“The Terrible Misunderstanding”

By Steve Seinberg

The trip into the House was disorienting as all get-out for Mr. Terrible, who had never yet had opportunity to experience teleportation...but then again, after nearly three days of being sequestered with the Key, vomiting his guts up onto his own shoes seemed like a party at the Playboy Mansion. Then he thought again about the long silvery hair-strand plucked from his recent host’s scalp that was all twined around his right forearm, and he threw in a few extra dry heaves – might as well get it all out of his system when it wouldn’t necessarily arouse any suspicions, he figured.

He stood up straight and wiped his mouth with the heel of one palm, and saw his greeting committee. He hadn’t had much idea what to expect when he reported to the nondescript-looking apartment building he’d been directed to, and then stepped onto the elevator where, as it turned out, the teleportation equipment had been hidden away...but whatever mental picture he had been formulating, he’d apparently been about a full continent away from the right ballpark.

The first person he fixed on was the closest: a metal man edging carefully forward as if afraid Terrible might decide to altogether just somehow vomitously explode. He looked like a Terminator who spent extra time at the gym, and he wore a black tank top, black dress slacks (Classy! thought Mr. T), and a wide gold belt with a large circular clasp that was stamped with a big red capital letter “H.” His feet were bare, and were just as metallic as his head and muscular-looking upper body.

Directly behind the robot were two women, one a smoldering brunette, and the other a really pale white girl with light brown hair. The brunette was a real bombshell: she was wearing as her main garment something that was little more than a glorified one-piece bathing suit – black, absurdly low-cut, and encircled at her delectable waistline with a gold “H”-proclaiming belt that matched the robot’s – and her body was like a super-power all on its own. Terrible would have felt weak in her presence even if he hadn’t just puked up his last five or six meals all at once upon arrival. To accent her attire, the woman wore a sort of matching triangular cape with a few cutout holes in it – it seemed to grow out of the shoulders of her swimsuit – and then short gloves, knee-high boots, and a thick choker, all of a sexy reddish-purple color. Her skin was olive, and her hair was jet-black, and so thick and lush you could have played hide and seek in it. Mr. Terrible could hardly force himself to look away from her, and wanted to cry when he did, but he probably did need to see what he was up against here. The other woman was, again, outrageously pale, had long, sandy-colored hair, and was more willowy and slender than her seductive companion. Not bad-looking herself, but standing next to the bombshell, she might as well have been a fat guy in a stained undershirt chewing on a cigar as far as Terrible was concerned. Her attire was also odd: she had on a light brown thing that could have almost been called a mini-dress except that it looked like it was made from something like burlap, she wore matching cloth boots that came up to about mid-calf on her and looked to be made of the same material, had on a belt that was also of matching cloth, but with another of those capital-“H” clasp devices, and then to complete the ensemble, she had on a big cape of a much darker brown color; there was also enough extra material piled up on her shoulders that Mr. Terrible was guessing she had a hood there that was simply pushed back and down at the moment. It looked like the kind of outfit a modern Bedouin kid might wear to a sock hop in the desert or something. She had a face full of delicate features and freckles, one that almost could have been taken as looking kind, but for the fact that she worked as a professional leg-breaker in a gambling establishment run by and for super-villains where kidnapped super-heroes were made to fight to the death...

And then beyond the bombshell was a tall, slinky broad wearing shades, a long red evening gown with a slit about four feet long up one side, and her red/brown hair up in a bun – she also seemed to have some kind of calligraphy or Chinese characters or something tattooed on one side of her face, although the shades and Mr. Terrible’s own still-passing nausea made identification seem challenging and not all that important just yet. And behind the girl in the burlap “weekend in the sand dunes” get-up was a skinny guy that looked something like a sickly elf. He had messy black hair, white skin, pointy ears, and was decked out in a white dinner jacket, like he was the maitre d’ at some fancy restaurant where they served unicorn meat to hobbits or something. He was emaciated to the extent that in retrospect, the Key suddenly seemed almost robust in comparison.

Mr. Terrible took this all in as best he could, trying to process, and wishing mightily for a breath mint or some Listerine or something. The slinky dame with the bun on her head and the tattooed face shimmered a little in her red dress, and spoke up first.

“Mr. Terrible...I’m Roulette. Welcome to the House. I’m sure your stay here will be most memorable.”

“Uh...thanks,” he answered, not knowing quite what to do. He was afraid that if he tried to approach to shake hands without being invited to do so, the robot guy would start breaking his limbs like they were a small assortment of tongue depressors.

“This is my Chief Operating Officer,” she continued, indicating the malnourished elf, “and these are part of my retinue, all members of a group called the Hybrid.”

“Hey,” he said, feeling agonizingly awkward and lame. “How’s, uh, how are you all...everybody...how’s everybody...” This was not how he’d pictured his entry into big-time shoulder-rubbing and hobnobbing among the super-villain set’s elite – he’d pictured a lot more suave-ity on his part, and a lot less moronic-ness.

“My metallic associate is going to frisk you. I apologize for the invasiveness, but precautions are just a fact of our lifestyles. It’s nothing personal, I hope you understand.”

“Oh, yeah, no offense taken or anything.” Mr. Terrible complied, holding his arms up and out, palms forward, the way television teaches one to do in the event of a stick-up. The metal man stepped in close, all gleam and shine, briskly efficient and thorough, and even from the relatively brief contact involved in being patted down and having his supply of knives taken from him, Terrible could tell that this was a guy who could crumple up a fire hydrant in his bare hands, or play shot-put with a Sherman tank.

Something also passed between Roulette and her COO while the frisking was going on – Mr. Terrible almost smiled for a second when he had the sudden thought that the little white-skinned imp looked like Steve Buscemi somehow stuck in Middle Earth, but then he sobered up quickly when he realized that Roulette was silently asking the imp a question about him. The imp cocked his head at Mr. Terrible, frowned, then looked back at Roulette and shook his head. This seemed to please her...inasmuch as an obvious ice-queen like her could be pleased.

“Excellent,” she said. “You are now unarmed, and my associate here informs me that you aren’t exercising any extra-human powers.”

“Hey,” said Terrible, still holding up his arms, “what you see is what you get. Uh...can I put my arms down now?” He wasn’t uncomfortable so much as afraid the light would catch on the Key’s gross hair and give away their weird surveillance mechanism.

“Yes, that’ll be fine.” Roulette now took a few steps forward, secure in the knowledge that Terrible was the least-armed person in the room. “I’ve been wanting to meet you ever since I first heard about you – did you know that?”

“Nuh, no, no I didn’t. Dr. Psycho’s recommendations really get people to sit up and take notice, I guess, huh?”

“Dr. Psycho? A metric ton of bullshit crammed into a sixty-pound, three foot-tall little package.” She laughed, and while it should have seemed infinitely more attractive than when the Key did it, Mr. Terrible was getting the unmistakable sinking feeling that something wasn’t right here, and he was suddenly almost nostalgic for the torture of watching his twisted employer prancing about his lair and grinning that hideous “laughing-grin” of his. “No, my wanting to meet you had nothing to do with whatever Dr. Psycho may have said about you.”

“Then...?”

“Do you know who I am...Mr. Terrible?”

She said his name as if it tasted like what was still cooling on Mr. Terrible’s shoes. But was this a trick question or something? Had he thrown up his brains along with his lunch and dinner? Because he hadn’t a clue what she was getting at... “Sure...you’re Roulette. You run the House. You invited me here so’s I could bet a bunch of dough on one super-guy killing another super-guy. Am I missing something here?”

“Not my name, or what I do – do you know who I am?”

He looked around at the others, but they were no help. “Um...then I guess not. ‘Roulette’ and ‘the House’ and ‘super-guy death matches’ is pretty much all I got.”

She nodded, as if that was all she expected. “Nobody outside of my operations really knows this...but I am the granddaughter of Terry Sloane, the original Mr. Terrific.”

“No, uh...no foolin’. Can ya beat that. Um...so I guess we have the same taste in action figures then, huh?”

Roulette was not at all amused. “My grandfather was a very great man. I do not at all care to see his name and his legacy besmirched by fools who can’t understand just how great a man he was.”

Mr. Terrible understood that this was going south fast, but still made an amused sort of sound.

“Do you find something funny about that?”

Terrible hurried to answer before she could tell her pet robot to tear Mr. Terrible’s face off and slap it onto something like it was a decal. “Well, it’s just that I’ve seen the word ‘besmirched’ used in, like, books before and whatever, but I just never met anyone who actually used it out loud in conversation, that’s all.”

“Well, I doubt you’ll have the opportunity to meet too many more of us, so I hope you enjoyed the experience. Because like Michael Holt – the current Justice Society’s supposed genius who co-opted my grandfather’s heroic identity without any kind of permission – you, too, have besmirched the true Mr. Terrific’s name. In fact, I can’t decide which of you is worse, you or Holt. I go back and forth. Holt actually means his stance as a form of tribute, even if it isn’t his place to be making such a tribute, so he is making unforgivably gross presumptions there...but you – you’re engaging in this kind of immature, hipster parody. And while I realize that your intent is to lampoon Holt probably even more than my grandfather, I sometimes think your derivative vibe is even worse.”

“Well, you know, I didn’t know. I’m an open-minded guy, we can talk about this. Hey, message received, right? Say the word, and I’ll go home and make a new get-up, I’ll be the anti-Dr. Mid-Nite or something. Dr. Day-Time. That’d be cool with you, right?”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that. No, tonight we’ll be keeping you here while we’re retrieving Mr. Holt, and then tomorrow evening the two of you will headline our fight-card – don’t you feel honored? You’ll be the main event, given even more prominence than our Global Guardians bout.”

“I thought that was tonight.”

She smiled in mock apology. “Yes, about that...sorry, but we kind of lied. We had to get you here and then have enough time to grab Holt and prep you both. Again, I’m sure you understand.”

“Well, that’s just...” He looked right at her. “That’s just terrific.” Roulette scowled, which made him smile, as it was probably the only victory he’d be seeing during the real short remainder of his life. He cocked his head as though just stretching his neck nervously, but was really trying to angle his voice down toward the white strand that wound itself all serpentine-like around his right forearm. “So you plan to have me and Holt kill each other, and you’re keeping me hostage here until we duke it out. Tomorrow night.”

“Yes. I thought I just said that.”

“So there’s no way out for me...so wouldn’t you say that this’ll suck for anyone on the outside who might’ve given me a big wad of dough to come in and bet with? ‘Cause I mean, they won’t be seein’ that scratch again, or any other money they paid me up-front for services not yet performed if they let me just get gutted, right?”

Roulette looked at him quizzically, and the Hybrid exchanged puzzled glances. “I suppose that will suck for them, yes, but that’s hardly my concern. Now then...Tap, you may return to our VIP guests; Harpi and Scirocco, you’re free for the evening; and Prometheus, please escort our wretched new acquaintance here to his holding cell.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute!” Mr. Terrible all but shouted. “Prometheus? What are you talking about? One of the reasons I wanted to come here was so I could meet Prometheus, who I heard so much about, as, you know, such a total bad-ass and all...but Prometheus is a human guy with a bunch of high-tech weapons and a weird key-thing he carries around, not a robot!” Mr. Terrible realized that he was sweating buckets, and that his sinking feeling was now like what you might feel if you were in an elevator that fell out of an airplane.

The metal man actually grinned at him. “I’m not a robot, there, hoss – just a plain old Texan, that’s all. Well...a Texan who got himself dipped in promethium, o’ course. But you’re not the first person to make this mistake – see, there’s two of us super-types that go by the name Prometheus.”

“Two of you?! There’s two of you, and I got the wrong guy?! The other Prometheus doesn’t even work here?”

“Well, hey, it can be confusing – don’t feel bad!”

“Bad? Bad?! Oh, hey, I don’t feel bad. I feel...” He groped. He wanted to say ‘Terrific – I feel Terrific!’ He wanted to look Roulette in the – well, in the sunglasses at least – and say that...but instead, when he opened his mouth to do so, what came croaking out was “Terrible. I feel...really...really...Terrible.”

The wrong Prometheus – the metal one he hadn’t come here to meet, shook his head good-naturedly, then grinned a big shiny metal grin, clapped Mr. Terrible on the back almost hard enough to knock the big capital letter “T” tattoo right off his face, and then led him to the holding cells...

The distress call was – Michael Holt immediately felt – distressing in turn for him. For one thing, it was coming in over one of his own private channels that no one else aside from his JSA teammates and a few trusted associates should have had, and for another, it was by all appearances being broadcast by one of his old, now decommissioned T-spheres. The message was simple, a Morse code cry for help, with binary digits substituted in, 0’s for dots and 1’s for dashes: “SOS – come alone – SOS – come alone.” Just that and nothing more, repeated over and over again.

The current Mr. Terrific was of course able to use his own presently active T-spheres to locate the source of this odd transmission, and then after fixing on coordinates, he went out in his full costumed glory to track it down. He drove a plain black motorcycle, something he’d constructed himself, which was bristling to the handgrips with fearsome high-technology capabilities, but which looked to the untrained eye like a slick, but otherwise unremarkable piece of consumer machinery. He’d considered working up a version in automobile form, like a “Terrific-mobile” to rival the wheels of his associate, Batman, but as of yet, hadn’t gotten around to doing so. If anything, he preferred the maneuverability that the high-tech bike afforded him.

The signal he was getting led him all the way out to Coney Island, deserted at that time of night, which was of course further cause for alarm. He had perfected a sort of “silent running” stealth-mode for the bike, so that it was almost completely noiseless even to those with one ear pressed to the engine, and he let it carry him into the empty landmark.

Down-shifting and cutting his speed to little more than what a fast walk would have rated, he let his T-spheres loose from the pockets in his jacket and the compartments on the bike where he’d had them stashed, and they took up their customary formation around him, floating almost lazily in a sort of curving helix pattern, around and around and back again, as though following an invisible Mobius concourse in the air. They told him clearly through the receptors in his nanotech T-mask where the distress signal was emanating from, and he tooled the bike slowly toward it.

Rounding a corner into a small clearing of sorts, he came upon a lone figure, a mechanoid-man of some sort, a gleaming figure of metal in the starlight. It seemed to be a robotic creation, and his T-spheres sent readings detailing its vital statistics, even as it held up its hands to show him a metal sphere in one much like the ones floating around Michael Holt – the source of the signal he’d been tracking – and a curving handful of metal in the other that looked to be shaped like a boomerang. Without warning, the metal man threw this latter handful at Terrific’s bike with such force that it was practically screaming through the air. It cut the bike out from under him and knocked it backwards by at least twenty feet, leaving Michael flat on the ground, and none too pleased.

The metallic figure spoke to him in a synthetic monotone: “Michael Holt – Mr. Terrific. You are wanted for questioning. You will desist and stand down.”

“Please,” Terrific answered, carefully rising to his feet. “You’re not some government-issue piece of law enforcement equipment. My guess is you were sent by Roulette – she’s the only one who was ever able to hack into my tech, and duplicate my T-spheres.”

The robot was unmoved. “Michael Holt, you are a blind-spot for all things technological, but I was constructed with this in mind. I cannot perceive you directly, but I can see you as a human-shaped absence of data before me. I can and will disable you if you do not surrender voluntarily.”

“You’re welcome to try, friend.”

The robot spoke again. “Michael Holt – you will lie face down on the ground with your hands behind your head. If you do not comply within ten seconds, I will initiate hostilities. Your sensory equipment will already have informed you as to my specifications. You will know that nothing short of an electromagnetic pulse will disable me, and even if you have EMP weaponry at your disposal, using it will also disable your own technology. Hostile containment action in T-minus five seconds...”

“Your logic is unassailable – but much as I do love my T-spheres like children, the difference between them, and flesh and blood family members is that with these...” he gestured around him at the metal orbs silently dancing through the surrounding air. “I can always make more.”

And with that, he extracted a trigger-device of some sort from one of the hidden pockets in his jacket, and pressed the prominent button. As the robot had stated, the T-spheres fell to earth with assorted clangs, and the custom motorcycle still purring away behind him also fell completely inert.

“Didn’t think I’d call your bluff, did you, Heavy Metal?”

Except the robot-man wasn’t rendered inert like the bike and the T-spheres as it should have been once Terrific had triggered what did indeed seem to be an EMP pulse weapon. Instead, the metalloid pulled a small device from the black pants it was wearing and held it up. The robot’s overly mechanical ways seemed to have vanished, and this was evident in its words and tone as well. “Sure do hate puttin’ on that damn sci-fi robot voice. Can’t believe you fell for that, hoss! This here device faked readings for your benefit like as if I really was a robot. Too bad it ain’t true – just a red-blooded Texan who happens to be covered with promethium. EMP ain’t nothin’ to me – all’s you did was skunk your own tech! Not quite as genius as we all been told, Mr. T – although you were right about one thing: it was Roulette who sent us.”

“‘Us?’ I only see one of you.”

And then just like that, there was a chipper, sexy, dark-haired girl in front of him, her dark eyes gazing into his, and one of her slender hands placed on his cheek just outside the zone covered by his T-mask. The quick gust of wind in his face on the heels of her appearance there told him she was a speedster – he’d spent enough time working with the Flash, one of the fastest people alive, to recognize the signs of a hypersonic runner at work. Unlike the Flash’s, though, her touch seemed to be doing something to him – something adverse. She seemed to be leeching his vitality somehow, and he felt himself sagging. “Prometheus is right – we might have to start calling you ‘Mr. Not-quite-as-Terrific-as-everyone-says.’ Disappointing, I gotta say. Still, dig the jacket and this cool T-mask thing, though,” she added, stepping back.

Michael was fighting to retain his balance, swaying on his feet and fighting a debilitating head rush the likes of which he’d almost never encountered, when something swept out of the air and crashed into him with crunching force.

Even as the speedster girl had momentarily recalled the Flash for him, the source of this last blow made Michael think briefly of another teammate, the fierce Hawkman. This new attacker resolved slowly into something else, however, something that was less avian and more like an airborne reptile. It was dark-skinned, and with an oddly elongated head, but it was indeed winged like Hawkman, although it hit much, much harder. Terrific lolled on the ground amid his now silent T-spheres and looked up at the trio of aggressors grouped around him.

The winged creature spoke, a deep male voice that carried an accent Michael was able to place as Israeli after a moment of scrambled thought...although most Israeli voices wouldn’t have sounded quite so much like Stone Age thunder. “I will contact Roulette and tell her we are ready for pick-up. Prometheus, ready Mr. Holt for transport.”

The metal man crouched down by Michael, who was barely hanging on, his head ringing and spinning. “Sorry ‘bout this, hoss,” he offered. “Ain’t nothin’ personal. I’m actually kind of a fan, tell ya the truth.” He smiled winningly...and then cracked one hand across Michael Holt’s jaw, and Mr. Terrific took his leave of consciousness...

It’s said that back in the heyday of rock legends Pink Floyd, back during the 70’s and very early 80’s when they were releasing one widely-hailed-as-a-classic concept album after another, that the members of the group had been so successful at avoiding the trappings of traditional rock star-ism and fame, and had been so accomplished at keeping their images largely out of the media, that during concerts they were able to often set lights and sounds to auto-pilot on stage for extended periods of time while they themselves departed the spotlight to go wandering out among the crowds to get some idea of what their shows must be like as experienced from the vantage points of their fans...and they were able to do so with shockingly low risk of actually being recognized by all but the most fanatical of their devotees. This would seem virtually impossible in the post-internet age, but back then it was apparently manageable.

In similar fashion, Roulette was able to make several strolls out of her control room, and out and among the House’s patrons on nights when games were being held, and much like the British gents in Pink Floyd back when “Dark Side of the Moon” was new, she was often able to wander about unrecognized, since a rather large segment of the super-villain set really had little to no idea what she actually looked like – especially those enjoying their first visits.

Of course this did at times have drawbacks. For instance, this evening, while getting a feel for the crowd during the preliminary bout between one-time Teen Titan Golden Eagle – a sort of Hawkman-Lite – and a young Asian warrior known as Claw, who had been a member of the now defunct and rather New Age-y group called the Leymen, and who was possessed of (or perhaps possessed by would be more accurate) an enchanted sword and gauntlet, Roulette had occasion to run afoul of one of her guests, a former Detroit gang-banger named Malcolm Tandy who had several years before been given a mystically-charged crowbar and subsequently adopted the brutally uncreative super-villain moniker of...well...“Crowbar,” for his work as a member of the criminal group known simply as the Cadre. Not recognizing the woman sashaying past him in the tight red evening gown as his hostess, Tandy had helped himself to a generous handful of Roulette’s derriere and told her to fetch him a double whiskey with a Guinness back, addressed her as “toots” in so doing, and then slapped her backside to dismiss her, telling her, “And get a move on, sugar-tush, I don’t got all night.” Unfortunately for Mr. Tandy, both Touch ‘N’ Go and Prometheus had been trailing their boss at a respectful fifteen foot distance, and Tandy suddenly found himself relieved of his magical weapon, upended, and dangling before a small crowd of onlookers by one ankle in Curt Calhoun’s unyielding metal grip.

Roulette had knelt gracefully down next to Crowbar, and given him the news. “Mr. Tandy, I am your hostess, Roulette. Consider this a formal introduction, and fair warning: you are my invited guest here, but if you ever lay a hand on myself or any of my employees again, you will not only lose that hand, but my imposing metal friend here will see to it that your beloved crowbar goes down in history as the world’s largest enchanted rectal-probe. And,” she added, “it will do so sideways. Do we understand each other?”

At his stammered affirmations, Roulette rose to her full height and nodded at Calhoun, who dropped the ill-mannered villain on his head and left him in a heap, much to the amusement of his cronies. Tandy gathered up his crowbar, but knew better than to try to mount any kind of reprisals in Roulette’s own stronghold. He contented himself with muttering vengeful free associations and staunchly refusing to rub his ankle, which felt like it had been subjected to loving care by some kind of industrial vise.

Roulette moved on, enjoying her tour of the extended warren of lounges and observation rooms she had designed, passing occasional pleasantries with some of her clientele, dishing out late-breaking instructions to employees, and keeping an eye out for any rowdies that might need to be ejected. Thankfully, while this last group on some nights numbered several, on this particular evening, her patrons seemed to be – with the exception of the overly handsy Mr. Tandy – on their collective best behavior. They were spending freely, their spirits were high, and they seemed to be enjoying the warm-up fight, even though it was going off a bit lopsidedly in favor of Claw – Golden Eagle was clearly outmatched even despite Tap’s attentions, which kept the combatants’ power levels somewhat on an even par. Roulette inwardly guessed that they were only minutes from a dismemberment or decapitation, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing – the fight couldn’t last forever, and some early blood-spilling would stoke the fires of the onlookers, and encourage heavier wagering for the later contests, which was always good for the House.

The red-gowned proprietress entered another lounge, this one done up with dim mood lighting and plush couch-seating, and took in the veritable who’s who of mid-level villainy scattered about. She said hello to a tall, rather regal woman in a green and black body-stocking with an absurdly high collar and a black hood-like extension that was molded to her head like spandex, leaving only her attractive and aristocratic face revealed (“You’re looking well, Roulette.” – “Phobia. Always a pleasure and a privilege.”). She greeted a tall gentleman in a truly eye-straining ensemble – full, billowing yellow cape, a green skin-hugging shirt, outside-the-pants red trunks, with vertically striped white and black leggings, clock hands centered between his eyes on the white full-head mask he wore, and a large hourglass icon on his chest – she seemed to almost force an exchange with this one, as he seemed to be doing his studious best to pretend he didn’t notice her (“Hello, Chronos, we’re so glad you could join us.” – “Mmm-hmm…Roulette.”). She watched with some amusement as a pair of aquatic fellows sized each other up: the Hawaiian sea-farer known as King Shark, who looked exactly like a two-legged, two-armed version of his namesake, and the Gotham sewer-dweller called Killer Croc. She made a discreet gesture to the metalloid powerhouse with her, letting Prometheus know he should stay behind in the lounge just in case hostilities broke out between the two.

Just as she was making for the exit, she was hailed by Floyd Lawton, otherwise known as Deadshot, one of the most feared marksmen on the globe. Lawton was getting good and juiced with several of his weaponeer comrades, Merlyn and Fastball. “Got an idea to propose, Roulette: you get the two dishes that call themselves the Body Doubles, right, and the two called Double Dare, and you get all four of ‘em to square off in a tag-team, caged, jello-wrestling match. Huh?! It can’t miss! And you know, since I came up with it, I think I oughtta get a piece of the gate – let’s say fifty percent. What d’ya think? The guys here love it, it’s a sure-fire crowd-pleaser!”

Roulette gave it her best professional smile. “I’ll take it under advisement, Mr. Lawton.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning not a chance…but thank you for the suggestion.”

Lawton scratched his head in disappointment while his associates snickered. “How d’ya turn that down? You’d make a fortune! Seriously, guys, I ask you…hell, maybe I should see if I can arrange it myself…”

Merlyn signaled for more drinks, and Roulette swept on out. Best to check back in at Control, and gear up for the Global Guardians battle. She passed under one of the large flat-screen monitors, and many in the crowd winced to see the high-resolution images as Claw all but eviscerated the Golden Eagle with a most vicious, bout-ending sword-thrust. Roulette herself merely smiled, this grin as much full of personal enjoyment as it was professional, and continued on her way…

Next Issue: It’s combat inna House!! An all-Global Guardians bout – Rising Sun vs. Olympian – is followed by an all-“Mr. T” bout – Terrible vs. Terrific. Also, Sand Hawkins receives a most unusual call...