"You are curious about my blade, the Soultaker. Some of its secrets I have yet to discern, others I will never reveal ... but one of its secrets I will allow you to know - that its name is not hyperbole."

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

 

Diorama by RK

"And I ran. For a time, Tatsu Yamashiro vanished ... and I became Katana!"

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

 

Diorama by RK

"This is what the earthlings call architectural?"

"How disgusting"

 

General Zod moves from #94 Aparo Freeway to #44 Brideshead Neighbourhood

"Never apologize for being true to yourself."

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

 

(***Alternate revised version***)

"Never apologize for being true to yourself."

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

"I am merely considering the difference between brandishing a weapon ... and being one."

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

 

Diorama by RK

"I am samurai. I am not a conniving, murderous ninja."

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

 

Diorama by RK

"My blade is lethal so long as I live."

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

 

Diorama by RK

"You are curious about my blade, the Soultaker. Some of its secrets I have yet to discern, others I will never reveal ... but one of its secrets I will allow you to know - that its name is not hyperbole."

 

('Katana' by DC Collectibles / DC Bombshells - Designer Series: Ant Lucia)

 

Diorama by RK

10/29/2019 Mike Orazzi | Staff

Bristol Eastern’s McKenzie Aparo during diving at Tuesday’s girls swim meet with Bristol Central.

Joker had gotten the better of me when he ambushed me in the GCPD shortly after the fall of Mr. Freeze. I felt like I had let Bruce down. I waited until after the surgery before trying to pick up Joker's trail with no luck. Night after night I was returning to the Bat Cave empty handed. I'd sit by Bruce's side and tell him about the night while he lay there in a coma.

 

One night Oracle called, the Batmobile had gone missing. The transponder was offline somehow, I couldn't trace it anywhere. What's worse, Bruce was missing from his bed! Someone had broken into the Bat Cave and kidnapped him!

 

I called the only guy I knew I could trust completely, Superman. He wanted the rest of the Justice League involved, but Bruce being alive was supposed to be a secret until we knew whether he'd live or die. If Bruce Wayne and Batman died on the same night, everything he worked for would be ruined.

 

We got a call from Catwoman. She said she saw the Batmobile screaming through traffic and thought it was me joyriding. Apparently her bike had been hit outside the museum. I didn't ask why she was parked there. There are some fights I'm just not prepared to battle. Not to mention she was still nursing a grudge from when I left her tied up in Aparo Park.

 

Superman found the Batmobile up on the sidewalk near Crime Alley. He was still looking for clues when Oracle called again, this time informing us of a double homicide. Normally I'd leave it to the police, but the victims bore wicked smiles, evidence of Joker's Venom. We were already searching for Bruce's kidnapper, now Joker's finally making a move too? No way my luck's this terrible.

 

A tip came in from one of Bruce's informants in the Red Light District. She said that she had seen Joker taking a room with a girl she knew. I figured I'd let Superman handle finding Bruce, this was my chance to bring Joker to justice!

 

I arrived at the Red Light District to find a crowd gathered at the foot of a highrise close by. On the rooftop you could barely make out two men struggling. Activating the boot jets, I flew up to find someone dressed as Batman pummeling the Joker. It was a brutal, grisly scene.

 

I bound Joker tight then gave him a strong sedative to prevent his escape, then focused on the costumed combatant. It was Bruce! He was in a daze, not unlike when he shielded me from the ice shard months ago and nearly died.

 

"I've got to take you back. You're bleeding out."

 

"Who are you?!" His voice grated deeper than I expected. This was Bruce in his prime, not the old man I was used to. "Jean Paul Valley? What did I tell you about wearing the costume again!"

 

"No, Bruce, it's me, Terry. I've got to bring you back. Alfred is waiting. Please..." Was I prepared to fight him in this condition? A few scenarios crossed my mind, but a red and blue blur let me know it would be okay. "You're not alone Bruce."

 

"Listen to the boy Bruce." Batman seemed to ease, his shoulders softening, his breath slowing. "I'll take care of the clown. Get him back to bed."

 

As I drove Batman home in the dented Batmobile, I realized how crazy it was that Bruce was able to track down and confront the Joker, even when he wasn't in his right mind. If I asked the old man back in my time how he did it, he'd just say "Because I'm Batman!"

The end of the school year is so close, been working hard on my schoolwork, on track to passing. I'm back with a few DC figs straight from Russia. 2 days ago half of my order from LEGO came, I ordered a random Bandmate from the VIDIYO Minifigures pack & another parts order. I also just order 6 random figs from the Looney Tunes CMF from Amazon, I really hope I get Daffy Duck. In case you were wondering the Bandmate I got is the Werewolf Drummer, so excited to you all the figs I can make with him. Only gets better from here...

 

DC Figs 194: Russkiye Nayemniki (Russian Mercenaries)

 

NKVDemon (Gregor Dosynski: Classic): Gregor Dosynski was a Russian mercenary agent and professional assassin under the codename of The Demon or NKVDemon and was trained by the notorious agent known as KGBeast. His physical structure was altered in order to make him more resistant to pain and fatigue.

 

Fig Formula: Head (70686: Spinjitzu Burst-Kai), Scarf (40418: Tiny Tim), Armor (71713: Unagami), Back Torso (71026: Superman), Arms (71024: Scrooge McDuck), Hands (70686: Spinjitzu Burst-Kai), Hip (75266: Sith Jet Trooper), Legs (76150: Spider-Man)

 

KGBeast: The KGBeast is an ex-KGB assassin turned super-villain who becomes an enemy to Batman. Using his training as Russia's top killer, he is a formidable opponent rivaling even Batman's abilities. This includes cybernetic enhancements, such as a gun replacing his self-amputated left arm. His student and successor is the NKVDemon.

 

Fig Formula: Head (76171: Miles Morales), Armor (70840: Green Lantern), Torso (76109: Ant-Man), Arms (71018: Circus Strongman), Right Hand (76076: Pilot Captain America), Left Hand (76076: Super-Adaptoid), Hip (76109: Ant-Man), Legs (71012: Mr. Incredible)

 

Design Inspirations below:

 

NKVDemon (Gregor Dosynski: Classic) - (static.wikia.nocookie.net/marvel_dc/images/4/49/NKVDemon_...)

 

KGBeast - (static.wikia.nocookie.net/marvel_dc/images/3/3a/KGBeast_0...)

 

Comment & fave to let me know what you think

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.

 

Amanda Waller was livid, and although she was supposed to seek professional help in controlling her temper, for her heart, her doctor said, she had not worked to achieve that goal. If she had time to think, Amanda Waller would realize that she spent a large percent of her life angry, and that sometimes, that anger got in her way.

 

If she had time to reflect, Amanda Waller would recognize that she was prone to leaping to anger in situations when confronted with something she wasn’t prepared for. But see, that’s the catch. There are very few things in this expansive universe Amanda Waller was not prepared for.

 

And this certainly, was one of them.

 

A flash of green signals The Field Team’s arrival in the Belle Reve Portable Compound.

 

Deadshot: Huh. Conference room’s changed.

 

Boomerang: Oho, don’t try the humor with her today, mate. She’s not havin’ it.

 

Deadshot: Noted.

 

To a degree, Amanda Waller was prepared for an event like this, and the Portable Compounds were evidence of that. Designed by one Niles Caulder, the Compounds are durable, weather-proof, bulletproof, and easy to erect in a matter of hours. Though they run on generators, they conserve power at an impressive rate, and can be disassembled into easily-portable panels and rolls designed to fit comfortably in the back of any standard issue vehicle.

 

The question is, how would they hold against plants.

 

Waller, walkie talkie in each fist: Lawton, welcome back. How’d the new recruits do?

 

Deadshot: Well, they’re alive. What the hell’s all this?

 

Boomerang: We’ve been evicted, mate.

 

Waller: Harkness isn’t wrong. Belle Reve is compromised.

 

Deadshot: How so?

 

Waller: Just after you left for your mission, the entire facility was engulphed in some kind of living foliage. The majority of us got out, but there’s still a large amount of personnel and prisoners unaccounted for. Luckily we’ve got a few of these,

 

She knocks on the wall of the compound, causing the lights to flicker momentarily,

 

Waller: so we’ve set up shop around the perimeter. I’m on the horn here with Murph and Economos. The others can fill you in.

 

Deadshot watches her stride off into the crowded facility, shouting different things into each walkie talkie back and forth.

 

Boomerang: the fair-dinkum ole chum is that nobody knows what’s goin’ on. Not really. All most of us can really tell is everything was hunky-dory, right as rain, then vines were stranglin’ prisoners and moss was growin up the walls.

 

Deadshot watches Armageddon try and walk casually to an empty seat and make conversation with Sonar, who refuses to acknowledge him.

 

Deadshot: Could it be Ivy, you think?

 

As if summoned by the name, Doctor Harleen Quinzel seemingly materializes to Deadshot’s right.

 

Harley: It’s not Pammy, she’s still in Gotham. I called and checked up on her after the salad hit the fan. I got a different theory, but the boss has been so busy dealin’ with the crisis I haven’t been able to bring it up.

 

Deadshot’s eye is drawn to the hues of Agent Orange’s costume. He watches him fiddle with his gun, making sure he doesn’t do anything to further the alleged crisis.

 

Deadshot: So who all is missing?

 

The Answer, until this point absorbed into a row of computer screens, spins in his chair to face him.

 

Answer: There’s not a comprehensive list yet, but needless to say it’s more than a carton of eggs. Not only have a lot of potential cannon fodder types been lost, but Task Force X was sent in, oh uh, couple of hours ago, and we’ve lost all communications with them. Seems that our tech is rendered inert by whatever aura this ‘zone’ radiates. Besides that, I uh . . . I . . .

 

Without another word, Michael Patten swivels his chair back into the monitors and begins sobbing through his mask.

 

Deadshot: Whoa.

 

Boomerang: Blimey.

 

Harley, lowering her voice: Orchid hasn’t been seen or heard from either, But that’s part of my theory, see. Last night she came to my office and-

 

Waller, addressing the entire compound: Alright, look alive. This is officially a rescue party. It’s been four hours since Task Force X lost communication, so Squad, you’re up.

 

Deadshot: Hey, Harkness here’s wanted to lead a mission for a while. I vote you put him in charge, show me where the bedrolls are.

 

Boomerang: Best idea the man’s had all week.

 

Waller: No can do, Floyd, I need all hands on this one. Even if you’re not in charge, you’re onboard.

 

Answer, standing: And so am I.

 

Waller: Denied, Patten.

 

Answer: Denied nothing! I’m just as potentially expendable as these freaks and killers, and I’ve got personal stakes in this whole floral debacle. Send me in, coach. This is a rescue mission? Then I mean to rescue.

 

Waller: Michael, I understand your loss, trust me, more than you realize, but Task Force X is the priority target. All eyes, media and political, are on that team, and we need to be damn certain they’re dead before we sign the certificates. I need you here on monitor duty. Those brain chips the extraction team has should at least radiate a readable signature. Now sit down before I have Floyd here pop your kneecaps.

 

Steaming, Michael Patten returns to his seat. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t say another word.

 

Waller: Now, Lawton, Harkness, Wladon, Bend, Conway, Aparo. Your mission is to enter this zone that was previously Belle-Reve penitentiary, document any damage, locate the positions of the members of Task Force X, and, If possible, extract either them or convincing remains. Any questions?

 

The members of the Suicide Squad all fall silent. There’s retorts and legitimate questions on some of their lips, but none can find the courage or strength to pose them.

 

Waller: Good, then godspeed to you all.

 

It had been decades since Bito Wladon had seen a feast of this caliber. The dining hall was more splendid than he ever remembered, and he couldn’t help but bask in it’s baroque splendor. Before him, steamed roast pheasant, ribs of some local beast, vegetables imported in from the farms that dotted the hill, and so many other delectable dishes, all tithings from the local villagers to their new ruler. Bito Wladon had his house in order.

 

But there was unrest already. The people of Modora had grown complacent and familiar with the rule of Fando, and even, in a way, become fond of him. In the streets, a restlessness boiled.

 

As restless as Wladon’s dinner guests.

 

Answer: I hope someone pissed in your soup.

 

Wladon: Come now, such wishes are unbecoming.

 

He stands, and looks across the table at his guests. To his left,

 

Angelo Bend eats heartily. Beside him, Mike Aparo casually burns his plate of food, roasting it slowly, but never eating it. To Aparo’s’ left, Danton Black drinks his weight in wine. Across from Danton, Shauzia Bhatia eats timidly, and at the very furthest end, directly in Wladon’s line of sight, The Answer sits, fuming.

 

Wladon: I want to thank you all for attending. The esteemed Mister Bend and I had been planning this for quite some time. I was thrilled to have it pay off so splendidly.

 

He raises his glass,

 

Wladon: To Bend!

 

The others half-heartedly raise their glasses, for risk of a sudden out-of-body experience.

 

Bend: It’s been an honor, Your Highness, I’m just glad to be a part of such a great kingdom, provided you plan to hold our deal up?

 

Wladon: Of course, dear Bend, what do you take me for. Indeed, a plot of land and Dukedom shall be yours within a fortnight, we’re merely dredging up the paperwork now.

 

Answer: More like dredging up the poison.

 

Bend: Wha?

 

Sonar: Answer-

 

Answer: Oh don’t give me that look, green jeans, you saw this stunted grayblood rip the carpet out from under me, it’s inevitable he’ll do the same to you.

 

Bend stops eating, and puts his fork down.

 

Wladon, staring daggers: I bid you silent.

 

Answer: You can’t do shit, Joffrey.

 

Wladon clenches his fists, then sighs angrily, and is seated.

 

Wladon: It is no matter. The prattling of a man destined for the gallows shall not ruin this resplendent evening.

 

Bhatia: It is only resplendent because your people starve.

 

Wladon, standing again: What is this new insolence?!

 

Black, between mouthfuls: This is getting’ good.

 

Bend beside him is pale and quiet. Orange, unnoticed by the rest, is slapping out a flame on the tablecloth.

 

Bhatia, also standing: because of you, your own city is in shambles! If not for your foolhardy crusade, your people would be at peace. Now their homes are destroyed, their beloved dead, and you will most likely never use your own wealth for their reparations, you are not the first dicta-

 

Wladon: ENOUGH! I do not have to tolerate these disparages in my own home!

 

He withdraws the detonator from his pocket and holds it aloft.

 

Wladon: Sit. Down.

 

Shauzia Bhatia stands, defiant.

 

Wladon: I am feeling generous, I will give you ten more seconds to be seated.

 

Bend: I-I’d sit down, Ms.

 

Black: Naw, stay standing.

 

Orange: When do we eat?

 

Ten seconds pass, and Shauzia Bhatia is still standing.

 

Wladon: Very well.

 

Time freezes save for the thumb of Bito Wladon, moving ever so slowly down, savoring the feeling of the cold plastic beneath his skin as it moves ever downwards until the CLICK reverberates through the room.

 

Two seconds later, and Shauzia Bhatia is still standing, smiling slightly through her beard.

 

Wladon: What is the meaning of this?

 

Bhatia: The meaning is very simple. Mister Answer, if you would be kind?

 

Answer, still seated, fiddling with his cane: I would be, my dear.

 

He stands then, placing one foot on his chair and hefting himself so that he’s standing on the table.

 

Answer: You really thought you’d pull this off, huh? You thought this’d go unpunished. You’re a laugh riot, kid. I’ll admit, it wasn’t a bad plan, but uh, you forgot one thing-

 

Answer kicks a bowl across the table, sending the grapes within pelting Wladon in the head and chest. Before Bito can look back up, Answer is already striding down the table, kicking dishes and swatting glasses with cane, shouting-

 

Answer: THERE ARE SECURITY CAMERAS IN THE PRISON HALLS, JACKASS! And you know who watches those security cameras? ME? And you know who pays me to report back to her? THAT’S RIGHT, THE WALL HERSELF. I’ve seen some real incompetence in my time, but this, this takes the cobbler.

 

Wladon, steaming: And what of the bombs?

 

Answer: I told you I’d bring hell in a handbasket, and here I am. You shoulda killed me when you had the chance, but no, had to keep me around as your little show pony. And during your little coup, I reprogrammed all the doohickeys. Ms. Bhatia was in on it, Mister Black was in on it, and to their credit they did a remarkable job. Mister Orange is innocent of all of this. Even, maybe this conversation.

 

They all look to Aparo, turning toothpicks into matches absently.

 

Answer turns back to Wladon and kneels on the table, the implied eyes of his mask looking into Wladon’s.

 

Answer: It must hurt to have your entire plan backfire all because you didn’t look up.

 

At that moment, a palace guard bursts through the door.

 

Guard: Your highness, the people of the town gather at the gate, they are ready to destroy the doors and flood the palace.

 

Wladon, still staring into the face of Answer: Well, do your best to contain them.

 

The Guard salutes: We will do our best, your majesty, but with our resources exhausted from the coup, victory is unlikely.

 

Wladon: I DO NOT WANT EXCUSES, NOW GET OUT.

 

Answer stands as the guard leaves. As he does, Wladon begins to arch his fingers.

 

Answer, holding his cane up: Ah-ah, Remember shrieky, I control the bombs now. You go eek, you go boom get me?

 

Wladon lowers his hands: Regrettably I do.

 

Answer: Good! That’s our cue then. Bend, take us home!

 

Bend: M-me?

 

Answer: Who else, Orange here can’t burn us back to base, so it’s you. Spark that device of yours on up!

 

Bend stands as well: No! No you can’t do this to me! I’ve earned my freedom, I-

 

Answer: You would have, had you not betrayed us for mister camera-blind, but now you’re looking at like five more years. Or brainwashing. Depends on how ole mother Waller’s feeling that day.

 

He strides over, grabs Bend by the collar and throws him across the room.

 

Answer: Now let’s do it!

 

Black, Bhatia, and Orange fall in as Bend dejectedly begins to generate a portal.

 

Wladon: And what of me?

 

Answer: What of you? Sounds like you’re about to get what’s coming to you, courtesy of the people of Modora.

 

Wladon grimaces, looks at the door, which is now beginning to heave under an unknown pressure. He registers the angry shouting and clamoring of a thousand angry people, then bolts towards the portal. Reflexively, Aparo’s trigger finger pulls back and shoots a thick beam of chemicals onto Sonar’s chest, knocking him back a foot.

 

Answer: Ha, HA! Good work, soldier.

 

Orange: th-thanks corporal.

 

Answer: Any last words to our sizzling friend, anyone?

 

Bhatia scowls: Worst dinner party I have ever been to. And I have not been to any.

 

Answer: Took the words right outta m-

 

And they’re gone.

 

Wladon winces in pain and scrabbles to take his shirt off before the acid eats any further into his chest. He glances ones at the burns, catches sight of the crest of one of his ribs, and looks away quickly as the door splinters and the roiling, screaming mob rushes in.

 

It would be a lie to say Belle Reve Penitentiary had seen worse days. Even in times of riot, attack by supervillains, and the occasional inspection by the IRS, Belle Reve had stood strong, and retained an air of cold defiance in the face of adversity.

 

But Belle Reve had never seen anything like this. Thick, twisted kudzu gripped its fingers around every surface that unrecognizable fungi did not grow. Brilliant flowers twisted into themselves, each petal pronged and barbed. There was not a surface of the facility that was not covered in foliage

 

And absolutely none of it was natural.

 

A green flash vomits the Squad violently to the border of the verdant invasion, a good seven hundred feet from the Belle Reve doors.

 

Boomerang: Strewth, what a landing.

 

Deadshot: Bend, what the hell?

 

Angelo Bend, baffled, shakes his device with a ferocity, hitting any button, hoping for any results.

 

Angle-Man: I . . . The device won’t work, I dunno! Look, Every time I try and use it, it shorts out.

 

Sonar: Perhaps your inferior intellect has finally broken it.

 

Deadshot: Don’t start, Wladon. Bend, you’ve gotta have a damn good reason for this.

 

Angle-Man: I don’t know! I tell you, I don’t know! Maybe it really has just shorted out finally!

 

Armageddon: Uh, ‘scuse me for talkin’ out of turn here, but uh, that Exclamation fellah mentioned any tech they send in they lose communications with. Maybe this is the same kinda thing?

 

Sonar thinks for a minute, then attempts one of his sound blasts. All he succeeds in is blowing one of his own fingertips off.

 

Sonar: AAAHH, Aaahh, Sweet lord, what has brought this upon me?!

 

Boomerang: I’d say y’own inferior intellect, eh?

 

Deadshot: So the both of you are dead weight, got it.

 

He rips off a shred of Sonar’s cape and wraps it around his half a finger.

 

Deadshot: Just as well, if Flag and Co. never came out, there’s nothing saying we will either. May as well have a few guaranteed survivors.

 

At their feet, there’s a noticeable difference in the grass. At the border of where the surreal foliage stops, the grass is longer, coarser, and a deeper shade of green. None of them notice however. None but Mike Aparo, plucking a single blade and inspecting it closely. He hisses in his mask, and tears the blade in half.

 

Deadshot: Alright, Harkness, Conway, Aparo, you’re with me. Aparo?

 

Boomerang: Looks like he’s scarpered, mate.

 

And indeed, a trail of footprints imbedded in the soft grass, the size and shape of Mike Aparo’s boots, leads steadily into the greenery.

 

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

 

The sound of birdsong is a sound entirely out of place in Belle Reve, and yet, the sing-song twittering of birds unknown came from the rafters far overhead. The architecture appears to have shifted slightly, but it was impossible to tell in that strangling, suffocating foliage. Vines snaked their way through old windows, up cell bars and darted in and broke down doors.

 

Bodies lay strewn about in violent, and impossible positions. One corpse is practically reduced to a skeleton, a vine jammed through his hip-bone, crawling through his ribcage and ripping through his skull. There’s a broken, frail pair of glasses next to him.

 

Captain Boomerang’s eye is caught by a glint below his feet. He bends down to inspect it, and stands again with a pair of dog tags in his fingers.

 

“Doc Evans,” He reports, quietly.

 

The other two stop and turn around slowly.

 

“He one of the Task Force fellas?” Asks Armageddon. There’s a hint of anxiety in his drawl.

 

“Yeah,” replies Deadshot, “the brainiest one. Doesn’t bode well.” Despite the birdsong, there’s a stillness to the air. It makes him uncomfortable. He shifts on his feet, and wishes for a rifle.

 

Boomerang flips the tags through his fingers absently and says “Y’notice he’s nothin’ but bones? I may not be a genius cobber, but even I know y’can’t melt down to ya clackers in only a matter of hours.”

 

After a minute, Deadshot replies, “You’re not wrong, but that’s not the issue at hand.”

 

Then it hits them, the faint smell of chemicals. “Sirs,” Armageddon pipes up again, “I think I found the trail of our Mister Orange.”

 

Slashed like a gaping wound through the foliage, a sizzling, chemical burned trail snakes out in front of them. Following it, carefully stepping over thick roots and passing spiny plants, eventually they come across Agent Orange, wildly spraying some corrosive chemical over everything around him. He cackles gleefully as he arcs poison in all directions.

 

“Oh the glorious, delicious scent of pesticide!” He cries.

 

Deadshot shouts his name, and hurries up to him, careful not to get any of the sizzling fluid on himself. He wraps his hands around Agent Orange’s collar

 

“Breathe deeply,” says Aparo, “Inhhaallle all the flavorrrrr.”

 

“This isn’t a goddamn vacation,” Deadshot hisses acidly, “You stick to the mission, you follow my lead, you defoliate what I point at. Understood?”

 

Agent Orange giggles and nods, but says nothing of intelligence. Deadshot lets him go, and orders Armageddon to the front. Armageddon and his Axe. He swings mightily and chops heavily, carving through the undergrowth like so much butter.

 

“So eh, have we got a cardinal in mind eh?” Asks Boomerang, swatting away at an insect species that never existed before today.

 

“Come again?” says Deadshot, flatly.

 

“A direction, mate. Otherwise we’ll just wander around this bloody jungle ‘till we too are moldy bones.”

 

“I say we get to the monitor room,” Says Deadshot after a minute. “At the very least, maybe we can salvage some footage from last night, maybe find out what went wrong.”

 

“Do we actually plan on extracting the other team, sir?” Huffs Armageddon, his arms slowly growing weary.

 

“If we come across ‘em,” Deadshot replies, his scope training on a passing bird, “If not, we know what happened to at least one of ‘em.”

 

In the distance, comes a rattling wheeze that quickly descends into a dismal, low moan. Steadily, it grows, and grows, exploding into a crescendo of wailing, mournful, ear-splitting noise. A wicked, teeth-shattering bawl. The Squad all drop and ready their weapons, whirling their heads in every direction, but nothing comes.

 

The moaning stops.

 

“What the hell was that?!” Shouts Boomerang.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Deadshot manages to spit out. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s just keep moving.”

 

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

 

In the mess hall, the first signs of violence made themselves truly apparent. Frozen bodies, petrified with lichens and rigor mortis, lay strewn everywhere. One prisoner’s remains grew into one of the long tables, bisected in half by it’s surface. One duo died locked in combat, scratching and biting at each other’s throats. Another still, had stabbed forks into his own hands, and remained seated upright, long after death. Dozens of bodies rested in this way. And all of them were covered in mushrooms.

 

Boomerang makes the effort to wrap his scarf around the lower part of his face, thankful that the accessory finally had a use except as a handle for The Flash to grab him by. Silently, grimly, the four pass through the mess hall, and down into the nearest corridor.

 

The corridor, they realize, leads to the guardrooms. This did not use to be the case. The staircase, once straightforward and short, winds down and down, plunging into the earth, winding in spirals. The walls, soft and slimy to the touch, seemed to heave lightly, as if breathing on their own. As if alive. Tiny, incandescent plants lined the walls, and provided low light in the descent.

 

The Guardroom, when they reached it, seemed surprisingly unchanged, save for a thick layer of dust over everything, ashen and gray.

 

“Alright,” Says Boomerang, “We need ta take bloody stock.”

 

“Meaning?” Replies Deadshot.

 

“I don’t understand,” Says Armageddon shakily, “I ain’t been here long, but I don’t remember any of this place bein like this.” He buries his face in his hands, muttering something about “them walls, them walls . . . “

 

“Meaning,” says Boomerang, “meaning that th’rookie’s right. The stairs didn’t used to go in bloody circles. And what happened to all those poor blokes up there, eh? What drove em to mad killin’? Why’s this room been mostly untouched. What the hell is going on in here?”

 

Agent Orange fiddles with his gun, muttering about green.

 

Deadshot looks to each of the squaddies. He senses the growing restlessness. As calm as he possibly can, he says,

 

“I can’t pretend I know. But if we can find the monitor room, maybe we can figure it out.”

 

“Yeah,” says Boomerang after a minute, “yeah, fair enough.”

 

Then, there’s a humming. A buzzing. At first, like a cloud of bees, then like a swirl of dissonant voices, coming from the stairs behind them. It grows louder, slowly, but steadily. It grows closer just as fast. A warm, gold light begins to slowly trickle in ahead of it.

 

“Run.” Whispers Deadshot.

 

Boomerang, Armageddon, and Agent Orange all bolt out the door to the rear that didn’t exist until today. Deadshot takes a deep breath as the sputtering voices grow louder. For a second, he considers facing it. For a second, he considers fighting. Then, on the wall, a small, framed picture of a girl, almost entirely obscured by dust, catches his eye. He picks it up, dusts it off, places it on his belt, and sprints off after the others.

 

Nestled in the Balkans and draped in a fine powder of snow, the sovereign nation of Modora has survived for nearly four hundred years. It survived the great ravages of a Vandal Savage on the warpath, stood strong through innumerable winters, and joined the resistance when it was taken by Nazi forces during World War Two.

 

And although it had seen better days, the small nation still managed to crawl along. It’s inhabitants were content, and its economy stabilizing.

 

It would be astounding however, it Modora survived what happened next.

 

The green light we’ve all come to expect tears through the atmosphere, and dissipates in the cobblestone Modora streets. In its wake stands six figures in outlandish costumes. Their presence causes confused glances from the passerby.

 

Sonar: Ah, what is the expression? Home is the sweetest home?

 

Answer, behind him, still struggles in the grips of the Multiplexes.

 

Answer: Sure, if you’re an invalid.

 

Sonar turns and smiles. He takes a few steps towards Answer.

 

Sonar: Ah, our delightful Mister Answer. Welcome to my home. What do you think?

 

Answer spits: Looks like every other stick-built pile of mud the Europeans are so well known for.

 

Angle-Man: Who’s being racist now, eh?

 

Sonar: Quiet please, Bend.

 

Answer: You may as well just kill me now metalfingers, otherwise I promise to you I’ll be nothing but hell in a handbasket.

 

Sonar laughs: No, no. For now you remain alive. It is not that I need you, it is that you shall serve as the first public execution under my new rule. Mister Black, please release him. He can do no harm here. However, If he tries anything, do tear him limb from limb.

 

At this he ascends, rising up into the air above the ancient, shingled rooves. Below, Angle-Man, Agent Orange, and Multiplex watch him rise. The Answer however, glances briefly at Hypnota, and strokes his chin once. Hypnota strokes her own false beard once in return.

 

Above the rooftops, Sonar takes in the crisp mountain air, extends his arms, smiles, then releases a resounding shriek from the devices in his fingertips. The sound rattles beams, shatters windows, and causes ears to bleed. Somewhere in the distance, an avalanche plummets down a cliffside and crushes an old man’s cabin, sweeping him into sharp rocks.

 

In the throne room of the Modoran palace, a stained glass window, as old as the nation itself, depicting the great hero Sir Sheldrake slaying the great elder dragon shatters into infinitesimal pieces over Lord Fando’s head.

 

Fando brushes the glass from his hair. He knows exactly what this means. He’s been keeping up with American news. He knows exactly who’s here. And he does not want him living. Fando calls for his captain of the guard, and waits a full three minutes for him to clomp into the throne room. Madly, wildly, Fando begins to shout orders at him, until finally, the captain obliges and clomps back out. Steaming, Fando returns to his quarters and readies for battle.

 

On the streets, passerby have begun to flee in panic. Sonar descends again.

 

Sonar: Now, we are here to retake the throne of Modora. The throne that rightfully belongs to me. You will do as I say, and go where I point. Any disobedience, and you will be without head. And Mister Answer, do try and keep alive.

 

Answer grimaces under his mask, but uncharacteristically, says nothing. His silence throws Sonar off for a second, but the sounds of gunfire and the soft pat of bullets embedding themselves in the nearby building brings him back around.

 

Sonar: Please, for the sake of myself and your own health, try not to damage the buildings.

 

At that, Multiplex expands into six more of himself, three of which catch bullets. The Squad behind him bolts in all directions, and before he knows it, he’s diving into an alley. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to swipe those diamonds, he just couldn’t help himself, and now, thanks to Firestorm and his own lack of impulse control, he had an arm with a third degree burn, a bomb in his neck, and he was here in this random micro-town in the middle of nowhere. He hadn’t even checked to see if that permanent brand old hot-head had gave him extended to his dupes, and frankly, he was afraid to find out. Instead, he just sat in the corner, pumping out dupes after dupe as Sonar shouted overhead for more manpower. Danton Black’s life was one long string of regrets, and being here was certainly one of them. He shuddered every time another of him died.

 

Agent Orange’s eyes light up in fire. He watches has the thatch and bamboo huts go up in flame. Screaming children, thick little fists covering their eyes, roll in the steaming mud as women weep and bawl, and men shriek in pain, their limbs burned off by liquid heat. Behind him, the apaches strafe the tree line, causing the palm trees to go up in a molten ball of chemical death. He grins and clicks his flamethrower to life. Casually, he lights a wounded Vietcong on fire, and sighs contentedly as the man shrieks and his skin sizzles. Somewhere, someone is shouting for more water, more whiskey, more water, and another man wants to go surfing. Agent Orange does not miss California, and does not miss his friends. The coast life was never for him. But this stage, this theater of war, was everything he’d ever need.

 

Angle-Man ports forward, glad he at least brought a knife which rapidly finds itself embedded in the blue-uniformed chest of a Modoran solider. He ports just to the left so another is riddled with his own comrades’ bullets. He’s thrilled, honestly. Thrilled that he’s made it this long. That he never lost more than those two fingers. Thrilled that finally, finally his time served on this godforsaken outfit payed off. When Wladon had offered him this deal after that mess with that Witch woman, he was all too eager to accept. He expected it to happen sooner, but he understood why Wladon didn’t want Lawton or Harkness along. The bastards. Bend for one was glad to be rid of them. Two soldiers are sliced in half by his angle, and another gets the bullet treatment himself. It’s an old method, but tried and true. Yes, Bend was thrilled to be rid of Lawton and Harkness. Thrilled to be released from Waller’s iron grasp. Bend was looking forward to ruling this country.

 

The shells and bullets, and the one tank the Modoran Soldiers employed, were not unfamiliar to Hypnota. She was surprised that a nation of this size only had one tank, but she was also thankful. Another shell imploded to the right of her, and snapped her back to that crackling, resounding sound that took her brother. She touched her fingers to her head briefly, and sent a pulsating force through it quickly to move the memories past. She had to stop doing that, she noted, or the damage would be irreparable. Behind her, The Answer was cursing violently and creatively and nursing a bullet wound to the left shoulder. It was not the worst she had seen. As loud as he was, he would be all right. They nodded to each other, then Hypnota darted from her hiding place, blasting psychic waves towards a few nearby soldiers. She grimaced as the soldiers all turned and shot each other in the head. When oh when, she wondered, would all the violence end.

 

Sonar laughs aloud has he bursts the eardrums and shatters the brain matter of all the gunmen around him. He feels a hint of remorse, these were his subjects, his personal guard after all, and it was a shame to spill Modoran blood, but they were traitors, lapdogs of Fando, and thus, they had to be put down. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Hypnota leap onto the army’s tank, and suggest the soldiers open the hatch, to which they oblige. To his left, Bend and Aparo burn and slash through the guards, and all around him, Multiplex surges through the streets. He breathes in the harsh smoke of battle, then rises towards the remains of a once magnificent stained-glass window. A hail of bullets explodes towards him, but he bats them away with pure sound. Gently, he lands on his tip-toes, then begins to strut forward, and with a horrid set of screeches, explodes the heads of Fando’s guards with pure shockwaves of sound.

 

Fando: не не! Познавам те, семейството ти е мъртво! немилост!

 

Sonar blasts the weapons from his hands, then grabs Fando’s head between his own.

 

Sonar: изглежда, че грешите

 

With one last resounding sound, Fando’s head is crushed by solid sound waves., his final terrified scream drowned out by Sonar’s exhausted apparatuses.

 

Sonar takes a deep, exhausted breath as Fando’s near-headless body crumples to the floor. He is Sonar no longer as he approaches the throne. He is Bito Wladon, ruler of Modora.

 

And now none would stand in the way of his rule.

 

On the edge of the zone, Sonar paced irritably. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his station to be ordered around such as this. He had come from a noble bloodline. A noble house. He did not deserve to be thrust in with this repulsive rabble, and he certainly did not deserve to have his finger blown off, let alone his head.

 

This was Sonar’s mental state, and had been since his first mission. He stopped pacing, and took in the air. In the distance, the humming and crackling of the compound’s generators tried their damndest to disrupt his thoughts.

 

They should be so lucky, he thought.

 

Angle-Man, sitting in the grass: Well, this may be my favorite assignment so far.

 

Sonar: To sit idly while our artificial superiors traverse through their potential doom? Though it disgusts me, I have to agree.

 

Angle-Man: Ah, c’mon, Wladon, you can’t really think you’re all that much better than the rest of us. I mean, today proved that more than anything else.

 

Sonar sneers: Meaning what, exactly?

 

Angle-Man sneers back: Your royal little finger of course.

 

This is all it takes. Sonar leaps towards Angle-Man with the ferocity of starved wolves and begins to beat him mercilessly. Bare knuckle striking open cheek with a wet packing sound, trim, shined boots connecting blows. The blood spitting up from Bend’s mouth mixing with the blood leaking from Sonar’s finger.

 

Waller: What the HELL do you two think you’re doing? Stand down, Sonar, or you know of the consequence.

 

Sonar stands, and backs away a few feet.

 

Sonar: You know, madame, I’ve never actually witnessed one of these so-called detonators in action. Could they be a hoax after all?

 

Waller: Would you like to find out, child?

 

There begins a beeping, soft at first, but soon growing louder, and louder, and quicker. A tiny red light begins to glow in Sonar’s neck. He feels himself begin to sweat. What he can only classify as a migraine is forming.

 

Sonar: very well, VERY WELL! I relent!

 

The beeping ceases.

 

Waller: Good move. Now, if you two aren’t fit to sacrifice yourselves to whatever green hell is in front of you, you can at least do us the favor of not killing each other.

 

Sonar: Of course, Madam.

 

Angle-Man: Yes, ma’am.

 

The line disconnects.

 

Angle-Man coughs, then starts to chuckle: Besides, if you axed me, who’d get you back home safe and sound?

 

Sonar says nothing. He simply scowls, and peers into the green.

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

It took then what felt like hours to finally reach the Belle Reve monitor room. Or at least, what the monitor room used to be. What once was a dazzling, staggering display of screens, lights and wires, was reduced to a moss-covered wall, vines entangled in the wires, and insects buzzing overhead.

 

The room was nearly pitch-black. A cave like environment, the only real light emanated from fluorescent fungus, marching up the walls.

 

And one glowing power button, a neon orange against the cold green.

 

“Aparo,” says Deadshot quietly, “you’re doorman.”

 

Agent-Orange, twitching slightly, shuffles back to the rooms’ entrance and kneels outside. He drags his finger through the moss and rubs to between his thumb and forefinger.

 

“Dirty, filthy,” he mutters, “all of this simply must be cleansed.”

 

Armageddon heaves his heavy axe to rest it on his shoulder. He wasn’t used to this much activity for so long. Winded, he sits down across from the monitors and leans against the foam-like wall. It’s comfortable, but damp. He gazes at one of the flowers spread across the wall beside him. He thinks of the flowers in Caroline’s garden back home, and their whispers as they crackled into ash.

 

Deadshot rests his hands on the mossy control panel, and begins to fiddle with the buttons. In the center of all the keys, an orchid grows. He considers it a moment, then plucks it, and places it aside.

 

Finally, it catches his eye; the pulsing orange circle in the lowest possible corner. He presses it in, and watches as the few screens without vines through them start to shakily boot up.

 

From the top of one, a small bird, unnoticed by the crew, flits out of the room and down the hall.

 

Had they been given the chance to look carefully, they would have noticed the birds’ eyes were those of Doctor Karin Grace.

 

The first thing about the room Captain Boomerang notices, is the smell.

 

“Strewth!” he cries, “Like someone took a bloody bath in perfume an’ died right after.”

 

Then he catches sight of it. Something that no on else noticed when they entered the room. There’s a body on the far side, spread upwards on the wall, coated in fungus and mold.

 

Deadshot has been examining what little footage he can find. The files are corrupted, twisted and altered, like everything else. There is little playback, and the recordings stop ten minutes after whatever happened, happened. He manages, just barely, to find the point of origin.

 

In the center of Belle Reve, there was an explosion of light, then the cameras went out.

 

“Damn,” He mutters to himself. He fiddles a little further, then realizes it’s fruitlessness. “Well, this was a bust.” He says to his companions. “The files told us nothing, and all we’ve found are a bunch of corpses and Doc Evans’s tags. Pack it up, we’re heading out.”

 

“Don’t Miss Waller wanna know what happened with this place?” asks Armageddon, still seated, a flower twirling in his fingers.

 

“Sure,” says Deadshot, “Problem is there’s no way to find out. Best thing t’do is just set fire to the whole building probably.

 

Agent Orange, by the door, calls “Or we could journey to the center. Get right to the nucleus and remove it’s heart.”

 

Deadshot leans against the console and stares into the wall for a minute. His hand fiddles with the picture on his belt. He could really use a cigarette.

 

“Alright,” He says, “Why not. We’ve made it this far, may as well go all the way. Everybody, fall in, we’re gone.”

 

He begins to move towards the door, Armageddon in tow. Agent Orange stands to meet them. The get halfway down the hall before Deadshot realizes their one short.

 

“Double back,” he mutters, frustrated.

 

At the far-side of the monitor room, where the fungi creep up the wall, obscuring the form of a well-hidden body, Captain Boomerang has found something of interest.

 

“Harkness?” Says Deadshot, guns trained instinctively until he sees Boomerang is fine.

 

“Lawton ole chum,” greets Boomerang. There’s dread in his voice, “You’ll never guess what I just dredged up.”

 

“And I don’t want to. What is it?”

 

Boomerang holds aloft a small leather book, worn with apparent age.

 

“Seems this bloke on the wall here that you all moseyed on by, is an old mate of ours, and this, just so happens to be his writing. Gentlemen, I give ya the journal of Rick Flag.”

 

After the upheaval that was Rustam’s latest visit, and the forced vacation leave of both Floyd Lawton and Digger Harkness, things had been a little quiet, and with such heavy losses, also fairly bleak. Amanda Waller had been subconsciously searching for a little bit of levity, however brief, and as such, She was looking forward to delivering this next piece of information to its intended recipient.

 

She also had to give Murph some credit when he pointed it out: There hadn’t been any new missions since the operation moved to Alcatraz. She figured he was right, and after doing some intel digging and receiving messages from down the grape vine, she had just the thing in mind. Given the missions so far, one might surmise that it took both Lawton and Harkness to warrant a mission’s launch.

 

But despite their stellar track record, Amanda Waller didn’t need either of those operatives to run a mission.

 

Waller: Patten, look alive.

 

Answer, staring vacantly into his screens: Hard to look alive when you’re dead inside oh mighty director.

 

He swivels his chair towards the direction of the door.

 

Answer: I cannot find the expression or expletive appropriate enough for whatever the hell is happening here.

 

Amanda Waller stands in the doorway with no dearth of costumed criminals behind her.

 

Waller, smirking: This, Patten, is a Suicide Squad. You’ve worked with one for quite some time now.

 

Answer: This can’t be a Suicide Squad, you haven’t got uh . . . bullet-man, and . . . Crocodile Dundee.

 

Waller: Rosters change. Now You’re gonna have to sober up fast, because you’re gonna be the one in charge of the team you see here.

 

Answer and Sonar simultaneously: WHAT?

 

Answer: I must be fucken stoned.

 

Sonar: You are not the only one! Director, to put this addled buffoon in charge—

 

Answer: I’m not addled, I’m goofed.

 

Bito: --is madness, I believe I have proven myself worthy to lead this team to victory. Cast him aside, and choose Wladon.

 

Waller squares her shoulders and stares Sonar directly in the eye. There’s a moment of silence.

 

Waller: Is this really how you want to die, Bito?

 

Sonar grimaces, then returns to his place between Bend and Aparo.

 

Waller: Had a feeling.

 

Answer sighs: look, I appreciate the whole ‘coming in and demanding I breach my contract’ thing, but uh, I’m all hopped up on goofballs, so I’m just dead in the water for the next couple of hours.

 

Waller: I had a feeling about that too.

 

Waller steps forward, leans down to an approximation of Answer’s ear, then whispers something to him.

 

Answer sits for a minute, tapping his finger on the arm rest of his chair slowly, then stands, grabbing his cane and twirling it clumsily.

 

Answer: fucken goofballs. Alright, you got me. Give me scent and set me on the trail. What’s the quarry, who’ve I got up my sleeve. Why is there three of that guy?

 

Waller: That’s multiplex. He turns into more of himself.

 

Answer: Jesus, talk about an egoist. You’re probably great at parties though, eh?

 

Multiplex: I’m an entire frat by myself, man.

Multiplex: I’m an entire frat by myself, man.

Multiplex: I’m an entire frat by myself, man.

 

Answer: I love it. And you, beardy, must be the Hypnosis lady. *we swirls his hand rhythmically, but his whole body follows, and he has to sit back down.*

 

Hypnota: You are correct, mister . . Answer?

 

Answer: Yep, that’s me. The little voice on the speakers. Mister god up above.

 

Hypnota, smirking: I am certain you are not like God.

 

Answer: I should damn well hope not. And you three freaks I already know, so let’s get this show on the road.

 

Waller: Glad to have convinced you. Now, there’s a group of defected ARGUS agents camped out in a safehouse downtown Keystone City. The job is simply to get in, eliminate them, and get out. Bend will teleport you there, and from that point, I think you can figure it out. Easy enough?

 

Answer nods: Easy is as easy does. You can count on us. Squad, assemble!

 

The various Squaddies all shuffle around aimlessly, and look at Answer in confusion, apathy, or disgust.

 

Answer: Oh this is gonna be a fun trip. You, weirdoes, come stand by me. Good. Now you, Green-jeans, wave your wand and let’s do this thing.

 

Bend glances at Wladon, who nods every so slightly. Multiplex draws his dupes into himself, and Hypnota whispers a short prayer. Agent-Orange, concerningly silent, merely grips his gun and shakes slightly like a leaf in a mild breeze.

 

Answer: Everybody ready?

 

There is a general murmur of affirmation.

 

Answer: Then three, two, one, let’s jam.

 

Amanda Waller winces as the great green flash of light winks in and out of existence, and with it, the Squad. She tunes her own earpiece, and waits for the connection signal, then strolls over to the control room chair. She casually brushes various debris from the console, curses to herself, and sits down in the monitor chair, placing her elbows on the console, and arching her fingers together. It’s been some time since she took on monitor duty personally, it was a nice change of pace from paperwork.

Amanda Waller’s legs are tired. More than usual. For twelve hours now, she’s been pacing back and forth, her voice growing hoarse as she shouts orders into communicators and organizes the packing and preparation for transport. At one point, six prisoners broke loose from their temporary containment in Compound C. They were six more casualties in this fiasco that Amanda Waller had dealt with herself.

 

In the case of an event like this, though Amanda didn’t have an exact plan for Belle Reve erupting in foliage, she did have a plan for the complete compromise of the penitentiary, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t half-expect Patten’s hacking and lack of impulse-control to be the one to compromise them. But that didn’t matter now, all that mattered was the backup plan.

 

Not to mention the location.

 

A knock on the door signals the arrival of the Field Team. It’s Amanda herself who answers.

 

Waller: Welcome back.

 

Boomerang: Surprised t’see us, Sheila?

 

Waller: Some of you, yes.

 

Deadshot: Bend’s hardware’s still on the fritz, we had to walk all the way back.

 

Waller: Well I’m sure you’d like to get some rest then.

 

Deadshot removes his helmet. The rest of the team begin to remove their masks and various accessories as well.

 

Floyd: I’m sure I would.

 

Waller: Report first, then rest.

 

Floyd slumps into a cheap chair.

 

Floyd: Shoulda known.

 

Don Conway unmasks and sets his axe by the door. He sits down next to it, and cracks open a bottle of water. Mike Aparo removes his gas mask. His eyes are yellow, his teeth crooked. He sits near Conway and changes the cannisters on his gun. Bend searches the supplies for alcohol. He will find nothing. Wladon’s finger is tended to by the single paramedic in the compound, the rest having been separated during the confusion. The entire time, he remains indignant. Digger Harkness rushes towards the miniature bathroom stall in the back of the compound. Out of it’s door steps Harleen Quinzel.

 

Harley: You’re back!

 

Digger: We’re back!

 

Harley: Who all made it back?

 

Digger: Somehow we all did. S’kind of a miracle almost.

 

Harley’s eyes sparkle just a little bit.

 

Harley: T-Task Force X? Flag?

 

Digger’s face darkens

 

Digger: I’m . . . I’m sorry Jesterbells, Th’colonel didn’t make it. . .

 

Harley, quietly: oh . . .

 

Digger: He was a good bloke, he was. When y‘can, talk to Floyd, he’s got Flag’s journal. He’s got some nice things t’say about you in particular in there.

 

He excuses himself, then closes the door.

 

Harley’s world goes numb, just for a few seconds. A rushing wave of static blows her to the nearest chair, where she slumps listlessly. She feels like she’s underwater. There’s a tightness in her chest, but she doesn’t know what it means.

 

On the other side of the compound, Amanda Waller has finally put down her walkie talkies, focused solely on the exhausted hitman in front of her.

 

Waller: So no survivors?

 

Floyd: None we could find.

 

He hands her Doctor Evan’s dog tags and Flag’s journal.

 

Floyd: ‘ccording to this little book, all of TFX was wiped out or disappeared one by one. Found Flag’s remains too, not a pretty sight.

 

Waller: Hm. What killed him?

 

Floyd: Some kinda mushrooms.

 

Waller, flatly: Mushrooms.

 

Floyd, just as flatly: Mushrooms.

 

Waller is silent for a moment.

 

Waller: He was a good man. They all were. Doctor Grace included.

 

Floyd says nothing, he’s barely awake.

 

Waller: And the building itself, is anything salvageable?

 

Floyd: Not a damn thing.

 

Waller: That’s fine at least. That I anticipated. Any new information about what caused this whole damn disaster?

 

Michael Patten, anxiously staring into his computer monitors, has been eavesdropping until this moment.

 

Answer: C’mon man, spit it out!

 

Floyd: Hey, don’t rush me. I’ve had a long day.

 

Waller: Gentlemen, we all have. Floyd, if you’d please.

 

Floyd, shifts his eyes to Patten: It was Orchid.

 

Answer’s entire body begins trembling: Explain yourself, man!

 

Waller: Patten, please.

 

Answer: Please nothing! I’ve been sitting on these monitors reading nothing but blips and squiggles for twelve goddamn hours while these circus freaks were allowed to gallivant off into the killer wilderness without me just because I’m a glorified god damn pencil pusher! Meanwhile my darling flower-pot is out there in verdant limbo and you move to hush me! I . . I . . .

 

He crumples to the floor.

 

Answer: I just want to know she’s okay, goddamnit.

 

Floyd looks at Waller. Their eyes meet. There’s a grimace on her face, but it’s not of malcontent.

 

Waller, gently: Tell us about Orchid, Floyd.

 

Floyd: I’m not really sure how to tell it. Been thinkin’ about it since we started the journey back. I think this whole thing’s on her. Told us it was her ‘time to be reborn,’ but I still can’t figure out why that caused this whole event. She had changed though. Didn’t look the same anymore. Didn’t act the same either.

 

Answer: how so?

 

Floyd: Well, she was all purple, and she acted like she couldn’t remember who any of us were. Who the boss here was. Where she was even. Just that she was she, and that she had to stay there. Guess she had to take care of it.

 

Answer: Did she . . . did she remember me?

 

Floyd: I think you’re the only thing from her old life she did remember. Here-

 

From one of the pouches on his belt he withdraws the orchid; deep purple, wide petals, still as fresh as when it was bestowed upon him. He hands it to Patten.

 

Floyd: She told me to give this to you.

 

Answer takes the flower in his hands, and cups it between them gingerly. Beside him, Amanda Waller and Floyd Lawton go on talking for a few minutes, but he doesn’t hear them. Eventually, Amanda stands; she begins to bark orders, to shout into the walkie talkies. A bustle begins as the packing gains speed around him. Guards, agents, and squad members alike run back and forth, gathering supplies and disassembling equipment, but he doesn’t hear any of that either.

 

Michael Patten hears nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat, a static roar whistling through his ears. The only things in the world are him, his hands, and his love, cupped between them, resting in the form of an orchid.

 

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.

Cover art by Dick Giordano. Interior art by Oscar Novelle, Norman Nodel, Jim Aparo. Written by Joe Gill.

Awesome Con 2019

In a cold sweat, Norbert Walker shoots out of the frigid, metal slab that serves as his bunk, leaps to his feet, and assumes a fighting stance. Instinctually, he lets out a shout, and slams his hand against the thick glass that serves as the fourth wall to his cell. It’s a killing blow. Had the glass not been bulletproof, Norbert would be free.

 

He stands for a moment, just breathing, blankly examining the sleek, ink-black skin of his hand. A million years past, Norbert screams in agony as the blackness invades him, creeping through like oil spreading through water. Shaking, he absently rubs his face. Unintentionally, the gossamer wings protruding from his back flutter.

 

He clasps his arms around himself, and thinks, brokenly, that he’s tired of prison walls.

 

Floors above, where the thin white light permeates, Amanda Waller is sitting exhaustedly at her desk. She too, absently rubs her face, but for entirely different reasons. Across her desk, hands planted firmly on her desk, Harleen Quinzel stands, and has been doing so for far too long now on a day where Amanda feels the way she does.

 

Waller: Dammit Doc you just have to accept it, I’m the boss around here, and what I say goes.

 

Harley: But y’hired me specifically for my psychological know how, and that kid ain’t ready for the field psychologically. No-how.

 

Waller: Harley, look –

 

Harley: Nuh-uh, You look. I ain’t gotta bomb in my head, so I’m gonna say me piece: You’ve weaponized some real freaks, weirdoes and mental cases in the past, includin’ me. Now, I let Aparo slide cause the only way t’keep that little guy from goin’ completely ballistic is to let him out in the field to light some fires. But this kid? All Walker’s been is manipulated and brainwashed and forced to kill all his life and you wanna send him out to do more killing? With the utmost respect Director, Not gonna happen on my watch.

 

Instinctually, she braces, and waits for the inevitable explosion. Instead, there’s just a single, resounding sigh.

 

Waller: And what do you propose instead.

 

Harley: Well uh, I propose you lemme do my job, boss. Lemme offer to help him shuffle through all those broken memories and maybe break him outta his conditioning.

 

Waller: This isn’t some new bid for fame to get you officially on the map?

 

Harley: Ahaha. Trust me boss, I got enough fame t’last me a lifetime.

 

Waller: Alright, just thought I’d ask. Request granted, Mister Walker won’t be out doing any dirty deeds any time soon. Now, could you do me a favor?

 

Harley: Always, boss. What kinda favor?

 

Waller: Get out.

 

Harley: Right-a-roonie!

 

Floors down, in the dim, Alcatraz ambience, Norbert is laying on his bunk, trying not to crush his wings under his own weight. He considers tearing them off, though he can’t find the word to express it. Instead, the vivid image of his own inky hands, ripping the gossamer straight from his back flashes before his eyes. It’s a thought that fills him with happiness, but he knows the pain would be nearly worse than anything he’d experienced.

 

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by a rapping at the glass. He sits up to see a petite blonde woman, her eyes framed by thin glasses, and a long white coat draped over her shoulders. She waves cheerfully as he sits up, and walks cautiously towards the glass.

 

He stops just an inch away, As the woman unlocks, and slides open the porthole in the center.

 

Harley, gently: Hello Mister Walker, I’m Doctor Quinzel—

 

She watches as Norbert visibly shrinks at the word “doctor”.

 

Harley: BUT! You can call me Harley, in fact, please do. Can I call you Norbert?

 

Slowly, Norbert nods. It’s a child-like movement.

 

Harley: Norbert, my job is to help people. I help their brains, and their feelings, and if you’d let me, I’d like to help you.

 

Norbert perks up a little more, and places his hand flat on the glass.

 

Harley: Would you like me to help you, Norbert?

 

Norbert: Would like that . . . very much.

 

It felt like the Earth itself rebelled against humanity. All over Gotham clouds of snow filled the air in a dense fog. Buildings, street lamps, trees, everything came down at once. I ran at once back to the Penitentiary to check on Bruce but he was gone. The doctor had gone looting for more food and returned to an empty bed. With the snow disrupted and the fog still in the air, tracking was out of the question.

 

Where could he have gone? I could find no trace and I was getting too cold to be outdoors. One last place to check, Aparo Park. There was a hidden dock here where Penguin used to hide his submarine for when he would escape Arkham Asylum. It was well hidden, but also might provide shelter for a wanderer in the cold.

 

I heard a familiar voice in the distance and ran to it. Robin and Spoiler were here battling a man-sized bat! I heard rumors and whispers from the people on the streets of just such a thing.

 

Stephanie went down hard, hitting her head on a chunk of ice and tearing her hood off at the seam. I made a move and blind-sided the creature but he was powerful, and also not a monster.

 

I froze when I saw the red stylized bat crest. He didn't. I was wrapped suddenly in a wire that pulled tight, binding my movements.

 

Robin used my distraction to his advantage and swung his staff with a flying leap but the bat-figure caught it with one hand. Who is this guy, and why is he fighting us if he's wearing that symbol?

 

Batman (Terry) and Catwoman move from #16 Arkham Halfway Houses to assault #6 Aparo Park, placing Robin and Spoiler in Peril.

"Only the smartest can enter this territory of the most genius Riddler! Question: What has neither flesh, bone, nor nail yet has 4 fingers and a thumb? I bet you have no idea! But guess correctly, and I'll let you pass this time. Not that you'll get it! Hahaha!"

 

*ahem*

 

a glove.

 

"Correct. I'll let you in... This time!"

 

...

 

that was easy.

 

Onomateopaeoia moves from area #6 to area #5, Aparo Park, taking it from the Riddler.

Guess how I voted.

Awesome Con 2019

"What the hell do you people think your doing punching up this city!" Someone shouted as the Kryptonians ripped apart the expressway with ferocity. They turned to see a man wearing nothing but a yellow shirt and jeans, one wearing a ridiculous green and yellow costume with a dragon insignia, another in blue and yellow spandex and one wearing a bucket over his head.

"Take them guys!" The guy in the yellow shirt yelled. Those idiots did not know what hit them.

Tor-An in the blink of an eye had smacked the large man into a abandoned car, sending him and it flying. Faora's eyes went a scarlet red and she shot at the Bucket headed one and the guy had to try some fancy flying to avoid her gaze. Non knocked the Spider man off of the bridge only to be surprised as he swung back up to deliver a kick to the chest. His leg broke as Non grabbed it and tossed the man to the ground. Zod went for the man in green and yellow, dodging each of his flaming punches as he knew that their magic would be harmful. And as the Dragon warrior thought he was about to gain the upper hand Zod blew him of the expressway with a small blow of air from his mouth.

 

General Zod moves from #95 High Rise apartments to #94 Aparo Expressway

The Phantom Stranger / Heft-Reihe

Deadman's Bluff!

cover: Jim Aparo

DC Comics / USA 1974

ex libris MTP

www.comics.org/issue/27804/

These two over life-size statues belongs to a group that inaugurated a new type of offering — the family votive- that did not express the glory of a city or a people, as in earlier times, but instead demonstrated the pride of the private individuals who dedicated it.

The family offering of Daochos II or of the House of the Thessalians comprises a group of marble statues dedicated to Apollo by DaochosII, a Thessalian dignitary from Pharsalus, who represented his people in the Amphictyonic League of Delphi [336-332 BC] where he served the interests of the Macedonians. Nine statues stood on the long, narrow base: Apollo (lost) and eight representatives of the dedicator's powerful family (Daochos' ancestors, himself and his son) who were famous for their political, military and athletic exploits. We know the names and glorious deeds of the men represented from the inscriptions carved on the front of the base. Although the figures are deployed in a line and differ from one another in pose and dress, they nevertheless interact through the symmetrical or contrasting movement of their bodies, gestures and turns of head.

These statues represented, in genealogical order, six generations of a family of Thessalian landowners, whose achievements starting in the early 5th century paved the way for the magnificent donor, Daochos II. This family sculpture gallery begins on the right with the political founder of the family tree, Aknonios, and continues with the figures of his descendants. Aknonios, to right, son of Aparos lived during the time of the Persian Wars and sewed as tetrarch of Thessaly. He wears the Thessalian chlamys or short mantle, and appears to be using his left hand to present his descendants to Apollo.

The statue of his son, Agias, is standing near him. Agias was the great grandfather of Daochos II, who dedicated this monument at Delphi, and champion in the pankration (contest combining wrestling and boxing) and victor of many Panhellenic games in the 5'" century BC. The victories of Agias were probably won in the decade prior to 480 BC. The style of this statue places it squarely in the 4th century., long after Agias had died. The idealized portrait of the athlete bears a recognizable stylistic kinship to the Apoxyomenas, the most famous work of Lysippus

 

Source: Rosina Colonia, “The Archaeological Museum of Delphi”

 

Marble votive statue

Height 2.0 m

Late Classical period

Copy after Lysippos

336 – 332 BC

Delphi, Archaeological Museum

 

Metal Men / Heft-Reihe

> The Master Machinations of the Missile Men!

(art: Joe Staton)

cover: Jim Aparo

DC Comics / USA 1977

ex libris MTP

www.comics.org/issue/31701/

Moderator and award-winning journalist Barbara Serra, talks with Massimo Aparo, IAEA Deputy Director-General and Head of the Department of Safeguards, at the opening of the Special Event at the Symposium on International Safeguards 2022: Reflecting on the Past and Anticipating the Future, held at the Agency headquarters in Vienna, Austria. 31 October 2022

 

Photo Credit: Dean Calma / IAEA

  

Cover art by Jon D'Agostino. Interior art by Mo Marcus, Rocke Mastroserio, Grass Green, Frank McLaughlin, Jim Aparo.

The infamous Jean Paul Valley, aka Azrael took over the mantle of the Bat after Bane broke Batman's back. Of course Bats would later kick the crap out of Azrael and reclaim his place as the Dark Knight, but not before AzBats designed a special armored Batsuit and took Bane down once and for all nearly killing him in the process. It was an interesting run and I definitely prefer it to DC's other big event in the early 90's which was of course Death of Superman.

 

While Valley/Azrael was one of those characters I loved to hate I really dug this costume design. It made its debut half way through Batman issue #500. The first half of the issue is drawn by Jim Aparo (my second favorite Batman artist, w/ Neal Adams being the first) while the second half is drawn by Mike Manley. It serves as a sort of metamorphosis in a way as the artists change from one page to the next when Valley dons his armor Batsuit.

 

This figure has actually been customized a bit. He came looking like this: this.

The Phantom Stranger / Heft-Reihe

cover: Jim Aparo

DC Comics / USA 1976

ex libris MTP

www.comics.org/issue/29528/?

4/9/2019 Mike Orazzi | Staff

Bristol Eastern's Lauren Aparo (7) during Tuesday's softball game with Southington in Bristol.

This is the Gotham City War Map, for the First day of Battles. This shows everyone’s starting positions. Notice this map was slightly altered a day after the war actually began since a discrepancy was discovered.

 

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

1: Arkham Asylum

2: Aparo Park

3: Secret Entrance to Wonder City (T: Wonder City)

4: Ace Chemical Plant (T: Sewers)

5: Psychiatric Hospital

6: Grand Avenue (Theater District)

7: Killinger’s Department Store

8: Northern Docks (T: Docks)

9: Northern Slums

10: Joker’s Fun Land

11: Old Shipyard (T: Docks)

12: The East End

13: Manufacturing Plant

14: Drug District

15: Robbinsville

16: Northern Apartments

17: Cybertron Robotics (T: Airports)

18: LexCorp Facility

19: Majestic Theater

20: Monarch Theater

21: Amusement Mile

22: Crime Alley

23: The Bowery

24: Steel Mill

25: Abandoned Warehouse

26: Old Hotel

27: Finnigan’s

28: Textile Factory/Sewer Entrance (T: Sewers)(B)

29: Statue of Justice (B)

30: The Narrows (B)

31: Gotham Broadcasting Center (B)

32: The Stacked Deck (B)

33: LexCorp Warehouse

34: Old City Hall

35: North Subway Station (T: Subway)

Safe Zone

36: Falcone Penthouse

37: Catwoman's Apartment

38: The Cauldron

39: Old GCPD Building (T: Airports)

40: Gotham Stadium (Special)

41: Thorne Penthouse

42: The Hill

43: Monarch Playing Card Co.

44: Gotham Manufacturers Plastics

45: Falcone Shipyard (B)

46: Time and Motion Study Consulting Co.(B)

47: Dinning District (B)

48: Bristol Country Club

49: Gotham Public Library

50: Plant Factory

51: Wayne Botanical Gardens

52: Central Hospital

53: Kane County Morgue

54: East Subway Station (T: Subway)

55: East Gotham Apartments (B)

56: The West Slums

57: Gotham Museum of Art (Special)

58: Hotel Aventine

59: High rise Apartments

60: Sewer Entrance (T: Sewer)

61: Eastern Docks (T: Docks)

62: Gotham University (Special)

63: Robbinson Park

64: Gotham Globe Headquarters

65: Brentwood Academy

66: Financial District

67: Archie Goodwin International Airport (T: Airports)

68: Robinson Plaza

69: West Docks (T: Docks)

70: Old "Vote Harvey Dent" Campaign Office

71: Sionis Industries (B)

Safe Zone

72: Shreck’s Department Store (B)

73: Fashion District

74: Club Vesuvius

75: Infantino's Costumes

76: Gotham Central News Tower

77: Gotham City Supreme Courthouse

78: Shipping Warehouse

79: Krank Co. Toys (B)

80: Gotham Museum of Natural History

81: Gotham Observatory

82: West Subway Station (T: Subway)

83: Gotham Casino

84: Subway Entrance (T: Special)

85: Gotham City Hall (Special)

86: Gotham High Rise Apartments

87: New Town

88: Gotham City Fire Department

89: The Gotham Olympus

90: Gotham Bowling Alley

91: Gotham Gazette Headquarters

92: Gotham Cathedral (Special)

93: Gotham Village

94: GCPD Shipyard

95: Diamond District (B)

96: Iceberg Lounge

97: Gotham Zoo

98: South Docks (T: Docks)

99: Gotham City Bank (Special)

100: Gotham Square

101: Wayne Tower (Special)

102: Central Subway Station (T: Subway)

Safe Zone

103: Grant Park

104: Gotham General Hospital

105: Mad Hatter’s Wonderland

106: Kane Graveyard

107: Killer Croc’s Lair (T: Sewers)

108: Puckett Park

109: Chinatown (B)

110: Old Gotham

111: Tobacconists Club

112: Wayne Enterprises

113: GCPD Police Headquarters

114: The Clock Tower

115: S.T.A.R Labs (Special)

116: Toxic Acers

117: Powers Tech

118:Abandoned Building

119: The South Slums (B)

120: Abandoned Airport (T: Airports)

121: Slaughter Swamp (T: Sewers)(B)

122: Blackgate Penitentiary (Special) (B)

123: Dagget Industries (B)

124: Hart Enterprises(B)

125: The West Slums

126: Tricorner Yards

127: Abandoned Warehouses

  

The Joker's men took off in a van heading west towards Aparo Park. This cuts us off from the remote cave under Arkham. There was a Whirly-Bat stashed here for emergency use. It hadn't seen action in years. Alfred and I borrowed some tools from the maintenance shed and got to work. The sun was starting to set by the time we finished. I'd need a suit if I'm going to get anything done. There's an R&D Lab in a container unit close by, and there's just enough fuel to get me there. Alfred will have to make his own way around Gotham. I have faith in him.

 

Bruce Wayne (Batman) Moves from #5 Abandoned Airport to the Northern Safe Zone.

 

Everyone's too powerful for heroes to interfere now, may the best Villain win!

The Brave and The Bold / Heft-Reihe

presents Batman and Wonder Woman

> Take 7 Steps to...Wipe-Out!

cover: Jim Aparo

DC Comics / USA (1976)

ex libris MTP

www.comics.org/issue/30474/?

Housing Complexes.2040 hrs.

 

*Ding-dong*

 

Hello?

Hey! Cousin! Long time no see, huh? How's things been?

Eeeh, they've been better before, but I can't complain. You?

Just got a job, finally!

About time, dude.

Shut up! What's new with you?

Not much. Shot a guy a coupla hours ago.

Ha!

 

Oh. You're serious?

Yep.

But anywho-

No, wait, I wanna hear about the dead guy.

Not really much to tell, really; chasing a guy, pulled a gun on me and a female jogger, and...yeah. Self-defense, really.

Shit, bro.

Yeah.

  

Ummmm.... oh, hey! I've got enough money to-

 

*Crrrrk*Rhodey? You there, buddy?

*Crrk*Roger that, base.

*Crrrrrk*Gordon's about to start a briefing. Dunno what about, but he's asked for you to be here too.

*Crrk*Roger that. Be there ASAP.

I gotta go, G. Seeya sometime soon, though!

Sure thing, dude. Take care!

You too.

 

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

GCPD move from #82, Aparo Expressway, to secure #69, Housing Complexes.

10/29/2019 Mike Orazzi | Staff

Bristol Eastern’s McKenzie Aparo during diving at Tuesday’s girls swim meet with Bristol Central.

 

Grant Park. 1900 hrs.

 

You alright, Rhodey? You're a hero, dude.

I'm...fine. I just need some time to clear my head. Might go for a walk. Probably go visit my cousin at the halfway houses.

Alright. Y'sure you're okay?

Yeah. Thanks, Harry.

Welcome.

 

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

Aparo Expressway. 1920 hrs.

 

"On the road again....just can't wait to get on the road again..."

 

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

GCPD move from #94, Grant Park, to secure #82, Aparo Expressway.

The Phantom Stranger / Heft-Reihe

cover: Jim Aparo

DC Comics / USA 1975

ex libris MTP

www.comics.org/issue/27991/?