Squad Stories: Cats in the Cradle 1/4

Amanda Waller would be the first to admit she didn’t enjoy taking a boat to work every day. She had to give it to Lawton, Harkness, and even Patten, taking up bunks in the guardrooms had been a wise decision. Like firemen in a firehouse, it was better to sleep on-site, in case any emergency arises.

 

But, despite her predilection for putting out fires, Amanda Waller was not a fireman, and her desk chair was not nearly comfortable enough to get a full nights sleep in. She could probably claim one of the bunks for her own to little protestation of the twenty-four-hour staff, she just didn’t want to feel any more like an inmate herself.

 

Maybe Doctor Quinzel was on to something about her. Psychologically speaking, that is.

 

Amanda Waller steps off the boat, and greets the dock crew a curt good morning, striding up the shallow steps, plugging and scanning and swiping past all the security measures, then grabbing the coffee from a passing, and soon disgruntled, Digger Harkness, and marches directly to the main courtyard.

 

It was transfer day.

 

Waller: Morning, Murph.

 

Murph: Gooood morning, boss. Feeling friendly today?

 

Waller sighs: Not particularly.

 

Murph smiles: Perfect! Here’s the clipboard. The boys are bringing the new blood through now.

 

Waller: Well don’t let me stand in their way. Let’s start the parade.

 

Murph: You heard the lady, roll em out!

 

One by one, shackled and bolted, twelve new prisoners, led by dour looking guards, are led out of the containment room and into the courtyard.

 

Waller: Cheval, Johnathan.

 

Murph: Present.

 

Waller: Black, Danton.

 

Murph: Present.

 

Waller: Walker, Norbert.

 

A furtive man, looking bewildered and distant, glances once at Waller, then is shoved past.

 

Murph: Present.

 

Waller: Bhatia, Shauzia.

 

Murph: Arrived two days ago, boss. Doc Quinn already checked her out.

 

Waller rubs her eyes. It’s been a long few weeks: Right, right.

 

In his cell, Don Conway, Armageddon, is sweating profusely. Partially because of his exercises. For the past few hours, he’s been executing push-ups and crunches. He’s propped his mattress against the wall, laying into it like a railways worker lays nails. He would bench if he had anything at hand, but the cells of Alcatraz are spartan at best. He hums halfheartedly. He recites football scores in his head. Anything to stave off the anxiety.

 

It’s the same anxious feeling he had when his brother handed him the smoldering torch.

 

Waller: Barrera, Guillermo.

 

Murph: Aaannd present.

 

Waller: That’s it then, all the new kids here at school.

 

Murph points back to the transfer center: Dunno, Boss, looks to me like we missed a few.

 

Waller turns: There weren’t any more than that on the report.

 

Murph: Well, somebody shoulda told them that.

 

From the transfer, center, two guards, flanking three prisoners, bags over their heads, emerge. Waller’s eyes narrow. This wasn’t how transfers were done, and only high-ranking prisoners; political prisoners, prisoners of war, got the blindfold treatment. Those prisoners went to Guantanamo, and there was no chance of a layover.

 

Waller stays rooted, but withdraws a pistol from it’s hidden holster under her blouse.

 

Waller: Identify. Now.

 

The guard to the left grins. There’s something familiar about his smile. The way his beard is trimmed. The chord he withdraws from his pocket.

 

Armageddon’s heart skips a beat as the alarms begin to blare. His door swings open, and over the loudspeakers, above even the wail of the alarms, The Answer is shouting:

 

ALRIGHT YOU TRAINED MONKEYS THIS IS A CODE RED AND I SURE AS HELL MEAN RED! IF YOUR DOOR IS OPEN YOU’VE GOT TEMP ACCESS TO YOUR GEAR AND THE FRONT YARD AND NOTHING ELSE! NOT EVEN THE GIFT SHOP! THERE’S ANOTHER TRIBE OF MONKEYS OUT THERE THAT YOU NEED TO KILL DEAD! THIS IS ABSOLUTELY NOT A DRILL! I REPREAT! FOR SERIOUS!

 

Armageddon rushes to the gear room, where Angelo Bend, Mike Aparo, and Bito Wladon are already rushing on their outfits, and powering up their gear. Quick as he can, Conway stumbles into his costume, heaves his axe, and lumbers off after them.

 

In the courtyard, Onslaught has already left their mark. Ravan and Manticore, freshly cloned, have carved a bloody swath through the guards. In one corner, Murph scrambles to evade the flames of Agni, his face a torn, ragged mess from his encounter with Jack Ryder’s alter ego. Murph shouts continuously for backup, that thanks to Djinn creeping through the electronics systems, won’t arrive very soon. Rustam, his sword ablaze, gleefully stands in the carnage, before his eyes lock with Waller's, and he steps forward.

 

Sonar, Angle-Man, Agent Orange, and Armageddon burst into the courtyard.

 

Sonar: Agent, you will take the one of fire, Bend, the one in white. Armageddon shall handle the monster. Leave the one with the blade to me.

 

Agent Orange: Hhhh not the field leader. Do not have to listen to you.

 

Sonar, icily: You are here to take orders from your superiors and I am nothing if not your superior! Now fight!

 

Agni raises his hands, sparks crackling at his palms. Murph raises his chin defiantly. His wife always told him he’d die smoking, he just had no idea it would be so literal. At the last second, a smoking cannister, rocketing through the air, pops Agni in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. Murph scrambles to his feet, breathless, as Agent Orange sprints up and gleefully begins to kick Agni’s inert body.

 

Agent-Orange: Ah, just like in Saigon.

 

Angelo Bend was hoping he’d never see these faces again. He was just glad The Creeper wasn’t alongside them. He couldn’t bear to lose any more body parts. There was no hiding this time though, and no purple-clad, stepford-smiling superheroine to hid behind. This time Bend would have to solve his own problems.

 

Ravan: So many little lives. All so insignificant until this moment; in their sacrifice to Kali.

 

Bend doesn’t even try to speak. He just ‘ports forward, and hopes his luck will hold out.

 

Rustam smiles through the carnage. He had missed the last confrontation in Bialya, and regretted that fact sorely. At the time, he was attending to the Queen of Bialya herself when the last Ravan had come limping into his chambers, gasped out the word “Squad,” and collapsed to the floor, dead of a hemorrhage. It was that incident that got him banned from Bialya personally, and led to his taking up residence with the government of Kabul. Which led to this delicious assignment.

 

Amanda Waller stands defiant against the wall, staring Rustam down as he walks steadily forward. Step by step. Their eyes lock, as Rustam raises his sword, blazing and crackling, and spears it into the wall directly next to her unflinching head. The flame is cool.

 

Waller, flatly: Hello Rustam. Long time no see. Might I ask how you and your little gang of Superfriends managed to get in?

 

Rustam: Where is the girl.

 

Waller: Ah, ah, I asked first.

 

Rustam: We have no time for childish games, woman. Where is the girl?

 

Waller: Rustam, even if I did know what girl you were talking about, we both know I wouldn’t tell you.

 

Rustam: We both know that my blade will make you say otherwise.

 

Waller: We both know that’s not the case. Now, how did you get in.

 

From behind Rustam, a voice, timid and southern, coughs out:

 

I’m . . . I’m sorry ma’am, it was me.

 

Waller glances behind Rustam, to where Armageddon stands, Manticore’s head in his hand.

 

Rustam: Ah, that must be our “Don Conway.”

 

Waller: Dammit, Conway, why?

 

Armageddon: Well uh, see they offered me a way out. Their electronic fellah came to me and uh—

 

Rustam sighs: Your “Don Conway” is a deep cover agent. A blank slate from one of our “Antiphon” gene models. After our respective teams altercation, I decided we needed a more direct source to you in case we were to track you down. We grew him rapidly, implanted him with false memories, and had him sent to you at your original location. Everything about him was a facsimile from day one.

 

Armageddon: Wait . . . I ain’t a real person?

 

Rustam: Jarring, isn’t it.

 

Rustam tears his sword from the wall: Now say good bye, Mrs. Waller.

 

Amanda Waller braces for the impact. Your life can only flash before your eyes so many times before you get bored, she thinks.

 

There is the sound of metal hitting flesh, then a moment of stillness. Amanda Waller watches as the fire goes out of Rustam’s eyes, and he drops bodily to the ground, a great Axe in his back. Armageddon stands, looking at his own hands. Amanda Waller steps over Rustam’s bleeding body, and places a hand on Armageddon’s shoulder.

 

Waller: It may not seem like it, but you did good, Don.

 

Armageddon removes his mask. He’s breathing heavily. Tears stream down his face.

 

Conway: But I’m . . . I’m not real, Mrs. Waller . . . My Ma and Pa, my brother, damn him, the little holler down by the creek . . . Ms. Maisy and the town fair . . . none of it’s real. I . . I’m glad you think I done good but, I can’t stomach the thought of my own not-being . . .

 

He breaks away from her hand and takes a few steps backward. To his left, Agent Orange stands admiring a roaring fire. Desperately, guards swarm about trying to put it out. Murph is calling for someone to drag Cameron Mahkent’s ass out of bed and get him down there.

 

Don Conway takes a deep breath, whispers Caroline’s name one last time, then before anyone can stop him, flings himself into Aparo’s flames.

 

Amanda Waller surveys the damage, and rests her face in her hands.

 

The third prisoner, watching this all unfold from the shadows of the transfer-room doors, slinks off unseen.

----------------------------

 

All Moth-related things were Moth approved by the Moth Master himself.

Done