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Centurion

Chapter 9: Shock & Awe

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He sat across the rickety wooden table feeling empathy for animals locked in a cage at the zoo for the yokels to feed or perhaps a fish reduced to swimming lazily back and forth in a tank while others watched every nuance of their short lives. Every eye in the place was glued to their every movement and for Nuclear Inferno’s part, it unnerved him greatly. Whatever Mr. Magus’ thoughts on the matter, he kept his own council and refused to display any anxiety whatsoever. He was cool under pressure, no doubt about it.

It wasn’t long after their near disastrous encounter with the beasts known as the Ucumar and the local armies on the island of Tierra del Muerte Lenta that Magus and Inferno took to the jungle in hopes or fomenting revolution among the populace that had been under the boot heels of the rich and powerful criminals that had lived here for so long.

Needless to say, it wasn’t going to be an easy task.

For countless generations, the locals had been oppressed by people from strange lands, be they pirates who used the island for their own purposes, or more modern day criminals fleeing from more civilized cultures to the ultimate in non-extradition countries. These people, who appeared to be mostly gentle if somewhat distrusting, had oppression in their very blood, and even in their culture.

Dodging Ucumar and quicksand pits, not to mention poisonous thorn bushes and deadly creeping spiders, they made their way to the nearest indigenous settlement under cover of darkness, guided only by the moonlight. The sounds of battle could be heard in the distance: Centurion and the remainder of the team tearing the luxury compound owned by Carmine Infantino apart, brick by brick from the sounds of it. Calloway felt as if he should be there, shoulder to shoulder with his teammates in the heat of battle, but when faced with gun toting thugs, he froze, forcing Mr. Magus into action and their eventual retreat into the jungle.

Now this appeared to be his only way to redeem himself. There was supposed to be no A.P.E.X. presence in this sovereign country, and no matter what happened here tonight, Centurion and his team would be opening themselves up to a firestorm of press and controversy regarding their invasion of another land. Given that the team was primarily American, it could be viewed as another Iraq, only far worse. But if he and Von Erik could convince the locals to rise up against their oppressive rulers, face could be saved. United Nations guidelines could be restored without ever having been broken.

They lived like animals, or perhaps more aptly, like prisoners of war, Calloway thought. It didn’t take long to find the largest settlement on an island this size, not from the air. The grass huts were huddled close like frightened schoolchildren, with tiny holes in their conical roofs to allow smoke from fires in the center of the huts to escape.

The village was surrounded by a kind of crude wooden barricade of tree stumps and branches, their stumps sharpened to nearly lethal points and arranged in a kind of criss-cross fashion and strewn with thorn bushes, a poor substitute for barbed wire. Thanks to a translation spell woven by Mr. Magus, the two groups were able to communicate with one another and the leader of the islanders regaled them with their horrible story.

“My people live in fear every moment of their lives,” He said with a feeble voice as he puffed lazily on a pipe. Calloway noticed that everyone in the village: man, woman and child, had dark circles around their eyes.

“We live in fear of the beasts that roam just outside our walls. You have seen that we erect barricades to keep them out, but they are possessed of the spirit of man. They often climb over, despite the pain, and attack in the middle of the night. They spirit away our children and kill our women. No one dares venture outside after nightfall. And if that weren’t enough, there are the white men and women who live in their palaces, walled off from the beasts and from us. They treat us worse than the Ucumar. They also steal our best men, women and children… and perform horrible acts on them. They turn them into something else… something not human, worse than the Ucumar.”

Calloway shook his head and swore under his breath. How could they live like this? When Von Erik spoke, his voice was heavy laden with empathy and understanding.

“Do you hear those sounds, my friend?” He said as he pointed into the darkness beyond their doorstep. “Those are the sounds of my friends, powerful men and women who have come here in hopes of freeing you from generations of slavery. We ask only that you stand with us in taking down those that have you under their thumb. For the good of future generations of your people, will you help us?”

The wizened old man sat there, a burden worthy of Atlas arrayed across his shoulders. His job was not one Calloway or Von Erik would enjoy. From birth, he was assigned the task of keeping as many of his people alive as he possible could, despite all the death that surrounded them and the weak cards life had dealt him. Everywhere, he was surrounded by someone of superior strength that wanted to kill him and his people. It was a losing battle if ever there was one. The old man finally shook his head.

“No. We cannot help. The prophesized day has not yet come. We do not have the weapons to fight. They have guns and claws and poison. We have… what? Spears? No, the time has not yet arrived. The one who walks with the moon has not yet come to us.”

Magus looked to Calloway, confused. “What do you mean by that?”

The old man produced a large book with brittle paper, complete with illustrations, revealing an ancient text passed down from shaman to shaman. Always interested in such texts - he owned a library worth of them himself - Mr. Magus looked on carefully at the script, which was foreign to him. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as the old man pointed to a stylized stick figure drawing. It portrayed a man walking next to the moon, far above the ground.

“The one who walks with the moon will come to us one day. He will possess great power, the power to turn fire into water or stone into feathers, and he will help us rise up and take control of our land once more. It has been written for hundreds of years in our most sacred text.”

Upon hearing this, both Von Erik and Calloway looked to one another as collective chills ran down their spines. The god like figure they’d just described… was sitting across the table from the shaman. Was it a coincidence? Or did someone truly prophesize Calloway’s accident, subsequent abilities gained from the accident, and his appearance here in this land and in this time?

As Von Erik would later explain to his teammate that according to his research, magic and prophecy were terms given to a long forgotten science, one that dated back to the time of pre-history, before human civilization was nearly wiped out by a meteor striking the earth and causing what was known as the great flood, an event recorded in some of the earliest known writings from Mesopotamia - namely that of Gilgamesh - and later retold in the Bible as the story of Noah and his ark.

Before this nearly cataclysmic event, mankind had reached a kind of renaissance, centered in a place known colloquially today as ‘Atlantis’. During those ancient times, there were other types of science that existed alongside those of astronomy, math, engineering and physics, all of which the Atlanteans were adept in. When the great flood came, they were nearly wiped out, lost to legend and the mists of time as mankind started over again in a state of near total barbarism.

The arts of magic as mankind knew it were nearly completely lost, as were most types of science and knowledge for a time. Science was eventually rekindled, but magic was not. Those that practiced science ridiculed those that believed in magic, even going so far as to belittle those that practiced it, even as the church belittled those who practiced pure science. Eventually, conjurors were seen as nothing more than illusionists with sleight of hand tricks.

Thus, such things as levitation and the other spells Mr. Magus performed, along with travel between dimensions, time travel… and perhaps even prophecy, once performed regularly at one time or another, were long forgotten. Perhaps one of the survivors of Atlantis helped settle this desolate place as a refugee and foresaw Les Calloway’s arrival here today. Mr. Magus had certainly heard of stranger stories. Others had discovered the old ways of prophecy in the new age… one of the most famous being Nostradamus, though his methods were crude and not entirely reliable.

The one thing Mr. Magus was tight lipped about was how he came to know the art of magic and why he practiced it with such mastery. Nuclear Inferno decided to not to press on a possibly sensitive point with his new teammate. If the story was to be told, it would be told at a time and place of Von Erik’s choosing.

Calloway stood to address the shaman. “Sir, I’ve been witness to some strange and wondrous things since I joined up with these people. They’re good folks who only want to help you, but if it’s a fulfilled prophecy you want…”

Calloway reached out with his index finger and touched the rickety wooden chair he sat in a moment ago. As he did so, the air around it shimmered with a red glow as the atoms that comprised the wood danced to his will, reforming themselves into something else at his command until finally, when the red glow that always accompanied his strange abilities subsided, the chair was no longer wood, but composed of solid steel.

“I’ve been to space. I’ve walked among the stars. Something happened to me when I was there, something that has apparently never happened to anyone before. When I set foot on earth again… I had this power. You say you can’t fight the rulers of your island? You say you have no weapons?”

He paused for dramatic effect as he once again reached out and touched the table around which they sat. It, too, glowed red and shimmered before disappearing, having been turned into thin air. The shaman’s cane, which was leaning against the table, fell to the floor with a loud clang.

“We are the only weapons you will ever need.”

With god like reverence and wide eyes, the shaman and the villagers fell to their knees, thanking their creator for deliverance in their own tongue, much of which didn’t translate, despite Von Erik’s spell.

“So you’ll help us?” Von Erik asked.

The shaman nodded.

Calloway and Von Erik smiled at one another. Now, the revolution against President For Life, General William Strughold, could truly begin in earnest.

The look of disgust on her face was genuine and unrelenting. “What the hell was that? Where did you learn your interrogation techniques, in Gitmo?”

Sleuth met Caroline’s eyes with equally unrelenting determination and a kind of resoluteness found only in those that believed fully in their cause. As Centurion ran to their side after dispatching the last of his foes, he also was aghast at the sight of Raven Garibaldi’s bloodied hand.

“I had a job to do and precious little time to do it. I had to get information from her and she wasn’t going to talk. I know a true believer when I see one and she’s the real deal. She has no qualms or hang-ups about experimenting on these poor people. It’s all in the name of her personal god: science. She is, for lack of a better term, a mad scientist. If this were the Victorian era, she’d be Frankenstein and her monsters would be on some windmill powered assembly line.”

“Did you really have to mutilate her like that?” Centurion asked, unsure of what to make of this development that revealed so much about Sleuth’s personality. It was clear that, while on a mission, the man would do pretty much anything to achieve his goals and feel justified in doing so.

“I was given orders: to gain access to the computer network, and I only had a few moments to achieve that while under enemy fire. Centurion gave me my orders and I carried them out as I saw best. It wasn’t personal. If she had told me the password straight away I’d have never laid a finger on her. I was careful to avoid any major muscle groups. She’ll use her hand again if she’s any kind of doctor. The question is, why would you want her to? She’s been experimenting on a downtrodden and repressed people without so much as a moment’s thought to basic human rights. Believe me; I have a sore spot when it comes to that kind of behavior.”

Though he was ready to shout it from the rooftops at this point, some inner monologue told Geoff Grissom that now was not the time to reveal that he was gay and he loathed the idea of any minority having their rights infringed. He tended to fight fire with fire in that regard and even though he didn’t like what he saw when he looked in the mirror after resorting to those tactics, he wondered if that was the only way he and others like him would gain equal rights.

“Besides,” He added. “If anything, I should have been harder on her. I failed in my assignment. Someone got to the files we needed about who was bankrolling this operation and the specifics on how they create these creatures before I could coax the password from her. She did say that the main server is in Infantino’s mansion.”

A worried glance passed between Caroline and Centurion. “That means that Morning Star and Stiletto are probably in trouble.”

“They’re probably dead, you idiots.” This from Garibaldi, who lay on the floor with a bloody makeshift bandage around her hand, weak from blood loss and the stress of torture. It took all the strength she could muster to manage a smug smile.

Centurion swore. He hoped that things wouldn’t get out of control and go awry on this, his very first major major mission as Centurion, but that seemed to be exactly the way things were unfolding.

“We better find them. Handcuff Garibaldi and see to her bleeding. We’ll come back for her later. I’ll take point since I’m bulletproof.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Grissom said with a wink.

As the trio made their way past the debris and fallen soldiers - both armored and unarmored - they emerged in the night air. Everything about Tierra Del Murte Lenta was ominous, even the night sky. Back in New York, stargazing was difficult with all the light pollution emitted by the city, even at night, but not impossible. Many enjoyed a night of stargazing. Here, the night sky was always shrouded in a perpetual fog, it seemed, and there were virtually no stars to be seen through the thick tree cover above their heads. Even the full moon only managed to cast tiny shafts of light that broke through the branches and cast an eerie green, pallid glow across their faces.

Centurion looked about the compound. He could hear the sounds of gunfire and chaos coming from the mansion. Clearly, their presence was discovered, but by whom? Were Mr. Magus and Nuclear Inferno in the mansion? If they weren’t there then where the hell were they? It seemed as if the magician and their powerful, but reticent new hero had up and disappeared. They were supposed to take care of the outside guards on the compound, and while a few were clearly unconscious on the ground, it appeared that most of them were in the mansion itself… and raising a lot of hell, or at the very least going through a lot of ammunition. That couldn’t be a good sign.

“Has anyone had any contact with Von Erik or Calloway?” He asked. Both Munroe and Grissom indicated that they hadn’t. Centurion was growing fearful for them both, but priorities had to be maintained.

“Okay, our next stop is the mansion. Maybe they’re in there. If not, Aparo and Tori Duani definitely are and they can help us search for them once we’ve dealt with the major threats. Let’s move!”

On his command, they all broke into a sprint for the main compound. As they approached, the sound of automatic gunfire grew ever louder, nearly deafening. Centurion ran right up to the main doors and kicked them open with but a fraction of his power. He’d almost forgotten about the injuries he’d sustained, especially the burn on his back, thanks to good, old fashioned adrenaline, but he knew he’d pay for it later. It would most definitely catch up with him eventually.

In the main foyer he could see at least a dozen armed security men with automatic weapons firing at a blur that zipped back and forth across the stairwell like a tiny, man-sized tornado. When the security guards turned to see the silver-coated hero with the gold eagle emblazoned across his chest wade into their midst, they turned their attention from the impossibly fast target to the colorfully clad one that was standing virtually still.

Their bullets, turned on him, only ricocheted back into their ranks as he approached, unfazed by conventional methods of attack, his strength fuelled by worry for his teammates. Within moments he’d dispatched them all with a series of right crosses and simple kicks. There was no need for fancy martial arts moves when you possessed near invulnerability and enough strength to bench-press a bus with ease.

As the last security guard fell to the floor, the blur on the stairway came to a stop and revealed Morning Star, who carried Stiletto in his arms. Standing still as they now were, they appeared to almost be a couple and he could have been carrying her up the stairs to the boudoir, that is, until she leapt from his grasp to the floor. She stood defiantly with her hands on her hips as Morning Star approached, pointing at her in an accusatory manner.

“Infantino is dead!” He shouted. “She killed him in cold blood when we could have easily subdued him! We had him and she killed him! We lost the files, too!”

Centurion shook his head in disbelief as he stood in front of her. “Is this true?”

She raised her chin defiantly as she answered with a terse, “Yes.”

Even behind the indestructible sheen of nanites that encased his body and obscured his face somewhat, it was clear that Centurion’s blood pressure had risen and his cheeks were undoubtedly flushed with anger. At least, it was clear to someone of Tori Duani’s training.

“Why the hell did you do that? Didn’t I tell you when you joined this team that killing is not our primary objective? We lost the files and Infantino? Now we have no connection to Mars and he’ll get off scot-free! Explain yourself before I kick your ass!”

A moment of shocked silence passed between them with the rest of the team holding their collective breaths. They felt as if they’d been betrayed by one of their own. Caroline, especially, didn’t trust the assassin from the first moment their paths had crossed. She couldn’t even explain it rationally. It was just a feeling in her gut.

“I was operating under orders,” Stiletto replied.

It was as if someone sucked the air out of the room.

“You were operating under orders from whom?” Caroline asked.

Her answer was equally glib, and it hit some of them, especially Caroline, like a physical blow.

“My orders come directly from Maxwell Reeves.”

Jesus Christ.

Kirby could barely believe what he’d heard. Reeves had given her secret orders to assassinate Infantino? Why? Was he a traitor?

“Did he tell you why?” Centurion spat.

“No, and I didn’t ask. I follow orders, I don’t question them.”

Caroline felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Max Reeves was always a rival for her affections. He’d clearly stated on more than one occasion that he loved her and wanted to be with her. Was that just a ploy to get her away from Daniel? She always liked and respected Reeves, but she never loved him, not in the same way that she loved Daniel. Now, she felt as if everything he’d ever said to her was a lie.

It was also clear to her that, behind the indestructible nanite sheath, Daniel was fuming with anger. He turned away from Stiletto, currently unable to look her in the eye, such was his rage.

“Do you have any other orders concerning this mission that we don’t know about?”

She shook her head. “No.”

With that affirmed, he turned back to her, wagging his finger at the blade-wielding assassin. “I don’t care who you are or how formidable you think you are. If you are lying and any of my people come to harm as a result of you keeping secrets from me… I will ruin you both physically and professionally. Are we clear?”

She nodded, saying nothing.

“All right then, let’s plan out our next move.”

Oddly enough, Stiletto was crestfallen as Morning Star turned away from her with a scowl on his normally upbeat features. She’d barely known the man and found him annoying at best, but perhaps, in the back of her mind somewhere, she was secretly enjoying the attention she was paying her. No one had found her even remotely attractive since her husband was killed and she underwent the operations for bionic implants. The implants were necessary for her job but she herself found them cold and mechanical, robbing her of her femininity – no matter how useful and necessary they were to her in battle. She approached him and reached out to touch his shoulder. He flinched at her touch.

“I was only following my orders,” She whispered.

“You betrayed the team,” Was his only response.

“Why do you even flirt with me?” She hissed, her sorrow turning to anger. “Aren’t you some kind of monk? Isn’t that a betrayal of your vows?”

He snickered cynically. “I’m not a monk. I just chose to live with monks. They helped me center myself and slow down my metabolism with meditation so that I’m not constantly vibrating and on the move. If I flirt with you…” He turned to face her and met her eyes. She hadn’t realized until then how piercing and attractive they were. A woman could get lost in eyes like his. “It’s because I like you. I’m a pacifist, but more than that, I’m a lover.”

She wanted to respond, but it had been so long that she didn’t know what to say to a man. She’d lived only for her missions and her daughter since her husband was taken from her. She’d done it for so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to have a man be interested in her, and how to respond to his advances. Tori Duani’s heart had unknowingly grown cold and inflexible, like the metal in her favorite blade. The worst part of realizing this was in knowing that she had no idea how to correct it. Suddenly, Duani realized that Centurion was addressing his team… and that Mr. Magus and Nuclear Inferno were missing.

“We need to work out a new plan. With Magus and Nuclear Inferno M.I.A. and with the files deleted… and the files’ owner now dead, we need to move up the ladder of corruption on this hellish island. That can mean only one thing…”

“The President, General William Strughold,” Sleuth added.

Centurion nodded. “It won’t be easy, but because of his connections to organized crime and Mars himself, Infantino was number two in the hierarch of this island. Going after anyone else but Strughold is a step down for us. Maybe, just maybe, we can actually accomplish some good tonight other than fighting a bunch of random armored thugs and free this island from the criminals that run it.”

They all nodded their agreement with this plan. They knew it wouldn’t be easy, that Stughold’s compound would be even better guarded than Infantino’s, but after the setbacks they’d encountered since undertaking this mission, they all craved a chance for redemption and this appeared to be their only shot. Together, they exited the now quiet mansion and moved out, into the night. They moved as a unit, shoulder to shoulder, except for Stiletto, who was slightly removed from the group.

When they reached the compound’s walls, it was once again Morning Star’s turn to shine. Centurion turned to the young man and ordered him to scout ahead. Stiletto realized that this would normally be her job, but she understood why the responsibility was taken from her. Centurion and the rest of the team didn’t trust her any longer. She couldn’t say as she blamed them, but she resented the treatment in any case. She was, as she’d said, just following orders.

Had she found a new home just to lose it again so quickly? She couldn’t allow that. She needed to protect her daughter and there was no better way to accomplish this than by making their home in the ultra-secret and secure A.P.E.X. tower. There were still people that wanted to kill her and her innocent daughter.

She had to redeem herself… somehow.

In the blink of an eye and a mound of kicked up dust, Morning Star disappeared into the thick jungle growth. Given his particular talents, he should be able to scout miles ahead and then return within moments. Centurion didn’t like waiting for others to tell him it was okay to move ahead and he didn’t like being without Mr. Magus. Von Erik was his one true confidant since he’d taken the role of this alternate universe Daniel Kirby. Without Von Erik to confide in and take counsel with, he could barely restrain the jangling nerves and the sense that he’d make a critical mistake in the heat of battle that haunted him.

He never should have let Von Erik go off without him.

If he should make even one mistake…

He dared not think about it. Everything would turn out all right. Somewhere, Von Erik was working on a plan of attack. Perhaps he was even missing intentionally, to allow Kirby to spread his wings as a hero and leader on his own.

Kirby tried to smile.

He could only hope that he’d live up to his predecessor’s legacy and the standards the original Daniel Kirby had set. All he could do was try his best.

Several minutes past, and before long everyone was scuffling their feet and pacing back and forth, awaiting Morning Star’s return. Sleuth looked at his watch and sighed deeply, growing bored, as was his custom when things were too placid. Slowly, they all began to look to Kirby for leadership, and he wondered if he had any leadership within him to show.

“It’s been too long, don’t you think?” Caroline asked innocently.

Daniel shook his head. “Yeah, something’s wrong.”

“What do we do?” Sleuth queried.

He was sure of it now. All eyes were on him. He needed to make a decision, but what if it was the wrong one? He could take the entire team and storm the jungle beyond, but who knew what kind of attention that would attract, from Ucumar to patrolling guards at Strughold’s compound? He didn’t want to risk the team for unnecessary heroics, but he knew they’d be the first to volunteer for such duty. Denying them would be no easy task and something he’d have to be firm about.

They were still looking to him for a decision. If he waited much longer… things would get decidedly uncomfortable. Kirby wondered if they could see the raging tug of war his emotions were waging with his intellect. Finally, he made his decision, though he knew they wouldn’t like it. There would be derision and possibly dissention, but he would have to take control.

He only hoped he had it in him.

Centurion turned to the team’s resident assassin, infiltrator and tracker, pointing toward the thick underbrush ahead into which Morning Star disappeared.

“Go out there. Find him.”

Centurion could instantly feel the air around them grow thick with a kind of electricity. Caroline and Sleuth’s jaws dropped in shock almost simultaneously.

“What? You can’t trust her! She’ll betray us!” Caroline shouted.

“Really, Daniel, how can you think this is wise?” From Sleuth.

Kirby would have none of it, as he knew his predecessor would have no truck with dissention. He waved his hand in one solid, commanding motion across his chest, palm down. “Enough! This is my decision and this is what I think is best. I told Stiletto we’d take care of this Infantino business when we returned to America. Until then, she’s still a member of the team. Does anyone or everyone have a problem with that?”

He met their eyes, filled to the brim with doubt and fear for this woman. As he did so, the look changed to that of trust in their leader and hope that he knew what he was doing. With no further outbursts, Centurion turned to Stiletto, moving in close and speaking in a low voice, heavy laden with warning.

“You say you didn’t betray this team earlier tonight. You say you were working on orders… well, now’s your chance to prove it. Find our missing man and bring him back.”

Stiletto nodded and turned on her heel, headed for the jungle growth, but stopped short when Centurion’s powerful hand gripped her elbow and pulled her back in close. He was not yet finished with his instructions.

“If you betray me and my friends here tonight… there will be no rock you can hide under that will protect you from me. Do you understand?”

She nodded silently and thoughtfully before extricating herself from his grip and unsheathing a dagger - dashing off, silent as a whisper, into the jungle.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Caroline muttered.

So do I. He thought to himself.

It didn’t take her long to find their missing teammate. He may have been faster than the blink of an eye, but he left an easily marked trail as he blazed through the thick undergrowth with nothing in the way of subtlety. As she approached a thicket of bushes laced with enormous thorns, the trail appeared to come to a stop. She approached cautiously, with knife drawn. Stiletto listened carefully for sounds, and could just make out a wet, sloshing sound.

“Adrian?” She called out in slightly more than a whisper. Her every muscle was tensed. For all she knew, she could enter the thicket only to find Adrian Aparo’s insides being chewed out by a herd of Ucumar. She prepared herself as she edged closer, keeping her body in profile as to present less of a target, and waved some of the bushes aside. That was when she heard her teammate’s weakened voice, crying out for assistance.

She charged ahead through the thicket, blade at the ready, until she could make out Morning Star’s form, or at least what she could make out of it, sinking beneath the ground as Adrian floundered, helpless. He’d been caught in a pit of quicksand, a pitfall he’d never have seen coming at the great speeds he travelled at.

“Oh, Lord,” She cried as she extended her arm to her fallen friend. With a look of panic on his face, he also reached out to her, but couldn’t quite reach as he sank even further into the pit. He was already up to his chest. A few more moments and he’d be up to his chin.

“Hang on!” She called out. “I’ll get something to extend my reach!”

For his part, Morning Star found that even in his precarious position he found it hard to trust Stiletto. The distrust was written all over his face. As she searched for a sturdy length of vine that was long enough for her purposes, she sighed heavily.

“I’m telling you, Adrian, I’m here to rescue you. If I wanted you dead, why would I even try? I could just pretend I never found you.”

Apparently, Aparo’s mind was already working overtime on his conspiracy theory. Perhaps he had little else to do for the past few minutes as he sank into the quagmire.

“No one would believe someone of your talents couldn’t track me! Better to take your time getting a vine to help me and pretend you were too late to save me from drowning in quicksand!”

“You have one hell of a distrusting mind.”

Stiletto found a suitable length of sturdy vine and cut it down before returning to the edge of the pit and extending it across the quicksand until Adrian could grip it tightly. She began to reel him in with great ease as he continued presenting his conspiracy theory.

“You could easily pretend you found me and tried to save me, then shove me under into the pit again with your bionic implants. I don’t know if I could fight you. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“I’m just a fighter, is that it?” She asked, slightly annoyed. “I can’t be both?”

Aparo was up to his chin in the pit now, almost completely submerged. The look of terror in his eyes was palpable, but to his credit and Stiletto’s admiration, he managed to keep it in check.

“You tell me. Are you both?”

She made no reply, choosing silence instead as Morning Star reached the edge of the pit. She extended her bionic hand and gripped his wrist tightly, using her enhanced strength to hoist him easily into the air, free of the quicksand and to the firm ground by her side. Morning Star sighed heavily with relief.

That relief turned just as quickly into panic as she produced her knife once more: staring him straight in the eye. His face was a mask of terror. There was no way he’d be able to outrun her with his legs and feet still coated in the muck from the pit. This time he wasn’t restraining his emotions as he raised his arm over his head in a futile attempt to block her blade.

The blade sang as it cut through the air and lodged itself in flesh and blood. A crimson spray splashed across Adrian Aparo’s face. Time seemingly stopped. Finally, he realized that his body was intact. She hadn’t stabbed him, after all, but an enormous shadow lurking just behind him. He whirled about.

One of the Ucumar towered behind him, cloaked mostly in shadow… but with Stiletto’s blade in its throat and the moonlight glinting off his bared fangs. As blood gushed freely from the wound and collected in a blackened pool around its feet, the animal fell over sideways into the quicksand pit before disappearing completely, as Aparo would have done had she not rescued him.

Morning Star looked to Stiletto, the shock plainly written all over his face. “You… just saved my…”

“I just saved your sorry ass, yes.” Stiletto looked disgusted. “I lost one of my favorite knives doing it, too.”

Morning Star began to wipe the heavy, clinging sand from his legs. “I guess I owe you an apology.”

“I guess you do.” She replied glibly. “Now let’s finish this.”

Working as a team, Morning Star and Stiletto made their way through the jungle: he spearheading the push through the jungle in short speed bursts with her bringing up the rear and ensuring his safety. Before long, they had arrived at the outer walls of General Strughold’s compound with the remainder of the team in tow. What Centurion saw when he got there made him wonder if they could get the job done.

“This… is not good.”

The walls surrounding the compound were higher and thicker than those at Infantino’s mansion. Even from a distance, he could make out the giant Ferris wheel and other circus attractions they’d set up inside, a decadent show of wealth and power while those outside these walls feared for their lives with every breath.

There were gun towers along the wall, twice as many as at Infantino’s lair. According to Stiletto’s recon from various tall trees in the vicinity, at least three tanks wandered the compound: two Russian T-90s with - as Stiletto informed him - Kontakt-5 explosive reactive armor and a 125 mm smoothbore gun. The other was an American M1 Abrams with a Royal Ordnance L7 gun, ceramic armor (also known as ‘composite armor), white phosphorous rounds and anti-personnel flechette rounds.

As if that weren’t enough, an AH-64 Apache helicopter stood on standby at a helipad near the main house. The Apache sported a nose-mounted sensor suite for target acquisition and night vision systems, allowing them to pick Centurion and his people out of a crowd in the dead of night if needs be. She was armed with a 30 mm M230 Chain Gun carried between the main landing gear, under the aircraft's belly and a mixture of AGM-114 Hellfire and Hydra 70 rocket pods mounted on stub-wing pylons

“Those things will cut us to pieces before we ever make it to the main housing area, to say nothing of the Apache” Stiletto hissed.

“I have to agree. I saw the M1 in action over in Iraq. It’s a real crusher. The T-90 isn’t exactly a Fisher-Price toy, either,” Caroline added, much to Stiletto’s surprise. An indescribable and unexplainable frost existed between the two of them upon the latter’s entry on the team, and it didn’t appear to be thawing. Stiletto was grateful for her support now and bowed her head slightly in respect toward her fellow female warrior.

“They won’t cut me to pieces,” Kirby swallowed hard as he digested the thought of fighting those tanks and attack helicopters.

“Those guns are huge! If you’re not careful they could crack that nanite sheen of yours and then where would you be?” Caroline returned angrily. Not for the first time, Daniel wished she hadn’t come on this mission. He was too attached to her and vice versa. Their decisions regarding each other’s tasks and duties couldn’t be trusted. Nevertheless, he was in charge.

From the interior of the compound, they could just make out the wailing of some poor soul. Centurion pointed in the direction of that sound.

“Do you want to just walk away from that? I doubt it very much. I’m the best hope we have of tearing this place down and I’m going to do what I can for the people of this horrible place that the rest of the world just seems to have forgotten about. It’s why I became Centurion in the first place! But hey, if it seems too risky then all in favor of just going home and sulking can voice their vote now… or forever hold your peace.”

No one dared voice a reply. Even Caroline, who feared for her lover’s life, knew that he had to do this, as did they all. If he walked away from this place without doing everything he could to make things better then he wouldn’t be the man she loved. Slowly, and without fear of retribution or rebuke from her other teammates, Caroline approached her lover and put her arms around him, holding Daniel close. In response, he commanded the nanites to retreat into his blood steam for just a moment, allowing her to feel the warmth of his flesh on hers… just in case this was the last time they ever embraced. To his team’s credit, no one snickered or jeered.

Caroline ran her perfectly manicured fingertip along his jaw, stopping gingerly at his chin. Their eyes met and he knew that no matter what the personal risk, this was the life he was born to lead… just as long as she was by his side. Caroline made it all worthwhile.

“Be careful.”

He nodded and smiled.

Their embrace broken, he turned to face the rest of the team. Kirby’s tone was commanding, in charge. He hoped Von Erik, wherever the hell he was, would be proud.

“Okay, team. Wheel’s up. We hit them hard and fast. Our primary objective is William Stughold. No doubt he’ll be holed up in a panic room or something somewhere. I’m taking point because I’m the one most likely to take out those tanks. Morning Star, you follow and take on the ground troops. Stiletto, you follow his lead and mop up as many as you can. Caroline and Sleuth, you bring up the rear.”

“Why?” Caroline asked haughtily. In response, Kirby only smiled.

“Because I told you to and because someone has to find Strughold. That’d be you two.”

“And just what are you going to do, fearless leader?” Sleuth asked. He, at least, didn’t question Centurion’s orders about staying in the back of the pack. Experience had taught him that he was not the fighter of the group. He solved puzzles and examined clues. Straight on battle was not his forte and he was smart enough to realize it.

As he spoke, the nanites enveloped him once more, forming the protective silver sheen with the gold eagle emblazoned across his chest. He flexed his fists and set his jaw, ready for the hardest action he’d yet encountered.

“I’m going to give them shock and awe like they’ve never seen before.”

In the Strughold compound, a junior soldier, formerly a soldier of fortune, was enjoying an encounter with one of the local women. Twenty-seven year old former American Marine Joe Stackhouse had been given explicit orders, to rape the woman before him while her husband watched. Rumors were flying across the island of Tierra Del Murte: rumors of a covert American invasion force filled with superhumans.

The General wanted more information about the gunfire and various sounds of combat echoing across the island, but no one was talking. They’d lost contact with Infantino and his people and the recon patrols sent out to investigate never returned, even though that was sometimes the case when his troops ran afoul of the Ucumar.

This native, a black haired man with a slight paunch in his mid forties, dressed in the most tattered of local clothing, was supposed to be very wise and have his ear to the ground. If it was happening on this island, he knew what, where and when, only this time he was not being forthcoming. Thus, he would be forced to watch his wife being raped until he decided to be more obliging.

It was the kind of job Stackhouse enjoyed. He’d always professed an inclination toward violence in his sexual encounters. It was the reason why he’d been expelled from the military academy at Annapolis. Now, he was well paid to engage in just this kind of activity, not to mention the random target practice on locals just for the hell of it. This was indeed the life for him.

Stackhouse undid his belt and dropped his pants as another soldier kept his weapon trained on the woman’s husband, who was on his knees, begging and pleading for mercy with tears flowing freely. Stackhouse snickered and shook his head.

“You pathetic fuck!” He yelled. “If you didn’t want to be a third class human you should have been born in a country with some balls!”

Stackhouse grabbed the woman by her long, black hair. She wasn’t really that bad looking, for a native. She had dark brown eyes and dark skin, almost like that of a Native American. She was in excellent physical condition and didn’t smell too badly, given the state of their lives out there in the jungles. In fact, he already had an erection. He was lucky. As his superiors often noted, some of the local women looked like they’d been “shot in the face with a shit pistol.”

Stackhouse forced her legs apart with his knees and pushed her up against the wall of the weapon depot, where the rifles, ammunition and landmines were kept, not to mention the large shells for the tanks.

“Now, bitch, I’m going to fuck you until your hubby tells us what the fuck is going on around here! And even if he tells us… I ain’t gonna stop until I empty my magazine; you get what I’m saying?”

The woman screamed until her voice cracked, but realized no one was going to be able to help her. Sex with another man while married was a cardinal sin in their culture. She would never be clean in the eyes of man or their god ever again. Silently, she hoped he’d kill her after he was done, so that she might not bear the shame of this humiliation.

“Hey, if your god is so big and tough, maybe he should stop me before I fuck you to death, bitch! Where’s your god now?”

As if in response to his query, there was a rumble in the ground beneath them, as if from an earthquake - a loud, resounding boom that rippled and echoed across the compound. Stackhouse stopped his attempted rape momentarily and looked askance to his partner, who could only shrug.

Again, the loud, resonant boom echoed across the compound. All movement across the Strughold compound came to a halt as they noticed the repeated throbbing and thumping. Even the tanks stopped their patrols and their commanders stuck their heads out into the night air to listen more closely. Other than the idling of the tank’s engines and the faint sound of a soldier’s muted cough or the animals in the distance, all was eerily silent.

“What the fuck is that?” Stackhouse asked of no one in particular.

Another loud boom followed that one…

… and then another.

… and then another.

Ironically, it was Stackhouse who was the first to realize the significance of the sound as he noticed a crack begin to appear in the far wall, its spidery tendrils growing larger with each crash.

“Jesus fuck!” He pulled up his pants and fumbled with his belt before pulling up his zipper too quickly and catching his foreskin, sending him to his knees in agony. He could barely shout out his realization for all to hear as he grew weak with pain and felt as though he would vomit.

“Attack!” He muttered, though weakly, to his partner and pointed to the far wall. “We’re under attack!”

Too late, with one final crash, Centurion smashed his way through the compound’s perimeter wall and stepped through into the moonlight. Instantly, gunfire began to rain down from above. The machine gun nests posted at regular intervals along the perimeter fences all centered their powerful searchlights on the silver and gold hero. Bullets ricocheted off his chest by the hundreds as he stood there momentarily to assess the situation, nearly oblivious to the normally lethal gunfire.

The closest heavy weapon was one of the two T-90s, which was already taking aim at him. Whoever was commanding the tank, they were well trained. Even the sight of a silver and gold superhero crashing through the wall didn’t throw them off their game.

It was time to try something new. Centurion was aware that he could mentally command the nanites to enhance his strength, enabling him to perform superhuman feats, such as when he punched Phobos so hard he was sent careening into the ocean, his body never to be found.

Centurion needed to move fast before they could get a bead on him. He was no Morning Star: the very nature of the heavy metal casing that cocooned him made such a talent impossible, but as the nanites enhanced the strength in his muscles and allowed him to lift great weights and attack with punches that could level buildings, he could only imagine that they could do the same for his legs. He issued the mental command and sprinted forward, far faster than he had ever run before.

Across the compound he ran, reaching a top speed of nearly 45 miles per hour, much faster than any normal human could manage, and charged directly into the tank’s broadside before it could fire its big guns like a bull charging a matador, only in reverse. The team operating the tank rocked back and forth inside the belly of the machine as if it had just been hit by heavy artillery.

Without a second’s delay, Daniel unleashed his full might for the first time since arriving in this reality and becoming Centurion. Even during his battle with the armored security force at Infantino’s laboratory and the earlier battle with Phobos, he was holding back to some degree, still afraid that he might lose control and hurt an innocent.

There were no worries about that here. This was a tank, designed to keep innocent people in line and meant to take heavy punishment. He would almost enjoy destroying this symbol of oppression. He reached out and grabbed the treads the tank used to convey itself from place to place instead of wheels, wrapping his fingers around it even as it moved. With one swift motion the tank tread was ripped from its housing and scattered across the compound.

A metallic whine emitted from the mechanical beast as the operators tried to swivel the machine about, only to have sparks fly from the gears. When they realized that was useless, they began to seek out their foe with the heavy canon even as Centurion beat mercilessly on the exterior shell of the tank.

When they finally lowered the gun enough to see their prey, they realized that the machine was completely debilitated. Centurion pounded with both fists on the exterior of the tank, denting it severely with each blow. The commander, a man named Halloway, gave the order to fire, even if the target was too close to their position. They would just have to deal with the blowback. The tank was already damaged beyond repair, after all. This maniac had to be stopped at all costs.

The canon went off with a throaty, resounding boom and Centurion disappeared in a cloud of smoke and debris. For the moment, the ceaseless pounding had stopped. The tank’s commander wiped sweat from his brow as his men kept a close watch on the monitors, keeping an eye out for their foe.

“Not so tough, after all,” He muttered under his breath.

His stomach nearly turned as the dust and debris began to clear and he could see Centurion rising up from a crater created by the explosion, dusting himself off as if he had simply gotten dirty from the blast. Once again, the pounding resumed unabated.

Before long, the stress on the armor would be too great and it would collapse. The tank’s commander immediately opened up a frequency to the two other tanks and radioed for immediate assistance.

By this time, every available member of the security squad, which looked to number in the hundreds at least, was rushing onto the compound with guns at the ready, though none were sure just what they could do against this juggernaut.

Their problems were bigger than they’d surmised, as a blur of black and white raced directly into their midst, knocking many unconscious and ripping the guns from the hands of others. In the wake of the blur, a woman with metal arms leapt into the fray with only a commando dagger in one hand and a katana in the other, wading into the enemy like a woman possessed.

Forming the rear guard, Caroline Munroe entered the compound with guns blazing, aiming mostly for the gun turrets at the top of the perimeter wall. Her aim was excellent and she managed to take out many of the surrounding searchlights, something that could only increase their odds of success. Sleuth followed behind her, content that this type of battle was not his specialty.

Garish and loud, most of the security force’s attention was understandably focused on Centurion, whose fist had just pounded through the armor on his chosen tank. Too quickly for his liking, the remaining two tanks were closing on his position. Using the hole in the armor as a handhold, he strained only slightly as he picked the entire tank up over his head and threw it across the compound.

It landed with a horrible, metal rending crash on top of its twin, stopping it in its tracks and rendering it useless. Centurion took a moment to grin slightly.

“That felt good.”

His self satisfaction didn’t last long, as the Abrams M1 let loose with its L7 gun, unleashing first a series of white phosphorous rounds, peppering him with white hot ammunition while simultaneously releasing a thick cloud of choking, acrid smoke that seemed to cling to him like a lover. He also found that every breath through the black fog burned his lungs, making them feel as if they were on fire. For a moment, Centurion could see nothing around him, but apparently the crew in the tank could still see him.

He’d already had his back burned from a flamethrower during his battle with the armored guards at the Infantino compound. He knew full well what extremes of hot and cold could do to him. The Centurion nanite armor protected his skin from most everything but the white hot heat generated by the phosphorous rounds.

He fell to his knees and screamed in agony as his skin began to blister. Forgetting everything else, Kirby mentally ordered as many nanites as could be spared to delve deep into his body and start repairing him. The next level of assault came too quickly, however, and hardly any nanites could be spared for any other tasks.

The flechette rounds came next. The pointed steel projectiles came at him with supersonic speed, knocking Centurion this way and that like a newspaper in a hurricane, whipping him about. From their combat zones amidst the security forces, Morning Star could only grimace at the sight of their leader being torn to shreds.

“I have to help him!” He called out to Stiletto. Even as he spoke, the rotors of the Apache were beginning to hum louder and louder. It would be in the air within moments and taking locking its weapons onto Centurion.

“You have to stay here and do your job! He’ll beat it somehow!”

Deep inside, Morning Star knew his teammate was correct. He couldn’t leave her there alone. She was a talented combatant, yes, but no one could survive long against this many opponents without special abilities. He’d be abandoning her to her death. Centurion was a professional. He’d have to find a way out of it. If he didn’t, the command crew of the tank would soon be turning those guns on them and this invasion would be over in the blink of an eye. Success or failure, it all rested on Centurion’s shoulders now.

Centurion’s mind reeled. He’d never experienced agony like this. He’d managed to disable two of the tanks within moments, but the third had caught him off guard and rendered him nearly impotent in the continuing fight. He was now on his hands and knees, panting for air, as the M1 continued its barrage of flechettes. Where the simple canon fire of the T-90 had merely knocked him around, the white phosphorous rounds combined with the armour piercing flechettes were enough to harm even him. The M1 charged forward in an undisguised attempt to run him over while he was still on the ground.

There was nothing Centurion wanted to do more than leap out of the way, but he found that he couldn’t move. He had to stand and fight the thing head on before it trampled him. There was no way of knowing if the nanites could maintain their integrity under the weight of a tank. He struggled to his feet just as the mechanical behemoth reached him and outstretched his hands, gripping the edge of the tank tightly. This was where his mental command of the nanites would be put to the test like never before. This was truly a case of man versus machine.

He remembered his all too short training session and the words of Douglas Von Erik. The nanites that protected him and gave him strength were only as strong as his will. Centurion groaned with exertion as he dug his heels in and the mighty tank came to a grudging stop, its engines revving high as it worked to overcome the obstacle in front of it.

Were he not sheathed in the Centurion armor, Kirby’s brow would be dripping with sweat. From the back of his throat he began to unleash a tortured scream as his will began to break. The tank would soon be steamrolling over him and he didn’t think he’d be able to stop it. The M1’s engine screamed nearly as loud as the man it was trying to crush. The machine was unstoppable. Defeat seemed inevitable.

No.

Kirby decided that if he was going to re-enact the legend of John Henry, he would reverse the fate of the hero in that tragic folk tale. He would not give up. He would win… and he would survive. It was all a case of mind over matter. He commanded the nanites and this time they responded to his bidding.

He wasn’t doing this for the people of Tierra Del Murte.

He wasn’t doing this for Von Erik.

He wasn’t doing this for his predecessor.

He wasn’t even doing this for Caroline.

He was doing this… for himself... because to fail... was to die.

With a kind of primal scream, Centurion literally picked up the tank and held it aloft as the hundreds of security guards and even the members of his own team, looked on in awe. With barely a thought toward injuring himself, Centurion summoned his nanite strength and threw the tank across the compound. With the scream of twisted metal and a series of booming crashes that shook the earth around them, the tank flipped end over end across the compound. He’d done it. He beat the machine built specifically to deal out death. It was his greatest triumph to date since taking over the original Centurion’s identity... more than that, it was a triumph that belonged exclusively to him.

But his trials were not complete. The Apache was overhead now and rained death from above as it locked onto its target. Rockets were unleashed and screamed through the night sky almost like fireworks as they descended upon him. The impact of the explosions jerked Centurion’s body to and fro like a leaf in the wind, but he remained intact. The nanite shell maintained its integrity, mainly due to his mental ability to hold them together, though he was starting to develop a headache due to all the explosions.

“This is murder on my hearing!”

The pilots of the Apache were in no mood to give their superhuman intruder any chance to catch his breath. Bullets from the chain gun and rockets poured from the sky like God’s wrath and charred the earth all around him. Defiantly, Centurion dug in his heels and stalked forward through the hellfire all around him as he jutted out his chin and dared them to empty their arsenal. He was growing tired of being shot at and his anger only served to fuel his strength. Still, he couldn’t stand there and be a target forever.

The helicopter hovered overhead, the chain gun barking at him relentlessly. Even with the nanites powering his legs, he couldn’t leap into the air and take the helicopter down. He needed a weapon.

He glanced around and within seconds realized what he needed to do. He broke into a sprint and headed toward the fallen cluster of tanks with the gunfire biting at his heels and kicking up dirt along his path. As he leapt toward the fallen Abrams tank the gunfire found him once again, batting him around mercilessly. Centurion reached out and gripped the tank’s canon, ripping it from its housing. He whirled on his heel and, holding the canon like an Olympian might hold a spear, launched it into the air with all the strength the nanites could give him.

The pilots didn’t even have time to bail out of the cockpit before the crudely fashioned spear impaled the helicopter’s nose and - splitting the vehicle nearly in two - erupted from the rear of the vehicle. The engine of the Apache burst into flame as the ship spiralled out of control and toppled to the ground. His body wracked with pain, the hero once more fell to his knees. He needed just a moment to catch his breath.

Kirby remained on his knees, momentarily spent. The nanites retreated into his bloodstream to start repairing his body without delay. Even a few seconds of rest with the tiny, molecule-sized machines working on repairing him would make a real difference.

Unfortunately for him, Morning Star and Stiletto couldn’t keep the entirety of the security squad at bay, and were in danger of becoming overwhelmed. Kirby wanted nothing more than to run for cover while the nanites repaired at least some of the damage to his body, but he was breathing heavily and his back was on fire with agony from the burns he’d received. When the nanites went to work on him, it was as if his body practically shut down. If the guards made it another few feet, they’d be well within range to shoot him down while Stiletto and Morning Star were overwhelmed by a sea of well trained security guards. He needed to get up and get back to work. His teammates needed him.

But fortune was with him again.

The security squad that had broken free of the melee and was now approaching Kirby stopped in their tracks, their eyes as wide as saucers as they registered new players on the field. Following their line of sight, Kirby looked toward the hole in the perimeter wall he’d created.

And he was delivered.

“Attack!” The war cry came from a man dressed in native ritual clothing and blue and black makeup across his face. He held a staff with what appeared to be a monkey’s skull for a handle aloft as he screamed. The native was flanked by hundreds, if not thousands, of villagers, each armed with spears or bows and arrows, all rushing forward to attack the ground troops, each with their faces painted in a similar fashion.

But it wasn’t the sight of the native uprising that filled his heart with joy, it was the sight of Mr. Magus and Nuclear Inferno hovering just above them, effectively leading the attack. As their eyes met, Von Erik realized that Kirby was injured and flew to his side while Nuclear Inferno took over the charge with the natives, turning any gun pointed in their direction into a bouquet of flowers.

“Are you all right?” Von Erik asked.

“Hell, no!”

Von Erik surveyed the damage and instantly noticed the overturned and demolished tanks, not to mention the burning wreck of the Apache helicoper.

“Your handiwork, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah.”

The sorcerer patted his friend on the shoulder. “Great job, you’re getting better at this every day.”

Centurion took his friend’s hand and stood, eyeing the incongruous Ferris wheel in the distance. His work was still not done.

“This little home reno isn’t over, yet.”

General William Strughold was always completely obsessed with Ferris wheels, since the time he was nine years old and his father took him to see an old style circus in Las Vegas. It was his first trip to America and the only thing he ever did with his father. Normally, his father was a cold, ruthless and often physically abusive man, but he possessed some kind of circus fetish, and thus he dragged his son to the spectacle.

Stughold senior was an Austrian born, dour man who bemoaned the fact that he’d missed out on the glory days of the Nazis. A devout believer in Hitler’s methods and beliefs, Strughold preached hatred and the theories of racial purity on a daily basis. Stughold the junior worshipped only one thing: money, and would do pretty much anything he could to achieve it.

The only joy Strughold’s father took was in carnivals and the circus. His son was initially bored with the garish and noisy spectacle… until he encountered his first Ferris wheel. The sound, the look, the lights: he wanted nothing more than to ride it forever. His father allowed him two turns on it before continuing on. From that point on, Strughold took every opportunity to see and ride every Ferris wheel he could possibly find.

Due to his upbringing, the boy who idolized the rich and yet was immersed in the teachings of Hitler since childhood used his connections to become an arms dealer, and before long, had amassed his own personal army. It wasn’t until Darfur and the tragedy he encouraged with his army of mercenaries and his steady supply of weaponry, that Strughold – who wasn’t really a general and held no military rank whatsoever – was forced to flee to this small island country, which he quickly rose to power in.

Of all the luxuries he enjoyed in his palatial compound there was only one he couldn’t do without, and that was his Ferris wheel. Stughold’s obsession with the rides became clear to both Caroline Munroe and Sleuth as they explored the tudor style mansion in search of the island’s president. There were models of Ferris wheels everywhere they looked. Some were plastic that he may have made himself. Others consisted of stained glass and were diamond encrusted. This only fired the flames of Sleuth’s rage, seeing how the ruler lived while the peasants were tortured and lived in fear during every waking moment.

When they found Strughold he was not even bothering to hide. Instead, the president for life was, in fact, dressed in full Class-A military regalia, primarily white in color with a mandarin collar, red sash across the chest and bright blue epaulettes. His only weapon was a saber at his waist.

Strughold was a gaunt individual, Caucasian with only a few remnants of his brown hair remaining amongst the remainder of his silver mane. Sleuth estimated the man’s age at about 60 years old. It was also clear to the detective by the ruddy look on the man’s otherwise pale features that he was enraged.

“Just who in the hell are you people? I’m the officially recognized president of a sovereign country! I’ll have you all shot! I’ll have the U.N. press charges of crimes against humanity on you! I’ll…”

His tirade was cut short only by Sleuth’s right cross. “Shut up!”

Caroline Munroe stepped forward with her weapon at the ready. “Your term has been cut short, Mr. President. It appears the people have decided recount the votes cast on the last ballot and I’m pretty sure it’ll turn out that you actually lost… even though there was no election and no actual votes cast.”

She gestured to the window and Strughold looked out to see the native population rebelling against their oppressors in a way that they’d never managed before. Strughold sneered.

“They are savages, nothing more. I can have control of this island back within in a day. I assure you that within 24 hours I’ll be riding my precious Ferris wheel once more.”

It was Caroline’s turn to sneer as she pointed in the direction of the amusement ride. “Think again, Mr. President. This time, the people have backup.”

Just then, the sound of screeching metal tore through the night air, overriding the cacophony of battle that surrounded them all. Morning Star, for all his quickness, and even Stiletto with her hand to hand combat skills, were vastly outnumbered. It was only by good luck that they’d remained in the middle of the morass of soldiers, limiting them to hand to hand battle. Sooner or later, someone would fire a shot into the crowd and mow them all down regardless of whose side they were on. Everyone, including the heroes, stopped fighting to seek out the source of the incredible screech.

Strughold’s ruddy cheeks grew pale white as he witnessed Centurion, a lone man, tear the Ferris wheel from its housing, sending the brightly colored gondolas attached to the wheel flying in all directions. With a mighty howl of defiance, Centurion labored like Atlas himself with the giant wheel, nearly 200 feet high, and finally wrenched it free from its housing completely before hurling it in the direction of the thousands of security troops, sending them fleeing for their lives.

Morning Star, bloodied from some well placed and lucky punches by some of the more talented fighters, darted across the compound within the blink of an eye and scooped up Stiletto in his arms once more before racing out of harm’s way. Likewise, the native population took to its heels, chasing down the now scattered and disorganized security forces.

The skeleton of the Ferris wheel, minus most of its gondolas, rolled freely across the grounds as if it had a mind of its own. In his mansion, Strughold’s knees began to shake as the symbol of his authority and the perfect world he lived in, one where he was practically a god, was utterly destroyed. The amusement ride rolled right past his window before collapsing in a heap where the fighting was taking place only moments ago.

Strughold turned to face his captors, his mind reeling with the seeming impossibility of what he’d just witnessed. Caroline Munroe and Sleuth looked rather pleased with themselves, which only fanned the fires of his rage. He pointed accusingly at the duo, his mouth open but no words forming. Suddenly, Sleuth began to grow worried. His fears were confirmed as Strughold clutched his chest and fell to the ground.

“Hell! He’s gone into some kind of damned arrest!” Sleuth flung himself to the floor beside Stughold and began applying CPR. Munroe could only watch helplessly as Sleuth continued his work. After several minutes, it became clear that Strughold could not be revived. Their last remaining link to Mars was dead.

The sounds of fighting grew fainter in the distance as the disarrayed security troops either fled the scene in fear of Centurion and his allies, or fell prey to the natives’ greater familiarity with the jungles around them and picked them off in little groups. Still others fell to the Ucumar, poisonous spiders and quicksand beyond the safety of the compound walls. Within moments, Centurion, Mr. Magus and the rest of the team rejoined Munroe and Sleuth in the mansion. No one spoke as Sleuth’s efforts at reviving Strughold waned and finally ceased altogether. The entire team stood in silence, wondering whether their mission was a success or a failure.

Located at 1664 1st Ave, the place was officially called “Romeo’s Fine Eats”, but to the members of the A.P.E.X. team, to whom the restaurant mostly catered, referred to it jokingly as “The Gag N’ Spew”, mostly due to the Herculean amounts of alcohol consumed after a victorious mission and the later barfing thereof in the alley out back. With a 50 inch high def television on each wall, dark wood booths with brass rails and accents throughout the eating area, there was even a small dance floor beside the bar area.

The real attraction of the restaurant was the menu, created and maintained by Romeo Roselli, including his world famous sweet potato fries, honey garlic ribs, three cheese nachos, bacon wrapped scallops and trademarked pressed meatball sandwiches.

Roselli had his family’s life saved by the previous Centurion and dedicated his restaurant’s services to him and his co-workers, giving a special rate to any and all A.P.E.X. employees. Since that time, the restaurant became the unofficial watering hole and eatery for the team.

The rafters of the building shook from the strains of melodic rock streaming from the old fashioned jukebox. The song was The Road to Shamballa by Three Dog Night, and though everyone was generally pleased and cheerful by their heroic reception home, not everyone was jovial.

A.P.E.X. quickly leaked word to the press about Centurion and his team liberating the island nation of Tierra Del Murte Lenta, upending the repressive and illegitimate regime there. The United Nations was already hailing Centurion’s victory as a win for the common man and were sending care packages and representatives there, not to mention peacekeepers to assist with rebuilding and guarding the engineers from the Ucumar.

All mentions of Strughold’s connections to Mars, or in fact any connection Mars may have had with the island, or any mention of the Visigoths, was being withheld from the media for obvious reasons. Raven Garibaldi was being held at A.P.E.X. in a security cell, though she refused to talk… for now. Drugs and possibly another visit from Grissom would eventually loosen her tongue.

In general, the mission was being hailed by the press as a triumph. CNN was trumpeting the success, it being the first since the Times Square incident and the first public mission for the new team. They were seen to be helping the oppressed and toppling illegitimate, oppressive regimes.

But there were far too many loose threads for his liking.

They had no useful intel on Mars or his true identity. Stiletto had revealed that Max Reeves had ordered Carmine Infantino’s death and upon their return to New York, Reeves was missing from his office, supposedly in Langley for a series of meetings, though none had been scheduled that he knew of.

While Kirby fumed at the bar, Caroline, as was her nature, chose to focus on the positive aspects of the ambitious mission. She danced, first with Von Erik and now with Grissom. Others, like Les Calloway, who’d really come through in the clinch, drank heartily and actually seemed to loosen up for the first time since he’d joined the team. Morning Star and Stiletto both seemed pleased, but restrained, keeping their distance from one another. Stiletto, especially, was removed from the group, excusing herself early from the group to go check on her daughter after indulging briefly in a plate of chili fries. That was another enigma that required looking into.

On paper, the evening was a total success. Upon closer inspection, however, the team and its morale was hanging by a thread. No one knew what to make of Max Reeves and his clandestine orders or of Stiletto. Was either or both of them agents of Mars? He bristled at the thought. He’d deal with Reeves soon enough. The moment that cranky bastard got off his plane they would have words.

Deep down, Kirby knew the true identity of Mars, but there was nothing he could do about it. He downed the remainder of his stein of Sleeman’s ale just as Mr. Magus took the bar stool next to him, patting him on the shoulder heartily.

“You’re horrible at hiding your emotions, you know.”

Kirby smirked. “I have a sore back.”

Magus nodded. “I wish you’d let me take a look at your injuries. I am a doctor, you know.”

Kirby sat back on his stool. “No. The nanites are taking care of it. I’ll be fine.”

“So what’s your problem? We dealt Mars a tremendous blow today. We shut down his production of those horrid Visigoths and we freed an island full of slaves. You really stepped up to the plate, my friend, the way you led the team without me to lean on. I knew you had it in you. Your predecessor would be proud”

“Then why do I feel like I failed?”

“Because you think you’ve been living with failure all your life, Daniel. You don’t know what success feels like, or at the very least, you won’t let yourself feel success. Success most often depends on your point of view. There are some loose ends to deal with, such as Max Reeves, but life is comprised of loose ends. In all my experience on this team, there’s rarely been a mission where there isn’t some unfinished business. This isn’t a comic book tale where the heroes sweep in and crush the villains. Real life is messier than that. Trust me, those loose ends, we’ll deal with them. We always do. Reeves can’t stay in Langley forever.”

Daniel said nothing, preferring instead to slump over the bar with his chin in his hand, looking sullen.

“You’re still not happy.”

“Those loose ends gnaw at me, I admit.”

“What will make you feel better besides drinking until you vomit?”

Kirby glanced around at the dance floor, where Caroline was busily dancing with Adrian, who pulled some impressive moves at super speed around her. Kirby stood and grabbed von Erik by the shoulder, dragging him from the building.

“There’s someone I have to see. Some things still need to be set straight.”

“Are you listening to me?”

Robert Maris Royce turned his attention away from the high def, plasma screen television recessed into the wall on the other side of his office. He had to admit, his attention had wavered for a moment, which was thoroughly unlike him. Under normal circumstances, his mind was as sharp as a tack, completely ‘in the now’ and concentrating on the task ahead… not to mention several moves ahead of a myriad of different opponents. The CNN headlines caught his eye, however, and stole his attention from the task at head, if for just a moment.

These were dangerous times and dangerous negotiations. He couldn’t afford to have his attention diverted… even by him. Every news station across the globe was littered with the headlines: Centurion and his team of superheroes had liberated the poor, oppressed villagers of the island nation of Tierra Del Murte Lenta.

The news held special significance for him, as he was the primary silent partner in the upkeep and maintenance of the oppressive regime there. He used the island’s lack of laws and ties to the outside world as the perfect place to house his own personal house of horrors and his own Dr. Frankenstein, Raven Garibaldi, who used her lack of scruples combined with scientific genius to outfit him with his personal army of drones, The Visigoths. Carmine Infantino kept Garibaldi on track and acted as his iron fist on the island. Constant payments kept the island’s president for life, Strughold, in check.

How did Centurion find out about the island? How much had they learned while there? It was no coincidence that they attacked the island and destroyed his operation there. They were clearly investigating him. Had he covered his tracks well enough? He hoped so.

Royce turned his attention back to the matter at hand, adjusting his hand-made, black-and-silver Robert Talbott necktie before continuing. He was sitting across the oak table from Republican Senator Tristan Kell, a man in his late 40’s with a thick plume of white hair and a leonine beard. His normally pallid face was crimson as his blood pressure rose dramatically. He had just received disturbing news.

“I’m sorry, Senator. What did you just say? I’m afraid my attention was stolen for a moment by the television.”

Kell stood and leaned over the desk until he was threateningly close to Royce’s personal space. He slammed his hands down on the desk in an effort to make his point.

“I asked you just who the hell you think you are that you can threaten me?”

Royce yawned, looking completely unimpressed. “All I want from you is your support for my presidential run. I don’t think that’s all that much to ask.”

“And I told you,” Kell shot back, pointing his finger accusingly as his voice rose in intensity with every syllable. “I’m not supporting you. I’m supporting the republican candidate of my choice!”

Royce shot to his feet with such speed and spoke with such authority that he actually knocked Kell back into his own chair, causing the senator to cringe with the ferocity of his tormentor’s tirade.

“You’ll support whoever I tell you to, you pathetic little shit! I have all the information I could ever need to destroy your life! I have evidence of your little pre-teen orgies with boys and girls! I have evidence of your illegal dealings! Do you want to end up a completely destroyed man, in prison for massive insider trading… or in prison for having sexual relations with those children in Taiwan? You decide, Senator! Like you, I can go either way!”

A shocked silence passed between them for a moment or two until the enormity of Royce’s statements sunk in. Always the civilized tormentor, Royce produced a Cuban Cigar from a small humidor on a glass shelf behind his desk and a lighter before proffering it to Kell, who gratefully lit it and inhaled deeply.

“Feeling better?” Royce asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Kell nodded.

“How did you know about all this?”

Royce looked pleased as he uttered a guttural chuckle. “I know all about keeping secrets, Senator, and I have more experience than you realize in covering things up… not to mention uncovering them. Secrets are not easily given up by the bayou. They sink into the muck and only the toughest have the wherewithal to reach down and pluck them from the dirty, bug-infested swamps.” Royce thumped himself on the chest. “That’s me, Senator. I’m the one with the guts to dig into the swamp and disturb the creatures that live there to dig up the ugliest things you can possibly imagine. When I find them I have a choice, to hide them away or display them on my wall for all to see. That’s the choice I have with your particular secrets.”

Kell took a long draw on his cigar and exhaled. His ruddy complexion showed no signs of abating, though he did appear calmer. Royce suspected that although Kell was calming down slightly, he may still be on the verge of a stroke, which would do him no good whatsoever. He needed Kell alive and dancing to his tune.

“What was it you said you wanted?” Kell sighed in defeat.

“You know what I want. I want you to endorse my run for President. Do that and all your dirty secrets are safe, my friend. Just remember, I’m not forcing you to do this, Senator. The choice is, as it always has been, yours. You can back me and come out a winner, or you can be a man of principle and lose everything. What is more important to you, your office and all the money and power that comes with it, or your honor?”

Kell lowered his head and looked to the floor, unwilling to meet Royce’s eyes. He knew, as they both did, what was more important. Like so many politicians, he valued his job more than his ethics. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be in this precarious position in the first place.

“I’ll do what you ask.”

Royce clapped his hands together and grinned, a sight that reminded Kell of a barracuda, though Royce’s demeanor was more akin to an eel. As though they’d just finished a perfectly legitimate business deal, Royce extended his hand for Kell to shake.

“Excellent. I knew you could be reasonable.”

Kell spat on the floor rather than shake Royce’s hand and stalked from the room. Royce sat back in his luxurious, ergonomically designed leather chair and chuckled to himself. It was moments like this that made it all worthwhile.

It took an incredible amount of restraint to operate a venture as Royce did. He had to be essentially two men: his public face, which he was required to wear most of the time, and the real Robert Maris Royce – the cold-hearted, endlessly ambitious, brutally iron-fisted man who would do whatever it took to get ahead and to gain as much power as humanly possible. His agents: Phobos and Deimos, were barely capable of restraining their power. They couldn’t imagine what a daunting task it was for Royce every day to restrain the power he held… enough power to crush even those two psychotics.

Denied of his Visigoths, Royce felt a slight annoyance, but only slight. Their time was passing, in any case. He still had Phobos and Deimos and a small reserve of Visigoths already shipped via a cargo container ship with falsified documents. That would have to be enough to last him until he achieved the highest office in the land. After that, he wouldn’t need them anymore. Only criminals used tools like The Visisgoths, and once you because a high ranking elected official, the line between legal and illegal blurred more than most could possibly imagine.

So instead of feeling anger, Royce set his chair back and got himself a cigar from the humidor, lighting it and puffing readily until the smoke filled his lungs. This was only a hallow victory, more a show for the newspapers than anything else. Neither Raven Garibaldi nor Carmine Infantino knew his true identity, and General Strughold was dead according to his sources.

All was well.

He bit his lip.

No, all was not well.

This loss stung him more than he was willing to admit. In fact, his façade of calm serenity was fading quickly. The Visigoths were a useful, disposable tool for terror he could unleash from several hidden caches across the city, using technological implants to aim that at whatever target he chose. This was a great loss and he’d come very close to having his identity compromised.

Damn Centurion.

“Mr. Royce,” The intruder’s voice came from the terrace where he took breakfast most mornings, but no one was out there and no one could even sneak onto the terrace… unless they could fly.

Slowly, with more than a little theatricality, Royce swiveled his chair to face the interloper. He was not surprised when he realized who it was that was addressing him.

“We have to talk.”

Royce smiled, though the expression was devoid of any mirth. In fact, it was heavy laden with disdain and barely restrained hostility. He simultaneously balled his fingers into fists, cracking his knuckles loudly.

“Centurion,” He replied by way of non-committal greeting.

He was going to enjoy this.