“You see, the Dreks were just the first stage,” said Azarov with a smile. “I have been perfecting this process for decades. And I found a way for it to work, but only within my own DNA.”
Azarov’s body started to grow larger, the skin tightening and his clothes tearing. He grew to a height of around ten feet. But unlike the other Dreks, he still retained some remnants of his human visage.
“Hey, he’s not allowed to do that!” said Shift. “Isn’t that cheating?”
“You got a rulebook handy?” asked Sharkskin.
“Hit him hard!” shouted Gunsmith.
***
Feeling had started to return to Wraith’s limbs. He could wiggle his fingers, but was still strapped down tightly. While trying to summon his powers, all that came out was a brief flash of raven energy at the fingertips.
“C’mon…”
The paralytic agent from the Dreks was wearing off. And fortunately, the rest of the team arrived and drew Azarov’s attention before he had a chance to administer another dose. Now it was only a matter of getting free and helping his teammates.
“Just a little bit. C’mon baby, just need to teleport a few feet.”
Wraith shut his eyes, straining his body, trying to locate the powers that had become so familiar to him in the past several months. He sighed and opened his eyes, still staring up at the hanging light.
Except the light was off. Before it was directly above him, now it was a little to his right and further away. He also couldn’t feel the straps against his limbs. Wraith sat up and realized he was lying on the ground, and chuckled.
“It worked! Now to—”
His exuberance was short-lived. An alarm from the monitors caught his attention. Wraith went over to the displays and the monitor in the center showed a blinking message in Russian. Although Wraith couldn’t tell what it said, he had a feeling it was a warning of some kind.
The text vanished and the monitor changed to a map of the area. Two blinking lights were coming closer to what appeared to be an overhead view of Virey. As Wraith looked closer at the blinking lights, he realized each was in the shape of a plane.
“Oh, that doesn’t look good…”
***
Despite his size, Azarov was surprisingly swift. Paragon couldn’t land a blow, no matter how fast she tried to fly at him. He rewarded her attempts by slamming his fist on her back, throwing her to the ground. Zenith tried to draw Azarov away from his teammate with his teleforce blasts, but they were largely ineffective and only served to anger the scientist.
Shift and Zukov were at Paragon’s side, helping her to her feet. They watched while Azarov swatted Zenith away as easily as he had Paragon. Sharkskin and Gunsmith were on him next, with neither of their attacks doing much good.
“He’s not gonna go down easy,” said Shift.
“We have to keep at it,” said Paragon. “We’ve still got numbers on our side.”
“You mean until he summons the rest of those Dreks,” said Zukov.
Sharkskin was the next to be kicked back, rolling to the group. He groaned as he stood. “This guy’s really starting to piss me off.”
Gunsmith was still in the fight, managing to plant a small explosive device on Azarov’s leg. It went off, taking a large chunk of the appendage with it. Azarov’s roar of pain was deafening, but it apparently wasn’t enough to keep him down. Quite the opposite, although the leg was clearly hobbled, he still managed to advance on the group.
Wraith materialized above Azarov’s head and with the scientist still unaware, unleashed a massive burst of his ebon energy blasts at the beast. Azarov recoiled in silent pain, pulling back. Wraith flipped in mid-air, his cloak expanding and catching the wind, softly lowering him to the ground.
“You’re alive!” said Shift.
“Glad to see you, too, but we don’t have time,” said Wraith. “Azarov’s sensors picked up some planes coming this way.”
“Planes?” asked Paragon.
“Scanning now,” said Zenith. “Two military aircraft en route. Communications suggest they are launching an airstrike.”
“Airstrike?” asked Sharkskin.
“Azarov must have gone too far. The government wants to sweep away all evidence of this place,” said Zukov.
“What’s the ETA?” asked Gunsmith.
“A few minutes,” said Zenith. “We would not be able to escape to a safe distance in time.”
“I can intercept,” said Paragon. “Draw their fire, maybe?”
“Even at your top speed, neither you nor I could reach them before they launched their missiles.”
“There’s one option,” said Wraith. “I could probably teleport us out of here.”
“You said the strain of more than two people would be too much,” said Gunsmith.
“Yeah, I did,” said Wraith. “But we don’t really have much of a choice, do we? Now get to the shadows, we’ve only got one chance to do this right!”
The team followed Wraith to a shadowed clearing. Dominic closed his eyes, silently praying as he forged a shadow portal large enough to transport the entire group. Azarov rushed towards them but the team was gone before he could reach them.
“This is not over.” As Azarov said those words, he heard sounds from overhead. Looking up, he could see two military bombers approaching.
***
The team emerged from the shadows of the mountain separating Virey from the rest of the area. In the distance, they could hear explosions accompanied by a faint rumble of the earth. Overhead, they saw the bombers reversing course, no doubt returning to their base.
“Virey is gone. That likely means Azarov is gone as well,” said Zenith.
“Guys, look!” said Shift. The team turned and saw Wraith lying on the ground, in obvious pain. Shift knelt down beside him.
“Sorry about that…” His voice was low, weak. “Bit…bumpy, huh?”
“You did it,” said Shift. “You got us out.”
Wraith’s eyelids slowly fell. Shift gave him a light shake, but he didn’t respond. “Wraith? Wraith? Wake up!”
“It’s quite all right.” Zenith knelt down beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “His vital signs are stable. He is simply exhausted.”
“All the same, we should get him back to the base, make sure he gets medical attention,” said Gunsmith. “Zenith, can you retrieve the Icarus? I think the sooner we leave Russia, the better it’ll be for us.” Gunsmith looked at Zukov. “What about you? Your superiors aren’t likely to be happy about the assistance you provided.”
The FSB agent cleared his throat. “I have no idea what you mean. Following Agent Levitan’s disappearance, I left Iskander as per ordered.”
“Take care of yourself,” said Gunsmith.
“And you continue doing your work.” Zukov reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small, silver case. He removed a business card and handed it to Gunsmith. “I owe you my life. If I can ever be of assistance, please let me know.”
“We will.”
“Although do not be insulted, I hope that day never comes,” said Zukov with a grin.
EPILOGUE
Erik Azarov awoke in a small, white room, lying on a cot and staring up at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Four walls, no window. Nothing but the cot. There was a door, but it had no handle and could only be opened from the outside. Azarov stood from the bed and looked down at his body. He had been dressed in what resembled white medical scrubs, but the last thing he remembered was standing in the center of Virey just before the bombs fell.
A knock came at the door and it opened immediately after. The man who entered had slicked-back silver hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He wore a black turtleneck under a white blazer, and his gait was pronounced with a quiet confidence. Most disturbing, however, were his metallic-colored eyes.
“Good morning, Professor Azarov. I trust you slept well.”
“Where am I? And who are you?”
“You are in a secure l
ocation, Professor. We discovered you amongst the wreckage of Virey. To be honest, we were amazed to find you were still alive. How did you accomplish that?”
“My research did not simply grant me longevity. It provided me with a means to cheat death,” said Azarov. “But who are you?”
“I am known as the Analyst.”
Azarov scoffed and smirked.
“Something amusing?”
“I thought the Analyst was just a myth,” said Azarov.
The Analyst shrugged. “I suppose we could say the same of the Cold War Frankenstein.”
Azarov nodded. “I see your point. So MK-ULTRA was not the failure we believed. But this begs the question: how did the CIA manage to pull me from the destruction of Virey? It was no doubt instantly locked down by the FSB.”
“Oh, it was,” said the Analyst. “However, I never said I still work for the CIA. That was a long time ago.”
“Then who?” asked Azarov.
The Analyst just smiled.
#3 - AIR OF REVOLUTION
CHAPTER 1
In New York City, protestors lined the streets holding signs out front of the corporate headquarters of the Big Belly fast food franchise. The protestors were mostly employees of the popular restaurant chain, and their complaints were in regards to stagnant wages. The placards they held contained numerous statements about how they shouldn’t be forced to live on government assistance when they had jobs. A police barricade had been set up, forcing the protestors to remain across the street from the corporate headquarters.
In the face of growing media coverage of the protests, Big Belly CEO Mark Smith finally agreed to hold a press conference to address some of the complaints, hence the reason for the larger-than-usual gathering on this day. Smith emerged from the towering skyscraper, flanked by the kind of private security usually reserved for actors or rock stars, complete with an entourage of assistants. The podium had already been set up ahead of time, and he stepped up to the dais, tapping the microphone to test it.
“Thank you all for being here today,” he began. “As I understand, there’s been some controversy in regards to compensation for Big Belly employees. Now, I understand the concerns many of these employees have.” He motioned to himself. “Many of you may not realize that I myself began my career working the grill at a Big Belly’s restaurant in Dayton, Ohio. I also would have liked more money—we’d all like more money. But the fact of the matter is that Big Belly pays a competitive wage that is actually above the federally mandated minimum wage.”
One of his assistants handed him a packet and he held it up for the cameras to see. “Since this issue emerged, the first thing I did was commission a report looking into our wages and our revenue. This report, which has been distributed to media outlets and can be found on our corporate website, contains a detailed analysis of our profits and our compensation package. Not only is Big Belly adhering to the letter of the law regarding wages and labor standards, but we are, in fact, better than most.”
Boos erupted from the protestors, including a few choice slurs. Smith appeared unaffected by the comments and he continued on as if he hadn’t heard them. “I’m sorry that some of you feel the need to take to the streets and spread unsubstantiated and malicious rumors regarding employee treatment—statements which I should add are anecdotal, and we have a very thorough human resources department dedicated to addressing all employee complaints about the standards at our various locations throughout the world. But if you are not happy with your wages at Big Belly, then I encourage you to find work elsewhere. This is America, after all, and all workers are free to seek employment wherever they choose.”
A flurry of statements fired at the CEO, but Smith just stood there flashing a bright smile that indicated some particularly expensive dental work. He held up his hands as a gesture to quiet down. “I’m sorry, but that is all I have to say on this matter. If you have any questions about this, I encourage you to direct them through the proper channels, all of which, once again, can be found on our corporate website. Thank you for your ti—”
Smith’s smile vanished from his face and he collapsed on the podium. It toppled under his weight, the crashing of the microphone causing feedback over the large speakers, and the assistants and the security team scrambled to help him up. All while the media struggled to obtain clear shots over the crowd.
“Get back, get back!” shouted one of the bodyguards, flipping Smith over onto his back. The CEO’s eyes were fixed in an open position, and he stared ahead into nothingness. The bodyguard slowly reached forward, touching a finger to what looked like a dark spot on Smith’s forehead. When he pulled it away, he saw blood on his fingertips.
“Sniper!”
The security team and the police officers drew weapons, some pointing at the protestors, some staring up at the surrounding buildings. The square filled with panicked questions and shouts.
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
“Did anyone see what happened?”
“He’s not moving…is he dead?”
“Bet it was one of those protestors, should arrest ‘em all!”
“Did anyone even hear a shot?”
***
Deep in the Adirondack Mountains was the remains of an ICBM missile site. Above-ground, the only indication that anything was there was a small airstrip and a small building that served as both a security checkpoint and the entrance to the control center. But the site had long been decommissioned and the silo had been converted secretly by the United States government into Atlas, the base of the superhero team called Vanguard.
The specials, as they were called, were overseen by Colonel Leonard Thorne. With the exception of a few key personnel, no one outside of Atlas knew of Vanguard’s association with the government, and that included their association with Thorne.
Thorne’s office contained a liquor cabinet that he kept well-stocked, and it was at that cabinet that he now stood, filling his glass with ice, vodka, and dry vermouth. He held the glass up so his guest could see it. “Care for one?”
“I’m not here for drinks, Colonel.” His guest was one of the specials who worked with Vanguard. Anita Jordan, formerly of the medical corps, at least before she discovered her powers and was recruited into this team by Thorne himself.
Thorne settled down into his high-backed leather chair and sipped his drink. “Do I have to ask why you’re here?”
Anita crossed her arms. Her short, black hair perfectly framed her coffee-colored face, but the irritation in her brown eyes showed she was not one to be trifled with. “It’s been months since you recruited me, and still there’s no news on the Red Fist.”
Thorne set his glass on a coaster, leaning back and rubbing the edges of his silver mustache. “We’ve discussed this before. These things take time, and this organization you described, including its mysterious leader—”
“The Khagan,” said Anita. “That’s what he called himself.”
“Right, the Khagan,” said Thorne. “Frankly, I’ve sent inquiries to everyone I know. CIA, MI-6, Mossad, no one has any information about either. FSB says they don’t, either, but then again, after what you discovered in Russia, not sure how much we can trust them.”
“What about that base I escaped from?”
Thorne sighed. “Anita, when you burst out of that mountain fortress, you said you were shaken up and your memory was, at best, fuzzy. Frankly, the only place it seemed possible for such a base was within the Tora Bora mountains, but search teams reported nothing.”
“So you’re saying I’m lying?”
“No.” Thorne’s voice was clipped and stern, and he pointed a finger at Anita to accentuate it. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Dr. Jordan, are we clear?”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying we don’t know what happened to you,” said Thorne. “You were found dehydrated and close to death. Dr. McCabe said your powers are mental in nature, right? So maybe they caused some sort of
weird brain chemistry when they first emerged, made you see things that weren’t there. Or made you think that a vivid dream had actually occurred.”
Anita shook her head as she chuckled. “I can’t believe this. You’re really insinuating that I imagined the whole thing? We may not have known each other long, Colonel, but I would think I’ve proven myself enough to the point where you wouldn’t question my sanity!”
Thorne sighed and reached for his drink. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve exhausted every resource at my disposal. And every time I ask Ramsey if he’s got any news about the Red Fist, he looks at me like—like…”
Thorne trailed off and cast his glance downwards before sipping his drink again.
Anita sat back in her chair, crossing her legs. “Go ahead, Colonel. Say what you were going to.”
Thorne took another, longer sip.
“He looks at you like you’re crazy.” Anita rose from her seat and turned to the door. “I know the feeling.”
She stormed out of the office, leaving Thorne alone. The Colonel stood and returned to the bar to refresh his drink. “Suppose I should be grateful she didn’t tear the door off.”
***
The video hit social networks the day after Mark Smith’s death. It showcased a woman dressed all in white clothing and covered by a white leather trench coat. She wore a motorcycle helmet, also white, with an opaque faceplate. Despite the ridiculous nature of her outfit, she sat calmly behind a desk, in a mockery of a newscast, with an image of Mark Smith in a small insert to her right.
“Welcome to the Revolution News Network. I’m your host, Zephyr.” She spoke in an even tone, her helmet-covered face staring directly into the camera. “The fascist, corporate-controlled media is currently devoting airtime to the murder of Big Belly CEO, Mark Smith. But as expected, this coverage ignores Smith’s many human rights violations and inhumane treatment of the workers responsible for his exorbitant million-dollar salary. Instead, they mourn Smith’s death, as if he were anything but the modern-day slave-driver he truly was.
Vanguard: Seasons 1-3: A Superhero Adventure Page 16