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At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York
All rights reserved. Please do not use or reproduce this image on websites, blogs or any other media without my explicit permission.
This was a very pretty lake, but I struggled for quite some time to try to get a decent shot. Of course shooting in midday sun on a day without clouds is something I always find very challenging.
I just love the deep green color of these high mountain lakes and it's always fun to trudge through snow in July. Man I surely do love the Northwest!
M-A
35mm Summicron ASPH
Eastman XX
Rodinal 1+50 11:00
#classiclenses #bestvintagelens #film #filmphotography #analog #analogphotography #classiclensespodcast #photographywithclassiclenses #bestvintagelens #leica
Series of INTERNATIONAL trucks coming through the rain and coming storm on the road from Benalla to Winton Raceway for the 2018 "Crawlin' the Hume" trucking get together from running from Melbourne to Albury.
(1) The great George Pyers, AS 182, National Road Transport "Hall of Famer" - read his great story in the link below;
roadtransporthall.com/inductee/13-pyers-george
(2) Patten's International Transtar, good story here as well;
www.pressreader.com/australia/big-rigs/20171201/281986082...
(3) Not sure who the owner/operator of this lovely Transtar 4300 is; but I like it a lot.
Winton, Victoria, Australia
The City Church of St Margaret Patten splits the sky between the buildings on Plantation Place in the City of London. The Walkie Talkie, 20 Fenchurch Street looms over top right.
Kaktus Brewing Co.
Bernalillo, NM
www.facebook.com/micky.patten/
Series of INTERNATIONAL trucks coming through the rain and coming storm on the road from Benalla to Winton Raceway for the 2018 "Crawlin' the Hume" trucking get together from running from Melbourne to Albury.
(1) The great George Pyers, AS 182, National Road Transport "Hall of Famer" - read his great story in the link below;
roadtransporthall.com/inductee/13-pyers-george
(2) Patten's International Transtar, good story here as well;
www.pressreader.com/australia/big-rigs/20171201/281986082...
(3) Not sure who the owner/operator of this lovely Transtar 4300 is; but I like it a lot.
Winton, Victoria, Australia
Snow covered cypress cone fruit hanging out of the lake among its illuminated auburn foliage caught my eye. Very interesting pattens and textures in the cones.
The surprise Halloween snowfall and cold temps left some unusual beauty all over since most of the leaves were still on the trees. Sorry for so many photos of my short walk at the park on a 25F degree morning.
Coach Station House at the Van Patten Mountain Camp, located in southern New Mexico in the Organ Mountains outside Las Cruces. Thanks to ihveissues for arranging after-hours access to this unique abandoned resort.
Night, full moon, 3 1/2 minute exposure with red-gelled strobe.
Michael Patten enjoys his job. He enjoys it more than he ever enjoyed attempting to think up death traps, and he never enjoyed confronting Batman. It was a loveless marriage, that. Marred by flaccid lovemaking and a mutual repulsion. He didn’t have the fire or the passion for that sort of rivalry with a man in a cape. Not like those other jilted freaks, vying for his attention like almost-brides, abandoned at the altar.
No, when Amanda Waller approached him with this job, he couldn’t help but to say yes. To have access to the entire network of one of the nation’s most notorious prisons? Why, he’d be absolutely mental to turn it down. This was a portal to the nation’s secrets, and he’d uncover them soon enough.
What Michael Patten did not enjoy, was the two reprobates, smoking at his desk.
Digger: Alright, alright, here’s one: Aquaman or Cyborg?
Floyd: Aquaman.
Digger: Naw, mate! That’s looney in the head, that is! One shot from Cyborg and Blammo, y’got yerself fish and chips. Just add lemon and beer-batter.
Floyd: Cyborg’s half robot. Aquaman swoops in, takes him out with one wave. Zap.
Digger, taking a sip of his tea: Bullshite. S’your turn.
Answer clacks rapidly away at his keyboard, doing nothing in particular. He just wishes to drown out this insufferable chatter. He lifts the bottom of his mask, raises a bottle of wild turkey to his lips and downs the whole thing in four gulps. The electronic inmates are silent.
Floyd, exhaling smoke: Okay, Martian Manhunter . . . Or man of steel?
Digger: Ooh, tough one. Well ole Greeny’s weakness is fire, yeah? And Superbloke’s got heat-vision so one nice slice down the middle and y’got two Martian slices.
Floyd: Can’t argue there.
Digger: Bilateral Symmetry. How about er . . . Starman versus Steel, eh?
Floyd: Who?
Digger: Starman! He’s some bloke in red underpants that shoots light out of a wand, and Steel’s a big metal gallah with a huge fock-off hammer!
Floyd: Sounds like Steel’s got the advantage.
The Answer mutters something incoherent to himself, then reaches over to where a fresh orchid lays on the monitor. Next to it is a thin shaker of salt. The Answer reaches past the orchid, lifts the shaker, and pours just a small amount on his hand. His mask still lifted, he rapidly huffs the powder into his nose. An involuntary, high pitched noise escapes his throat, then dies. The conversation around him gets temporarily quicker, and his focus gets sped up right along with it.
Digger, leaning over to Answer: Uh, hey mate, got a little extra to spare?
Answer: No dice, Bob Keeshan, get your own goddamn pixie sticks.
Digger, backing off: Alright mate, just curious.
Floyd: Real question is, Digger, Flash or Bats?
Digger: Aw it’s Flash, no contest.
Floyd: You sure?
Digger: Course I’m sure! Flashie runs faster’n the speed of sound. Bats is just a bloke who throws bat-shaped boomera—Oy, hold on a minute!
Floyd chuckles humorlessly and finishes his cigarette, flicking it into the garbage can across the room. There’s blood on the floor.
Answer’s feet move around under the table. They slither like snakes until they bump into course brown paper. His feet wrap around it like tentacles and he drags the bag bodily towards himself. Mid-typing he reaches into the bag and withdraws a grapefruit. Nonchalantly, he bites into it like an apple. Something catches his eye on one of the countless, glowing monitors.
Digger, finishing his tea: What about, heh, Power Girl versus Wonder Woman, eh?
Floyd, twirling an unlit cigarette in his fingers: Hm. Wonder Woman has the advantage. Not as strong, but better equipped.
Digger: Oh they’re both bloody well equipped if ye get my meaning. My opinion, no matter which one loses, whoever’s watchin wins! Ahahaha!
Floyd allows himself a smirk, but he’s not in a jovial mood today. Every person he’s passed in the hallway today was walking dead. A bullet in their forehead, their eyes glassed over, blood running down their face, into their lips, and dripping off their chins. He’s been looking at the far wall, and not at Digger for this same reason. It’s one of those days. It will pass. It always passes.
Digger: Now I know we gave him guff before f’r tryin, but I’ll give him credit; Bend’s got good taste. That Black Orchid Sheila’s a bit of all right, eh? Surprised you hadn’t tried to move in there alrea-
Answer, standing up and punching the monitor he’d been staring at, half-eaten grapefruit in his other hand: Grodd’s Balls, you filthy chain-smoking Layabouts! Get down to detention block S immediately!
Digger: Jaysus, what the hell for?
Answer: Some flaming asshole is trying to jail-break a prisoner!
Roshka DeWulf & Patten, Phoenix, AZ, Law firm. For Super Lawyers magazine.
See 2007 version final image here with detailed lighting information:
www.flickr.com/photos/cooganphoto/451907439/
I shot the law firm Roshka DeWulf & Patten again this year for Super Lawyers Magazine. One of the attorneys left the firm so they needed a new photo, but they liked the one I shot in 2007 so much that they wanted to do the same view this year, so I did.
I kept notes of my set up from 2007 and had the assistant shoot production stills just in case I needed to recreate the shot from last year, and I'm glad I did. How often do you have the chance to shoot the same shot again a year later, and need to replicate it almost to every degree... not that often, but here is an example of a large group shot with lots of lighting that I had to repeat a year later.
I almost didn't post this image, because it is so similar to the 2007 shot, but that's sort of the point, that I was able to recreate the shot a year later. Musicians practice the same song over and over again, performing it on stage, and while I think of making an image like this is sort of like a performance, as I have to produce, I don't generally set up the same shot multiple times in a year or even a year apart.
This shot took about 3 hours to set up (light, with one assistant thanks Geoff) and shoot. Plus I scouted the location again this year to see if there was a better view than last year, but frankly this is the best view I could come up with.
Camera view: East North East (The sun is lighting the south side of the building in the background)
Same lighting technique used on this group shot: www.flickr.com/photos/cooganphoto/437402233/
Lighting: Dyna-lites
Main light on camera right - 4x6' Chimera. (2) Dyna-lite heads, with (1) 2000 watt pack, I silked off the right side of the softbox to reduce the amount of light coming out of the right side to keep the exposure across the group as even as possible from left to right, so the silk worked great.
Additional lighting:
(1) 2000 ws Dyna-lite pack outside to create shadow on the marble and wood wall from window structure.
(1) bare head behind group for hairlight
(2) heads aimed into concrete ceiling outside (If this was not lit it would have gone black)
Hair light: (1) light on boom arm in small Chimera
Learn how to light at Strobist.
Phoenix Arizona AZ Editorial Photographer
Flickr Explore #80 on October 2, 2008
The dull glow of a few dozen screens, both television and computer, blare down their light on a figure sitting calmly in the observation room of Belle-Reve. His fingers type rapidly at the keyboard in front of him. Various external hard drives and wired devices of his own making lay in disarray across the desk among tape recorders, a flyswatter and a dozen empty bottles of various liquors.
This is Michael Patten: Aka, The Answer. He’s been in this chair for four days and hasn’t noticed it yet.
He’s talking to himself.
Answer, under his breath: What they fail to realize is the tenuous nature of our universe. How many times have we tipped over the brink? There’s been shifts long before I started seeking . . . answers. Three separate smiling men, endless crises, the ticking of doom while a blue god smiles, and our agencies patrolling the net, like Komodo dragons stalking the high-watermark. What was our world before? What has it come to? Where is it going . . .
Waller, making her presence known: Hopefully Patten, your world will be taking a shower soon. Faraday tells me you’ve been of here for four days.
Answer, still observing the screens: Time is immaterial when there’s work to be done.
Waller: Or time’s the only thing that matters. What I’m paying you better be worth it. *She gazes across all the screens, taking in everything at once until her eyes stop on a small television screen showing a Robot punching the silhouette of a man in what could have passed for his face.*
Waller: Also, what are you watching?
Answer spins around: My dear director, of course it will be. Or rather, of course it is. In the alleged four days I’ve been here, I’ve seen to it your security system is airtight. Suffocatingly so. Nothing, short of The Bat with an extra two weeks at his disposal, could get through these cyber-doors. And even then, I’ve installed a number of bat traps. Also I happen to be watching the 60’s Doom Patrol show. Not voluntarily, mind you. For some reason it seems to be on every channel. It’s damn perplexing, and it’s causing me to miss Ancient Aliens.
Waller: Hm. A simple yes or no would have sufficed, but it sounds like you’ve delivered. We’ll see how long it is though until it’s tested. Then you better pray you’re as good as you claim.
Answer: Madame, there is no need for prayer in the world of cold hard numbers.
Waller: For your sake, you’d better hope not. Hit the showers when you’re done, and let Murph know if there’s anything you’ll be needing. We’ve got a mission coming up, so I need you bright-eyed.
Answer: There is one thing I need, a copy of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Not to read, mind you, the paranoid, scratchy prose, but because that disdainful novella still measures an eight-point-five millimeters thick, which is just enough to counteract the surprisingly uneven floor underneath this desk to my left, here.
Waller, leaving: Take it up with Murph. Or just use Amazon.
Answer, returning to his monitors: Amazon, the river of mediocrity? Not likely. Help me Franz.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In his private quarters, Colonel Rick Flag polishes his gun. Systematically he disassembles and cleans it. He checks everything is in working order, then deftly snaps it all back into place. He’s been at this, repeating the process for a solid ten minutes. He’s frustrated, and the shooting range is full.
Doctor Karin Grace enters. She’s tired, but not depressed. She has a better handle on their situation than Flag does. She used to love him, but as time has worn on, Flag has worn down. Karin has watched him crumble, and pities him more than anything.
Rick Flag is a good soldier. Rick Flag wants to be anything else.
Karin, sitting down next to Flag: Rick, please, relax.
Rick, taking a deep breath: Karin I . . . I want to apologize for my outburst earlier. It was uncalled for and out of line.
Karin: Rick c’mon, you don’t have to apologize to me. You don’t have to apologize to anyone. It was hardly an outburst. I don’t necessarily think the best use of our talents is fighting movie props to cover up a group of black-ops convicts either, but that’s what we’ve been hired for.
Rick, setting down his gun and standing up: That’s what pisses me off so god damn much. Convicts. There’s no reason for it. There’s no sense. Agents like us are already sworn to secrecy. Relying on that human refuse is a liability in itself. Do you think Captain Goddamn Boomerang can keep a secret?
Karin, still seated: No, but that’s not the point, Rick. The point is this what we signed on for. This is our duty. It’s just another job, and eventually when these scumbags get themselves wiped out, they’ll call in us. They’ll call in the real professionals.
Flag, beginning to strap on his gear: We’ll see, Karin. Probably best that you go get Jess and Hugh. We roll out in two hours.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Digger and Floyd have chosen their bunks in the guardroom. Digger by the door, Floyd in the corner. Digger’s telling wild stories about his time with The Rogues.
Floyd doesn’t particularly care, but he listens anyways.
He’s lost count of which cigarette he’s on.
Digger: . . . And then he made ‘em eat his own laser Kaleidoscope! Ahahaha aw strewth, those were the good ole days. Things were simpler then. Now look at us, convicted killers yesterday, G-men today. And not too bad a deal if I say so m'self.
Floyd hangs his one picture, suspended by a thumbtack, on the wall. Satisfied, he shoves the rest of his luggage under his bunk.
Digger: Hey now, *he withdraws a small dartboard from his gear* Fancy a cuppa defeat?
--------------------------------------------------------
Waller is marching through the halls of Belle-Reve. Meeting with Patten always makes her feel ill for some reason. She think it’s his odor.
The monstrous and strange denizens behind the bars of the penitentiary are oddly quiet for once. She counts it as a blessing.
Amanda Waller has a headache.
Waller, into walkie talkie: Faraday, get Bend, leash him, and send him to the conference room. I’ll gather our other agents.
Faraday: Can do, boss.
Waller pockets the walkie talkie, takes two Advil, dry, and approaches the guardroom door. She opens it to find Digger and Floyd scuffling. Floyd’s got a dart four centimeters from Digger’s eye.
Digger: Alright, ALRIGHT, I relent y’great git! Get offa me!
Waller: ENOUGH, both of you. Don’t make me regret any more decisions.
Sheepishly, they both stand.
Waller: Floyd. Put the dart down.
Floyd chucks the dart over his shoulder where it sticks perfectly in the center of the board, disrupting the other darts already there. Pinned by the darts to the center of the board is Floyd’s cigarette.
Waller: Digger, admit you probably cheated.
Digger, grudgingly: Yeah alright, I tried t’swindle ya.
Waller: There, that’s settled. Now get yourselves ready and report to the conference room. And if there’s any fighting on the way there I’ll lock you both up myself. *she leaves*
Digger: Bloody hell, that was a fast turn-around. Looks like we’re about to meet our new Suicide Squad. And I wasn’t tryin’ to cheat y’know, was just a gag.
Floyd: Just shut up and get ready.
Bailey and Dah Wife canoeing along the edge of the Santelle Deadwater off Scraggly Lake Road in Patten, Maine
We made it all the way up to Scraggly Lake, but when "Mom" started screaming at her kids to stay away from the strange lookin' people from Florida (we have Florida plates on the truck), we decided to leave the canoe launch, and look for a more peaceful place to launch on the Deadwater south of the lake.
The first time we brought Bailey out in the canoe was on a small pond on Mount Dessert Island. On that outing she sat between Dah Wife's legs up in the bow, but this time we decided to have a go at letting her roam freely between the thwarts. She was pretty well behaved (i.e. she didn't jump out of the canoe, or put her front feet up on the gunwales), and she seemed to enjoy looking at the world go by as we paddled along the shoreline, but she did have some issues with keeping her weight centered in the canoe. I guess she interpreted, "Stay in the center." to mean she should keep her head in the center. Next time I'll be more direct and tell her to center her center of gravity.
I'm also thinkin' about getting a life vest with handles on the back for Dah Wife! :{)
It was Michael Patten’s idea, not the choice of recruits; that was Amanda Waller’s deft eye for convicts, but the mission itself. Suddenly, the jittery little man had declared a one-man war on narcotics, and gleefully, he had an entire squad of toy soldiers to throw at it, as well as the charisma and leverage to see it done.
Why he chose such an early hour in the day, Floyd Lawton didn’t know, and at this point, had been awake too long to give a damn. He just knew the first of this new blood to mouth off would receive a bullet to the leg, Waller be damned. Floyd Lawton was not a morning person, and it was far, far too early to deal with the specific problem at hand.
And this particular problem far too goddamn loud.
Snowflame: WHO SO DARES INTRUDE UPON MY KINGDOM!
Armageddon, quietly: Uh, ain’t this a warehouse?
Deadshot, exhaustedly: It’s not important.
Snowflame: ALL WHO COME UNINVITED TO THE LAP OF MY WHITE GOD MUST BURN!
Agent Orange, excitedly: Yes, yes, burn, burrn . . .
Deadshot: Keep it together, Aparo.
Snowflame: UNLESS OF COURSE, YOU BECOME A SLAVE TO THE POWDER, AND JOIN ME IN MY CRUSADE!
Deadshot: Hard pass, flakey. You boys remember what to do?
Armageddon: Yes, sir!
Agent Orange: Yes, yes, yes, buurrrn.
Deadshot: That’s the idea. Aparo, left! Conway, right!
Don Conway, “Armageddon” a Louisiana native, regrets the choices that brought him here. The people he associated with, and more specifically, the hate crime that landed him in Belle Reve.
Mike Aparo, “Agent Orange” , on the other hand, would never regret anything as long as he lived, and that included the gassing of seventeen city blocks with a fatal neurotoxin and his confrontation with the new Outsiders.
Floyd Lawton considers taking a standing nap while the new recruits hash it out with the snow-man up on the crates, slinging white-hot flames in his direction and missing spectacularly.
Snowflame: WHY WILL YOU NOT FALL TO MY POWER?
Deadshot, flatly: Why can’t you aim?
To the right, Don Conway shuffles his heavily booted feet towards the first crate he sees and swings his axe, a family heirloom from generations back, with a fluid, well-practiced movement, spilling its contents across the floor. He balks for a minute at the cascade of white packages, and a flash of one possible future flashes across his eyes. He wipes it away and continues to split crates to pieces.
To the left, Mike Aparo grins widely under his mask. His trigger finger itches. Unseen, his eye twitches. His behavior is almost that of a mindless nature, that of an animal. Instinct and want over any logical thought. Despite his chemical achievements, Mike Aparo is not what one would consider a thinking man, and indeed, all he thinks is of as the trigger is pulled is the white hot blaze, and the explosion that follows.
Deadshot, halfheartedly stepping out of the way of Snowflame’s attack, watches half the warehouse go up in a flash of brilliant white light.
Snowflame: no, NO! THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR SACRIFICE!
Deadshot: APARO! What the hell was that?
Agent Orange, gleefully: Some form of napalm and potassium I believe! Or perhaps some kind of Acetylene! Who cares, it all burns in the end!
Armageddon, not oblivious to the explosion, flinches considerably, but dutifully, raises his axe for another blow when he realizes how rapidly the heat is beginning to spread. He takes a few steps back, then begins to bolt back towards his commander.
Armageddon: Mister Deadshot sir, I think that Orange feller’s gonna make this whole place go up in smoke!
Deadshot: I think it’ll be a lot more than that. Aparo, let’s move!
Agent Orange: But. . . the burn!
Deadshot: Unless you want to burn with it, we’re pulling out.
Armageddon: What of the snow-flame man?
Above them, atop the crumbling crates, Snowflame stands among flames not his own and howls angrily, doing his best to bend the flames around him to his will and extinguish them, but to little avail.
Snowflame: WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN MEEEE???
Deadshot sighs, raises his arm almost listlessly, and fires one bullet into the back of Snowflame’s knee, causing the howling to strengthen, the din of the human shriek melding with the warm crackling of the chemical fire.
Deadshot: What about him. We’re done here.
Armageddon, standing in the empty lot outside the warehouse, watches the fire raise into the sky. His heart beats irregularly as his mind harkens back to that night before his arrest.
Agent Orange, standing in the empty lot outside the warehouse, watches the fire raise into the sky. His heart beats rapidly. His mind isn’t anywhere but the moment. With relish, he inhales the chemical scent.
Deadshot doesn’t face the fire. At this point in time, Deadshot isn’t consciously focused on anything. Instead, he raises his hand to his earpiece and calls back to base.
Deadshot: Snow’s thawed, send Bend.
Answer, distractedly: Huh? What? Oh yeah, the blow. That’s not important now. There’s uh, there’s something you and the rookies should probably see. Bend’s on his way, Answer out.
Deadshot: Well, you both survived this round. Let’s see how you boys do round two.
Armageddon, sweating under his mask, feels the relief of surviving this assignment wash away.
Agent Orange, eager for the next assignment, tightens his grip on his chemical-gun.
Deadshot, more tired than he’s been in a while, listens to the crackle of flames and waits for the green flash.
Another shot of Oxford University Chancellor Chris Patten for my collection....... Don't get me wrong, I'm not a stalker, I just like to get a shot every year I photograph the Encaenia procession......
You can see more Encaenia photos in my University of Oxford set : www.flickr.com/photos/darrellg/albums/72157629194588410
From his University Biography page : "He is an Honorary Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, Edinburgh, and Honorary Fellow of Balliol College, Oxford. He served as Chancellor of Newcastle University from 1999 to 2009, and was elected Chancellor of the University of Oxford in 2003.
His publications include What Next? Surviving the 21st Century (2008); Not Quite the Diplomat: Home Truths About World Affairs (2005) and East and West (1998), about Asia and its relations with the rest of the world.
Lord Patten married Lavender Thornton in 1971. They have three daughters, Kate (born in 1973), Laura (1974) and Alice (1979). He reads a lot and is keen on tennis and gardening."
My Website : Twitter : Facebook : Instagram : Photocrowd
© D.Godliman
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.
Bain News Service,, publisher.
Patten & Lieut. Webb
[between ca. 1915 and ca. 1920]
1 negative : glass ; 5 x 7 in. or smaller.
Notes:
Title from data provided by the Bain News Service on the negative.
Forms part of: George Grantham Bain Collection (Library of Congress).
Format: Glass negatives.
Rights Info: No known restrictions on publication.
Repository: Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA, hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/pp.print
General information about the Bain Collection is available at hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/pp.ggbain
Higher resolution image is available (Persistent URL): hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/ggbain.26830
Call Number: LC-B2- 4590-15
Georgian shoe buckle hinges, a foot patten, handmade nails, and a detail that may have come from a flintlock pistol.
It had been a long-time coming. Nearly quest-like in its intensity, and three long years in the making. After the incident, and with the help of a few like-minded maniacs, Michael Patten had managed to evade The Question in the New Mexico desert after a breakneck chase that stole an entire year from both their lives.
After that, the evasion in Hub City. It had been foolish to hide there, they both knew it. But It was Patten’s hope that the philosophy of “hide in plain sight” would apply, and thus shield him from The Question’s prying eyes. This however, was not the case.
And after another year of searching, it seemed the chase was finally over.
The Answer sits in his chair, listening to the nearly inaudible footsteps of his nemesis pad up the stairs. Until he gets to the final step. The Answer spins around, and brandishes a revolver in The Question’s direction.
Answer: BANG, BITCH!
Question: Clearly, the weapon isn’t loaded.
Answer: Clearly!
He points the gun to his own head and casually pulls the trigger. A shot rings out, but the force of the blast forces the gun back just enough so that the bullet only grazes The Answer’s head. His hair, peeking through the new tear in the mask, sizzles slightly.
Answer: Well whaddya know, little baby still had a slug left in her.
Question: One in the chamber.
Answer: Hold on one bullet-riddled minute, you knew! You just tried to get me to kill myself you faceless freak! Ah well, bygones be bygones. What’s a bullet between old friends.
He motions to a small, plastic chair in the corner of the room.
Answer: By all means, have a seat. Let us converse eloquently our mutual distaste for each other’s personages and how the hell you finally found me.
Question remains standing: I would explain to you my thought process, but who’s to say you’ll grasp it.
Answer: Hey you know me, the amputee village idiot. Can’t grasp anything.
Question: If you really want to know, it wasn’t even all that difficult. After you fled Hub City. I started searching for your presence online. This seemed like a mistake at first, until Belle Reve went up in a puff of posies. I had tried to hack into the system earlier, in an attempt to learn the truth about Task Force X, and was greeted by an . . . interesting signature in the code.
Answer yawns under his mask and slumps down into his chair.
Answer: Three years of rivalry, and it all comes down to this; Monologuing. Get to the point, Q-Tip.
Question: I was, just now. When Belle Reve went under, I knew from digging in the right places that Amanda Waller had purchased Alcatraz for reasons unknown. I simply tried to hack into Alcatraz’s mainframe, and was greeted by the exact same code signature. Your code signature.
Answer mockingly raises his hands in the air: You got me sheriff, looks like it’s the hangin’ tree for me.
Question: Heh. You and I both know only The Freemasons hang criminals still.
Answer: Well, them and the cabal of Chucky Cheese.
Question shudders at the name.
Answer lowers his hands: So uh, did you hear the government is being run by reptile-men?
Question scoffs: Please, the ‘lizard-men-rule-the world’ cliché is as old as Doctor Fate.
Answer: No, no, not the world, just America. And they’re not lizards, they’re snakes.
Question thinks for a moment: Ah. Yes. Now I see what you mean. Hurm.
Answer: Gives you a lot to think about, doesn’t it?
Question: It does, but it’s something that’s going to have to wait. I didn’t come here to chat, Michael, I came to take you in.
Answer laughs uproariously: You can’t be serious, Q, I’m a government agent. Not only that, I’m a government agent who doesn’t officially exist. I’m literally a conspiracy now. And you’re just going to pop in here, drag me by my ankles all the way to Gotham City, then whitlseblow this entire, and might I add, official, government operation?
Question: You forgot the long list of drug-related felonies, not to mention the event that started this little game of tag.
Answer: I forget nothing! Except for the parts the drugs blacked out. Regardless, you’ll have to take it up with the manager, sir, I just work here.
He smashes a button on the console. If either if their eyes could be seen, contact would have never been broken.
Question: You’re just stalling for time now, Patten. We’ve had a good run, but all things, even the eternal Amazonian flame that’s held in the Statue Of Liberty’s torch, must end.
Answer: . . . If it’s eternal, how’s it supposed to end?
Question, frustrated: Someone’s just going to have to put it out. Now, are you coming quietly?
Answer: No, and neither is she.
The broad, imposing shape of Amanda Waller fills the doorway. Her hands are clasped behind her back, and her mouth is clasped in a scowl.
Waller: Patten, nobody gave you permission for this playdate. Or is this a relative?
Question chuckles: Ah, Mrs. Waller. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.
Waller: The Question, I presume. I’m sure the pleasure is all yours.
Question: I’m actually quite glad I get to speak to you. I have some inquiries to make about a certain “Suicide Squad.”
Waller: Task Force X, as you know, were all killed in a freak accident that also took the lives of many officers and priso-
Question: Yes, yes. I’m sure you’re the direct source the reporters and news outlets acquired that little soundbite from, but we both know there’s more to it, don’t we.
Waller: Oh do we?
Question: We do. We both know that Task Force X was merely a cover for the real “Suicide Squad” which had supposedly gone dark after the Cloudburst Incident. That The Task Force fought fabricated threats while the real Suicide Squad carried out confidential missions. It was they who rescued Jack Ryder in Bialya. Who stopped the Pentagram murders. Digger Harkness was the one to assassinate Thayer Jost, who did indeed die of his wounds, despite what the official reports indicated. All of which, was enacted under your orders. The government’s orders.
Waller: Bold of you to assume what I know, without assuming it expands to you as well.
Question chuckles: As if you could find anything about me.
Waller: I don’t even have to look. I just have to turn to channel four at ten o’clock PM central time and catch an episode of Black and White World to know everything about you.
Answer: OOOOOOOO!!
Question: Wh-what are you insinuating, Mrs. Waller?
Waller: I’m insinuating that even if you could prove these crackpot theories and blew the lid off of these so-called “truths”, I’d have a lid of my own to blow off, and it’s one that would ruin your entire “man of mystery” schtick. So I’d tread carefully if I were you, Mister Sage.
At that, Answer gasps dramatically. Question stands still for a minute, stroking his chin, weighing his options.
Question: Fine. But should your operations get too egregious, I am ready and willing to sacrifice my identity in the name of the truth.
Answer: And that’s what makes you boring, Vicky boy. Now get outta here before I decide to use your hat as a spittoon, or my charming boss locks you in with our less-charming wards.
Question and Answer lock theoretical eyes once again, and without another word, the Question stalks back out the way he came.
Waller: I assume he’ll find his own way out.
Answer: Oh yes, he’s a smart cookie, that one. Whatever the hell that means. Ever wonder what dumbass cookies a “smart cookie” is being compared to?
Amanda Waller sighs. She has other things she could be doing.
Waller: Not particularly. Your rivalry with our . . . odorous friend has gone back a ways. I figured you’d want this final victorious moment for yourself.
Answer: Oh I did, the problem is I had absolutely nothing to leverage over him. I just assumed you did, and boy howdy did you deliver.
Waller: You mean all this time you didn’t even know who he was?
Answer: Of course not, he’s got no fucken face!
Waller: Well now he does, and you can view it every night on television or any time you wish on YouTube. Now if you’ll excuse me—
Disgruntled, Amanda Waller exits the room to return to her paperwork.
Answer, in turn, returns to his monitors and screens, lifting his mask and cracking open a brand new can of beer.
Answer: YouTube. Ha! No wonder the little ginger bastard couldn’t find me. His face is plastered all over the internet, and I haven’t even got a social security number!
Cheerfully, Michael Patten returns to the cold white embrace of the internet, seeking questions that have yet to be answered.