke's training? He closed his eyes and concentrated. They opened again. This wasn't a mental illusion. He had a resistance to telepathy anyway, something to do with how his mind was wired ever since he ran with the pride in Africa... his brain worked on a level that others had surpassed, a bestial baseline that he could drop into whenever he wished. He liked the lack of restraint when he went 'red'. He liked not caring. He pulled himself up.
A door opened up in front of him. Instead of blackness of his cell, wherever that door lead, perfect whiteness awaited. He looked around for clothes, for some dignity, but couldn't find either. He breathed in and then stepped out of the chamber he'd been left in. "You're early."
Thomas' eyes adjusted, and he realised that he was now in a dojo-esque room. In the middle of the floor was a strangely garbed man, a mask similar to Blake's own Catman design on his head, though darker. "I know you."
"And I know you. We should hate each other. It's the way of things. I'm Hellhound. Second man to bear that name. You're Catman. The first and only- and if you die at my hands, I'll make sure you're the last." He poised himself ready for a fight, arms raised ready to strike down upon Blake. "You pass me, you enter another room. You don't pass me, you're dead."
Thomas Blake smiled. "'Hellhound', huh? I heard how the first Hellhound died. Like a chump. Let's see if that holds true for you."
* * *
Hub City's grandest hotel, The Majestic, had a sudden influx of guests, all similarly garbed, all requesting a single room. One hundred guests. One man spoke for them, as he approached the front desk. "Your manager."
Before the man behind the desk could say anything, the Maître d' rushed in front of him. "Hello! Hello, how many I be of service today?"
"You are able to cope with the number of rooms I am about to request." Mr Punch simply placed a suitcase on the desk. "One hundred rooms. For the foreseeable future."
"Ah, I'm afraid that there are not enough rooms to--" Mr Punch then opened up the suitcase, and the Maître d's eyes opened wide. "I... uhh..."
One of the men behind Mr Punch passed him another suitcase. "Per night. Triple your room fees."
"I will... I'll have to..." The Maître d' smiled, and then looked at the staff flocking around the desk. "We'll have to empty the rooms. If you give us an hour, the rooms will be ready for you."
Mr Punch smiled. "An hour. Acceptable." He turned to the ninety-nine others behind him. "An hour."
"That is"
"acceptable"
"to us."
"Thank you, Mr Switch, Mr Easy, Ms Slight." Mr Punch looked back at the Maître d'. "Do not disappoint us."
* * *
Thomas Blake punched Hellhound hard, first blood going to him. Hellhound didn't expect this man, this joke of the community, to be so fast, and immediately went on the offensive. Blow after blow was exchanged, and at first, Blake merely shrugged them off, but soon he started dodging, weaving in and out of the blows, until Hellhound was being punched thrice for every blow that connected with Blake. Was Thomas getting faster?
Deathstroke, the Terminator and Doctor Moon watched from the monitor node above the proceedings, invisible to those below, studying readouts on Catman's exertions. "His baseline speed is increasing. His reaction time too, all increasing." Deathstroke grinned. "This is what I wanted to see."
Doctor Moon smiled. "You're pushing him to his limits. I can appreciate that. I really can." He smiled, his dark eyes twinkling from underneath his glasses. "But why did you request my presence?"
"That's the thing, Moon. You know about human limits, you know about how much damage a body can take. Catman here... he's better than what I've seen. Black Spider could have killed him. But he should be better. Now I just need to prove it to myself and to him..." Slade Wilson smiled. "And can't you see, Moon? He's not slowing down. He's taking all this damage and he's getting faster--"
Thomas Blake dodged the punch and grabbed Hellhound's fist, twisting it up and causing the assassin to cry out in pain.
Doctor Moon slammed his hands onto the desk with glee. "He saw that punch coming before it was thrown!"
Blake pushed Hellhound's bones past breaking point, and then when he heard meat and gristle grinding under his grip he twisted again, shattering his opponent's wrist. Overcome by pain, Hellhound was easily defeated-- Blake grabbed 'Hound's head and slammed it into the floor, lifted it back up and then punched him in the jaw, blood dribbling from the villains lips.
"No... no... witty... snark... Blake?" Hellhound managed to say, drifting in and out of the fog of pain, his fingers scraping against Blake's leg as he tried to pull himself back up. "No... snappy... repartee?"
Thomas Blake shook his head. "There's no point." And then he grabbed Hellhound's head and twisted, letting the villain collapse to the floor in a pool of his own blood.
"Doctor Moon, if you would, open the next door."
"Oh, I am, I am..." replied the master torturer enthusiastically, typing frantically onto the console before him.
Major Disaster popped his head into the room, and looked around. "What's going on?"
"Mr Booker", grinned Moon. "Deathstroke is running Catman through his gauntlet."
"No way," grinned Disaster, as he stepped inside. "Y'mind if I join you?"
"Something like this has to be appreciated by an audience," nodded Deathstroke, noticing a sudden burst of activity in Blake's metabolism. "Hmm..."
* * *
Ravager's armour projected a null-field around him, making him invisible to all sensors around him. The Voice knew this. That's why he sent him on this mission. Infiltrate. Destroy. He clung to the upper most point in the cavern, his claws digging into the cold rock as he watched the action unfold below him. He was getting full spectral analysis of the events, and watched intently.
<This is not about the single man, Ravager. You killed the Guardian. You wear his shield like a badge of honour. I have already done things for you that you could not imagine. This is about unity amongst our peers.>
"So, what's the operation?"
<The removal of the competition.>
The competition was Kobra. They were gaining a foothold in America, and The Voice couldn't have that. He wanted to know what was happening, and as he didn't want to risk sending someone worth something into the field like this, into the belly of the beast as it were, he sent in Ravager. This was the villain's test. This was his final mission before acceptance. Below was an assortment of men and women, and a stage was constructed in front of them. Atop the stage, a man in a green cloak was addressing the crowd. He held a staff tightly, tapping it once to ensure the audience was silent. No one whispered a word.
"You know why you are all here. The pretender to the title of Lord Naga has been located. He wept as the Blackadders dragged him here. Begged them for mercy. He had spent his time fighting side-by-side with the so-called 'Rogues' of The Flash. The Blackadders found him in the Twin Cities of America, broken, flaunting the stolen title and bringing shame upon the cult of Kobra!"
A swarm of black-clad enforcers pulled a man out from behind a curtain, kicking and screaming. "W-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! I AM KOBRA! I COMMAND YOU TO S-STOP THIS! I AM KOBRA! I... AM..."
The man in the green cloak span around, and grabbed 'Kobra' by the throat. "You are not Kobra. We are Kobra. You are a man with delusions of grandeur running through his poor, diseased veins." The man's grip tightened. "You have crossed me for the last time."
There was a rumble that moved over the crowd.
"I... am... Kobra..." whispered the choked individual, straining to convince the crowd even as he was being murdered before them.
"This hand that chokes you?" He squeezed tighter, smiling. "This is but one example of my true power. This hand was stolen from me by Green Arrow, and yet a newer, strong fist chokes you this very moment. Can you feel the truth, pretender? Can you feel it kill you? The Blackadders answer to me. The Lanceheads answer to me. The Nagas... they all answer to me," said the man in the green cloak, as his grip intensified. 'Kobra' began to go red as he couldn't breathe nor talk. "The Bestowed, in all their black glory, they answer... to me." He leaned in close to the dying man's ear. "Ask me who I am."
"Hkk," gasped the pretender.
"Ask me," repeated the green cloaked man, his fanged teeth barred and his words leaving his lips with a hiss.
"Who... are... you...?"
"I AM LORD NAGA!" The man's cloak was removed by the black-clad enforcers around him. "I AM KING KOBRA! And you are nothing!"
He snapped the neck of the pretender, and allowed him to drop to the floor dead, flexing his fingers sadistically as the corpse hit the floor.
Ravager watched this all silently.
"We will tear this world asunder. Tear down the walls of civilization and watch the common, disgusting man tear himself apart in the aftermath. We are the truth! We are Kobra! A thriving one amongst the corrupt and crippled many! We are united! WE WILL NOT BE STOPPED!"
Ravager said nothing. His thoughts were his own, and they were not peaceful ones...
* * *
Lady Vic smiled, as she watched Thomas Blake enter the arena, shadowed all around but the centre where she stood. "I'm surprised you've made it this far." She licked her top lip slowly. "And wearing nothing but blood."
Blake had yet to find any clothes. He wasn't bothered about that. A predator didn't care for the comforts of synthetic fibres and wool coats when in the wild, when the hunt was on.
"Aren't you going to ask me to step aside? To let you pass? I can think of a few things you could give me that would make me think twice about fighting you," she said with a wink.
"There is no bargain. There is no retreat." He stepped forward, and entered the centre, and the light. His body truly was covered in the blood of his enemies. His finger nails had other peoples' flesh gouged underneath them, and scratches on his chest and thighs were the only signs left of those that begged him for mercy. "There is only you. And me."
Lady Vic found herself taking a step back, surprised by the look in Blake's eyes. She glanced upwards, to where Deathstroke and a cadre of villains were invisibly watching, the assembled villains shocked into silence by Catman's brutality. "I didn't sign up for this," she whispered. "I didn't sign up just to die..."
Deathstroke smiled, and then slowly began to speak to those around him. "Lady Vic wasn't entirely honest with her allegiances-- or her identity. The real Lady Vic is currently incarcerated in Europe. This pretender is a member of Checkmate. We are not idiots. We've killed those who would betray us before. Blackguard was a sign to The 100 not to encroach on Hub City and our operation. The mask we put on his face was a test for both them and Injustice, Unlimited. You remember what happened to Injustice, Unlimited?"
Major Disaster looked around as the other villains looked uneasy. He was beside Doctor Moon, who was equally surprised by Deathstroke's words. He crouched down beside the seated torturer, and spoke quietly. "This was a set up..."
"Oh, I'm becoming all too aware," said Moon in reply.
"Those who didn't side with us died. Their base of operations was crushed to a pulp underground, all thanks to the Secret Society."
<I cannot abide traitors.> The Voice's face sprang up on the computer screens around the Society members. <This is not sport. This is not a game.>
"The unworthy bearer of the mantle of Hellhound was going to deliver our location to the government. The others who died? Their limbs broken and their throats torn out by Catman? Each found to be lacking in the trust department." Slade looked over to Psimon, who smiled sinisterly, in on some private joke. "This is not a threat against you all. This is a statement of fact. Do not betray us. Do not think to betray us. We will find out."
<We know who intended to reveal our location to the authorities. We know who was intending to leak intel about our operations to the Justice League. And they have been tested. And found lacking. Do not test me.>
Deathstroke watched as the villains reacted to The Voice's words. They were scared, and understandably so. But this was just a face on a television screen, pixels and a voice that somehow caused these men and women to be monumentally terrified. He knew that he was on the right track being here.
'Lady Vic' flew through the air, hitting the wall hard. She climbed back up, spitting out blood. "You... sonofa... bitch..."
Deathstroke ignored The Voice and looked back at the readouts being projected onto his screen. "God damn this is amazing."
'Lady Vic' leaped once more at Blake, who attempted to dodge, but left his side exposed for a split second-- a split second that the lady assassin took advantage of, slicing her blades inside him. The villains inside the monitoring womb groaned as they saw his blood fly, but Blake didn't falter. She swung her weapon at him again, but he caught blade in his hand, the tip seeping through his palm but the pain being ignored. "No--!"
Thomas Blake headbutted her, knocking her to the ground. He crouched over her prone body, and pulled her up by the neck. Her attempts to take advantage of his naked disposition were foiled by his second hand, grabbing her ankle and twisting before impact was achieved. She cried out in pain, and he leaned in close. "Something isn't right here. Not at all. We're being played and I'm being used and you're the only one I can tell."
"W-what?"
Blake continued to whisper into her ear. "I don't think The Voice's intentions are all that pure, in the way that a criminal mastermind's intentions can be. And I can tell you this because I just killed you."
She clutched at her throat, a bloody chunk of meat gripped tightly by Blake's hand in front of her. "Hhhhkkkkkhhh... ghhhuuuhuhh..."
She fell unconscious, and Blake breathed in, throwing what was left of her throat to the side. He looked up to where Deathstroke and the others were watching, and then opened his arms up, and releasing a vicious roar that shocked the men and women watching. "What now, Slade?! What now?"
Deathstroke pressed a button in the control centre they were all inside, and the room became visible to Blake. Thomas was standing in a large chamber, and on one side there was Hellhound, his neck broken, and from that point to the dead Lady Vic, an assortment of dead villains lay in their own congealing blood. Blake saw all the villains looking down at him, some impressed, some intimidated, some wanting a crack at the former joke. "You put your costume on. I've got work for you."
* * *
"This can't be right," Doctor Moon was alone in his torture parlour, set up and maintained by The Voice himself. He was not the only interrogator that was on the rolls in the Society, but Moon knew the was the best, and relished any opportunity to show off his talents. As Deathstroke had stated, he knew the human body like no other, and as such, he was tasked at examining the read outs from Catman's test. The parlour was away from they prying eyes of the other Secret Society members. He knew what they were-- and what they were was villains-- and as such he didn't need his special 'equipment' being stolen out from underneath him due to his complacency. He was going over raw information, studying blood work and speed charts. Catman had increased his base speed. His movements had become more fluid as the bouts went on, and his starting speed had increased battle after battle. Moon looked at a blood sample from before Deathstroke's first lesson, and at the blood sample from afterwards, and his eyebrows rose up on his face. "What does this mean...?!"
* * *
"Again." He downed the shot immediately, and then clutched his head, hissing through gritted teeth. "Oh... God..."
"Ahahaha, big burly man, cannot take his vodka, eh? After all these years, I thought you would know better by now than to challenge me to drinking game."
Hammer looked up to Sickle, who was grinning broadly. They were dressed in their civilians clothes, but even then, having a seven foot block of muscle sitting in a bar downing twelve bottles of vodka with his beautiful companion was not the best way to not draw attention to one's self. He wiped his mouth and beard, and then filled up the two shot glasses in front of them. "Again."
"Give me moment, I must visit ladies room." Sickle slapped Hammer on the back, and laughed. "This is good, yes? With help of The Voice, we become real threat in America, not just lackeys to highest bidder! He upgrade our weapons, give us new lease on life. Owe him much."
"Yes. Good." Hammer was not known for his long statements. Sickle nodded, and headed toward the toilet, whilst Hammer stared at the bottle of vodka. "I win this time. Yes."
"It's damn hard to get ahead in this town," said a voice behind him, and he turned slowly. The speaker leaned in front of him, grabbed the full bottle of vodka and drew it back, over Hammer's head, and then slammed it down. The glass smashed, causing Hammer to howl in pain and surprise, the alcohol spilling all over the Russian behemoth's face. "I wish I could have helped." Using his other hand, Hammer's attacker took a zippo out of his pocket, lit up, and lit Hammer's head on fire.
Hammer screamed. He attacked his own face in a vain attempt to put out the vodka fueled flames, but with no success. His attacker, on the other hand, didn't waste his time. He took another bottle, and smashed it on the back of Hammer's neck, more spirits spilling across his victim's back and face, more fire spreading.
Sickle heard the commotion from inside the toilets and rushed out, her weapon drawn. She saw her oldest and best friend on the floor, his face a scorched wreck of it's former self, and then looked to the man who had inflicted such agony upon Hammer. "You will die for this!"
"I think not." The voice was slow and meticulous, sounding each syllable as if the mouth speaking them was savouring every opportunity to speak. The man was dressed in a black suit, a red shirt and a silk black tie. A perpetual smile rested upon his lips and sunglasses covered his eyes. Sickle dove for him, her blade whistling as it cut through the air, but the man dodged, and grabbed her hand. "My name is Mr Punch. And I need you to send a message to The Voice for my organisation."
"I do nothi--" Mr Punch smashed his fist into Sickle's face, sending her flying backwards into her table and over Hammer's smoking carcass. The vodka bottles and shot glasses flew into the air and everything around them was upturned in the chaos. The other bar patrons had long since fled, leaving only the two of them fighting. Sickle pulled herself up, her hand wrapped tight around her energised weapon, blood dribbling down from her mouth. "Kill you... kill you..."
Mr Punch didn't stop smiling. "You don't need to remember the message. Your broken, bloodied, battered carcass, like tenderised meat, will do the deed well enough."
Sickle brought her weapon up, energy crackling, and slammed it down on Mr Punch, who grabbed it without flinching. His flesh sizzled and smoked, the thick smell of boiling meat flitting into the air as super-heated fat dribbled down Mr Punch's hand and wrist. "Who... the $%^&... are you...?" grunted the struggling Sickle.
"I've already told you," Mr Punch wrenched the sickle forward, and then placed his spare fingers into the woman's eye sockets. "Mr Punch." He twisted his hand, and Sickle collapsed screaming, her eyes no longer inside their sockets, Mr Punch wiping off them off his fingers with his severely burnt hand. The two eye balls landed with a wet thud, and he slowly crushed them underfoot. He then picked up Sickle's signature weapon, and looked it up and down. "Beautiful craftsmanship." With that, he slammed it up through the base of her skull, beneath her chin, and straight into her brain, up through her mouth. Mr Punch then looked around the bar, at the few patrons that had hid behind tables and the back bar during the fight. "You all saw me. You can corroborate whatever stories you want to tell. But I see you all. I know you all. And I'll never forget your faces." His smile didn't fade. "Now excuse me. I'm not done."
* * *
Hammer and Sickle's bodies were strung up in Hub City's Central Square. CCTV, webcams, all monitoring equipment went dead for five minutes. The lights that illuminated the Square went out, and then, five minutes later, after chaos had come and gone... everything started again. And instead of finding the Square untouched, the two Russian villain's bodies were crucified to the statue of the founder of the city, Mayor Richard T. Blaine, '100' carved into their flesh, Hammer's scorched head missing, and Sickle's own sickle inserted into her skull.
John Corben took a long, unhealthy drag on his cigarette. "The 100. They're in Hub City, it seems, boss."
The Voice spoke directly into his mind. <They do not appreciate competition. And did not heed our warning. Seems they have given one of their own.>
"This ain't a warning, boss. This is a declaration of war. A statement of intent, as it were." Corben's eyes were studying the scene, his computer brain processing the information with startling speed. "Hammer had his head removed after some extremely fiery trauma, we've yet to locate it. Sickle had her eyes removed whilst she was still conscious, her skull fractured, her nose broken... not to mention the fact she now has a sickle hanging out of her head. She was beaten badly before the killing blow. Doesn't take a detective to figure out that."
<I understand. You know what you must do.>
"I'm going to find the sonofabitch that did, and I'm going to murder them."
<Exactly.>
* * *
<They really do not have any idea, do they?> The Voice's face sprang up on a console in front of the man who had helped reconstruct Metallo. <I give them power and I give them opportunity, and they have no idea that they are being moved into places like pieces on a board.>
The man said nothing, merely gazing lazily down in front of him as his hands moved gracefully over the Boom Tube projector that Toyman had stolen away from Injustice, Unlimited.
<And you, my greatest weapon, my finest acquisition, working diligently on ensuring my release.>
Again, the man said nothing, the Boom Tube projector being altered for The Voice's means, no orders being given verbally.
<Look how the mighty have fallen, Lex Luthor. Lobotomised. Aimless until I give an order. Your genius subverted for my use. A drooling, gibbering fool. How does it feel? How does it feel?>
Lex Luthor said nothing. He continued to work on the Boom Tube projector, no words leaving his lips, no thoughts apparent other than the ones that it was taking to configure the Boom Tube projector.
<It feels magnificent.>
To Be Continued
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