Issue # 7

"Debtor's Prison"

* OUTSIDE NEW ORLEANS *

Karnival sat on the edge of the couch, hunched over the flat, black surface of the Magna of Illusion. Just beneath the ghostly reflected image of his own grinning skull, indistinguishable shapes seemed to meander and merge in the obsidian depths, disappearing completely whenever Karnival tried to stare directly at any one of them. So instead he allowed his vision to unfocus, while his fingers ran lightly across the surface of the makeshift coffee table. If his eyes fell upon his hands, Karnival knew that they were simply sliding across polished black glass. But when he gazed deeply into other parts of the abyss and his hands were just out of sight, they felt as if they were sinking into the bottomless darkness.

Karnival's head snapped up as Pierce entered the room. "Karnival, you're here, good," Pierce observed matter-of-factly. "I wanted to show everyone something at the comm-con."

Karnival stood up, stepped over the Magna of Illusion and followed Pierce. A moment later all of Bad Blood ranged around the communications console of the Riverboat headquarters, with Pierce seated in the control seat.

"This is a web crawler that I put together myself," Pierce explained as he opened an application on the computer screen, his fingers deftly navigating the keyboard. "In theory it will find any and all news items on metahuman activity on the Internet and pull them into a directory. It's crude and will require sorting through some garbage, but it will get us started on a usable database. You can set the search parameters more narrowly here," Pierce demonstrated on the screen, "and you start it - like so."

"Looks simple enough," Hangfire nodded.

"Yeah, Pierce, you make this seem so easy. You a consultant in your secret identity?" Valence ribbed his teammate.

"Hardly. I don't have a 'career'. Or a secret identity," Pierce answered.

"No?"

Pierce ignored Valence. "This," he expanded a new application, "is the 'ringer' for a web videophone. This light blinks for an incoming call, and it has identification of the incoming here, which expands to a full profile if one exists." As Pierce explained, the incoming light began to flash.

"Wow, you haven't even shown us how to use it yet and you're giving out the number?" More asked.

"No, as a matter of fact, I haven't given it out," Pierce answered with thinly veiled displeasure. The identification field for the videophone showed a meaningless string of encrypted characters. Pierce's fingers hovered tensely over the keyboard for a moment, then keyed in the sequence to answer the incoming call.

The window on the computer screen expanded and showed a blond man, viewed from the chest up. Though his helmet was removed, the man wore Checkmate body armor, recognizable even through the pixilated grain of the streaming video. The man on the screen smiled with satisfaction and began amiably, "Howdy, Pierce."

"Gawain." Pierce's glacial response made his earlier bantering with Valence seem warm and sunny.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I found you?" Gawain continued conversationally, pausing for a few seconds to allow a response which Pierce remained unwilling to give. Unperturbed, Gawain pressed on, "There's only so much an old dog like you can re-invent yourself, Pierce. You're still damn good at making yourself hard to find, so long as the person looking for you doesn't know you like I do. Luckily I know your signature moves, and I know the difference between a system that's just been hacked and one that's been hacked by you. Pretty easy to trace you back from the telecom mainframe you hooked your little vidphone into."

"What. Do. You. Want." Pierce's icy voice had dropped to absolute zero.

Gawain smirked. "A favor, m' boy. And before you try to deflate me with the standard 'Why do I think you'd ever do a favor for me' monologue, I'll cut to the chase. There are many people who were extraordinarily displeased with the nature of your departure from Checkmate. Honestly, Pierce, you'd be surprised how many enemies you made with that move. Fortunately for you, there's just enough people in just the right places to suppress a real, concerted effort to haul your sorry butt in. I'm one of them. Don't piss me off."

Pierce heard Gawain's warning and made no rebuttal, and Gawain went on. "Saw some police reports from New Orleans, and I know you've got a whole new little team under your wing now. That combined with the fact that you owe me one for not giving Sarge Steel your new address makes you pretty much the perfect man for this job."

"Which is ...?" Pierce asked with reluctance.

"I'll take that to mean you're on the same page with me now. Good." Gawain settled back in his chair with an air of leisurely command. "The third reason, of course, that you're a prime candidate for this job, is your background - because it's Checkmate business. I'll give you the major upshot now, and of course I'll provide you with the official dossier eventually.

"We lost a prototype set of Checkmate armor. Disappeared, presumed stolen. And this get-up was doing some off-the-charts stuff in its test runs, so you can imagine the brass was royally pissed when it went AWOL. Which was nothing compared to how absolutely monkey-house everyone went when the reports came in on where the armor resurfaced."

"Qurac?" Pierce ventured a guess cynically.

"We wish," Gawain retorted. "Mother Russia, actually. You see now the cause for concern. Vladdy Putin is still an unknown, and with an infusion of cutting-edge Checkmate technology the Rocket Reds sure could be a handy way for him to cement his power base, nyet?" Gawain asked sarcastically.

"Is that what you need me to do - blow up a Rocket Red factory?" Pierce scoffed.

"No. Here's the good news/bad news part," Gawain explained. "Good news is the Russians haven't had time to dissect and analyze the armor yet, much less start reproducing it. So we're still in the clear if we can get the one stolen set of armor back."

"What's the bad news?" Pierce asked.

"Bad news is the reason they haven't studied it yet is because they're using it. They've reformed the Red Shadows, including someone in the armor as field commander, and the Shadows are currently at work in Chechnya," Gawain stated.

"Doing what?"

Gawain sighed, indicating that this was material he had reviewed many times already. "The usual: officially, trying to organize hardline communists to stand against the separationists. Unofficially, making sure the KGB gets their normal cut from the Russian mob, and just generally making a show of force.

"So," Gawain pressed on to his closing summation, "that's the scene. Recover one sorely missed set of Checkmate armor, but know that someone who can presumably put said armor to good use is going to try to stop you. And he'll have every freak in the Red Shadows backing him up."

"Wait. Wait just one second," Karnival interjected, leaning in over Pierce's shoulder. "None of this makes any sense to me. You need Pierce for this because he's a former Checkmate agent who works with a team now? Checkmate is a team! And you've obviously got more working knowledge as it pertains to your little lost power armor, why not send your own people after it?"

Gawain looked taken aback momentarily, then resettled himself and said. "Mm-hmm. And you must be that ... Festival, is it?"

"Karnival," the skull-faced illusionist answered, unamused.

"Of course. So you feel that Pierce - and the rest of your team, of course - are not the best men for the job?" Gawain asked reproachfully.

"I'm not sure anyone is," Karnival retorted. "All that garbage about Putin using the Rocket Reds to solidify a power base ... man, didn't anyone tell you bunker trolls the Cold War is over? This situation doesn't call for a 'mission,' it calls for you all letting the Russians know that you're aware they have your armor and that you want it back."

"Wow. Nice speech. Very sweet," Gawain nodded with feigned appreciation. "Also very naïve and totally wrong. There are, and there will always be, more forces at work that never get one word of newspaper coverage than the average person could ever possibly realize. I deal with those unseen forces every day. I keep them in check. I keep this pretty little world from falling over the brink. So until you know more about the things you're talking about than any other armchair philosopher sheep, I suggest you keep yourself in check." The threat in Gawain's voice was unmistakable.

Chagrined, Karnival nevertheless continued. "Fine. I'm naïve. All the more reason to go back to my initial point. Why not go get your missing armor yourself?"

"Precisely because no one wants this situation to reach the public notice," Gawain answered. "Checkmate is an official extension of the United States government. We have a certain reputation to uphold. That rules out asking nicely for our armor back," Gawain mocked Karnival, "and similarly rules out sending our own agents in to retrieve. The potential downside is too great a risk.

"But an unofficial action ... an action which we can deny any connection to or knowledge of ..." Gawain allowed the thought to spin out unfinished as all present reached the inevitable conclusion.

"You want us to warp in to a particular location?" Pierce took control of the conversation again. Karnival turned away from the video screen angrily.

"No, I know what your teleporting friend is capable of, and it won't do," Gawain responded. "The Russians haven't gotten any friendlier about uninvited metahumans crossing their border since you were a Knight, Pierce. They'd be aware of you as soon as your buddy's warp portal opened. We've got a stealth carrier fueled for you. I can arrange for a pilot, unless you've got one of your own ...?"

Pierce looked at Hangfire, leaning against the side of the monitor bank. Hangfire had spent part of his service time as a pilot, and nodded in answer to Pierce's unspoken inquiry. "We've got a pilot. I assume you still keep your little hot rods at Andrews Air Force Base?"

"You got that right. Meet me there at 2100. You made the right decision, Pierce."

Pierce cut the video phone's connection without acknowledging Gawain's parting words.

Karnival whirled on Pierce. "I can't believe you actually think we should do this!" he blasted his teammate.

"I never said you had to," Pierce answered levelly. "Nobody has to but me. It's my debt to pay. Come with me, or don't ... all I know is that this is something I have to do."

"Hey, man, I'll go with," More offered.

"Me too," Valence added. "I mean ... we are a team after all, right?" The question was posed to the entire room, but Valence stared straight at Karnival as he asked it.

"I'm in," Enigma said. "At least I can get us to Andrews quickly, even if we're not allowed to 'port into Chechnya."

Karnival glared at the rest of them, silent. Finally he dropped his gaze and said, "Fine. I'm not going to be the lone dissenter. Terrible idea or not, we face it as a team." He looked up again and added, "Just don't expect me to like it."

Pierce answered, "Don't expect me to like it, either."

* GROZNYY, CHECHNYA *

Robert McDowell slid his WayneCorp business card across the table to his female companion. She batted her long, full eyelashes at him as a petulant expression clouded the pale face framed by her waves of black hair.

"No, no, no," she protested in the clipped tones of her heavily accented English. "I know what this means, it means you are thinking goodbye. If I think I can find you later, I will not mind so much that you make goodbye now. But I am not ready to let you go."

"I am truly sorry, Zuzana," McDowell replied with a charming smile. "You're right, I do want you to feel as though this is not goodbye. I do want you to call that number when you want to reach me. But I do have work I must attend to now, much as it pains me to deprive myself of your ... enjoyable company." It was a compelling mixture of truth and lies, much like the majority of things McDowell had said to Zuzana over the past three days, and in fairness, most of the things Zuzana had said to McDowell.

Zuzana sighed heavily, expressing longings and desires and promises which could twist the resolve of otherwise steadfast men. "Do not make us be apart," she purred.

But McDowell was already rising from his seat and pulling his cashmere overcoat off the back of his chair. "If only it were up to me, Zuzi," he said bittersweetly. "But we both have others to answer to, besides each other." He slipped the overcoat on, and pulled a moneyclip out of a side pocket. He turned his back on Zuzana, walked past the bar, dropping a sufficient number of bills on its pocked wooden surface to more than adequately cover his and Zuzana's tab, and left the back-alley establishment through its heavy oak door.

McDowell contemplated the truths and the lies and the fine line between the two. Calling Zuzana's company enjoyable had been true enough. She was a gorgeous woman, and by his own admission McDowell had a weakness for the fairest of the fairer sex which sometimes made seeking them out seem like a survival function on par with eating and breathing. And he did want her to avoid thinking of his departure as a good-bye, but only because he preferred women in denial to those who doggedly pursued him once he was sated by them. He had lied about wanting Zuzana to call him, but the phone number on his business card - one of several variations on his business card, the one he used in situations like this - was connected to a voicemail box he never checked.

McDowell had told Zuzana that he was in Chechnya on business, investigating whether or not it would be wise for WayneCorp to invest in rebuilding efforts now, or to wait until the political climate was more favorable, less likely to knock down whatever was built and send the venture into the red. Now, as he walked over an aged stone bridge on the route to his hotel, McDowell chuckled to himself as he mentally noted that in a communist country everything was always in the red, in more ways than one. In any case, there was truth in what he had told Zuzana, and yet it was also a convenient smokescreen to cover deeper truths.

Once Robert McDowell had thought that brokering power deals in boardrooms would be all the excitement his life could ever hold. Then the metagene bomb had detonated on Earth, and awakened dormant powers in him. That in itself had not made McDowell's life an adventure, but once he had realized what he was capable, he sought out adventure more and more. When his initial work-related search for information had turned up rumors of a super-powered group of state-sponsored bullies operating in Groznyy, McDowell had decided that a personal visit to Chechnya was in order. There he believed he would be able to observe first-hand whether or not WayneCorp could invest, as well as whether or not there truly was a group of trouble makers who were hurting people and needed to be forcefully taught some manners. Shortly after arriving he had met Zuzana Petrensky, who was truly a double blessing, both stunningly beautiful and well-informed on the city's goings-on. McDowell had known that she was using him as well, hoping to sell the information he offered on WayneCorp's plans for Groznyy, and so he carefully measured everything he said. In the end, he felt that he had received more than he had given.

McDowell reached the building that served a hotel for the city but probably deserved to be condemned. He hadn't expected deluxe accommodations in any case. He greeted the clerk at the desk with a smile, then continued on to his room. Once there he changed out of his tailored navy blue business suit and into form-fitting, charcoal gray garb. Then he opened the window of his room, swung his legs out, and with a flash of light and heat flew into the night sky.

* AMERICAN AIRSPACE, THE ATLANTIC COAST *

A compact aircraft skimmed thirty feet above the ocean surface on a heading for the capital of Chechnya. It was an oddly shaped jet plane, a seemingly nonsensical combination of oblique angles that could only be beautiful in the eyes of one who saw the world in vectors and equations. Military engineers, who did in fact see the world that way, assured Checkmate that the aircraft was effectively "mechanically invisible." Yet it flew like any other plane, and Hangfire was more than able to pilot it steadily.

Hangfire's quick adaptation to the unfamiliar controls had been crucial to Pierce's approach to the situation. Arriving via Enigma's warp at the Air Force base, Bad Blood had stepped out onto the tarmac to find Gawain waiting for them. Pierce approached his former teammate, snatched the dossier proffered by Gawain, spun on his heel and waved the team onto the plane. Gawain tried to talk to the back of Pierce's helmet, but Hangfire had the engines ready for full burn before Pierce was through the door of the aircraft. That door shut in Gawain's face without a word from Pierce. The stealth plane was airborne moments later.

Karnival sat in the co-pilot's seat, staring morosely out the window. The spectral flames which usually rose high from the crack in his demonic skull smoldered, barely visible. Hangfire stole a glance at his teammate, then said, "You all right, Ed? I'm not flyin' this crate too fast for you, am I?"

A few seconds passed, and Hangfire began to believe that Karnival was ignoring him. Then Karnival spoke: "I don't know what I'm doing here. What we're all doing here."

"In these lives? Fighting the bad guys?" Hangfire asked.

"No, no. Odd as it sounds, that usually makes sense to me. I've always been an altruist, my powers just let me make that philosophy more action-oriented. I mean specifically here, on our way to Chechnya, doing the government's dirty work ... this isn't as cut and dry as 'fighting the bad guys.' It doesn't feel that way at least. So ... why am I here?"

"I'll tell you why you're here," the old veteran answered seriously. "Unit integrity. You know as well as I, as well as any of us, that Bad Blood has done some good. And will in the future, most likely. You made your point back at the Riverboat as far as not being sure this little mission is good, but you knew all along it wasn't worth tearing the team apart over. So you made the choice that ensured unit integrity for us."

"Wonder if the ends will justify the means," Karnival half-muttered.

"The means aren't that bad," Hangfire insisted. "Something was stolen. We're getting it back to its rightful owners. Politics aside that's an awful simple situation. I think maybe you just like to think of yourself as your own man so much you don't like the fact that someone else took our choices away on this one, even if they left us with one we can live with."

"Not just someone else, Johnny," Karnival replied. A cartoonish illusion of a faceless man in a black fedora and black overcoat appeared in the air between him and Hangfire. "The government's damn shadow ops ... who knows what kind of favor they'll want next time."

"Not me," Hangfire admitted. "Maybe we'll get lucky and screw this one up so bad they never ask for our help again."

In spite of himself, Karnival let out a snort of amusement. The vision of the spy caricature dissipated, and the flames emanating from Karnival's skull intensified.

* GROZNYY, CHECHNYA *

The dealer's face twisted with effort of holding back a scream as the back of his skull bounced off the brick wall. Pierce's gauntleted fists were wrapped tightly in the dealer's shirt front. "Ask him again," Pierce said to Enigma in a low and menacing voice.

Landing the stealth plane had been as easy for Hangfire as flying it, and true to Gawain's word there was a well-disguised landing strip at the exact coordinates Checkmate had specified. At the end of the strip was an equally well-concealed mini-hangar, and as soon as the plane was secured out of sight, Bad Blood had made their way to the capital city itself. Night was falling when they reached the outskirts of Groznyy.

After reaching the city limits, Bad Blood had been on their own. Checkmate intelligence offered no clues as to the precise location of the Red Shadows or the missing armor. But Pierce's training as a field agent had served them well enough - he knew how to work the streets. Karnival wove an illusory shadow darkness around them as they combed the bombed-out slums, led by the former Knight to alleys and sequestered spaces most likely to be frequented by the seedier elements.

Pierce's instincts were good. He led Bad Blood to a rubble-strewn, deserted neighborhood in time to see a drug deal going bad. The words spoken by the two participants, a man and a woman, were unintelligible to all but Enigma, who spoke some Russian. But the physical script told the tale clearly enough. The man was the dealer, taking the woman's money and offering a bag in return. The woman appeared to complain about the bag, probably the amount of fix contained therein not equaling what she felt she had paid for. The dealer ignored her protests, but she was inconsolably adamant, clutching at the dealer's jacket as he tried to walk away. The dealer pushed; the woman held on. The dealer pulled a knife and drove it through the woman's chest. Too late to help the junkie as she bled to death on the street, Bad Blood moved quickly on the dealer.

Valence liberated the knife from the dealer's grasp in one magnetic swipe. Pierce moved almost too fast for the eye to follow, rolling toward the dealer, coming up with a sudden uppercut, and then forcing the dealer back against the wall. Pierce easily held the scrawny man in place, and told Enigma to ask where the Red Shadows could be found. When the dealer refused to answer, Pierce delivered the head bounce off the wall and requested that Enigma repeat the question.

"Maybe he doesn't know," Karnival suggested irritably.

"He knows," Pierce dismissed the protest.

Hangfire leaned closer to Karnival. "K, man, you made the choice to be part of this mission. So for the rest of the gig, don't give Pierce any more static." Karnival's eye sockets narrowed angrily, but he said nothing more.

"Enigma," Pierce began again, "Tell this guy that if he doesn't tell us where to find the Red Shadows, More is going to knock down this entire wall using him as the wrecking ball." Enigma translated dutifully, to the best of his ability, while More cracked his knuckles loudly to confirm the point.

The dealer swallowed hard, then stuttered an answer. Pierce turned to Enigma as he translated, "He says they're about seven, eight blocks east from here. Building used to be a nightclub for politicos, still has some usable space inside. It's got a broken neon sign out front."

Pierce nodded, and the dealer began to volunteer more information. Pierce continued to face Enigma, who said, "He wants you to look at him, Pierce. He has something to say to you."

Pierce's helmet pivoted to face the dealer straight on. The dealer looked into the reflective visor surface and spoke four words in heavily accented English: "Don't ... screw ... with ... protocol."

"Spaceeba," Pierce answered, shoving the dealer roughly into the wall with a knee-blow to the gut. The dealer collapsed in a pile, retching at Pierce's feet. "Come on," Pierce said, walking east toward the club.

The neon sign out front was indeed broken; the term 'broken' could be fairly applied to almost everything in the neighborhood. Pierce led the way around the building to an alley behind it, and silently indicated everyone should get a view through the boarded up windows.

The interior was well-lit, and judging by the dull buzz that seemed to rise up from under the floor, a small generator accomplished that feat. Most of the cocktail tables and chairs had been thrown against the walls in indecorous heaps, but one larger table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by chairs. Five figures sat around the table, one at the head with two on either side. A small, completely bald man wearing thick-framed, round spectacles and a dark suit occupied the seat of honor. To his left was an older gentleman with silver hair and mustache, his extremely well-built frame clad in a military uniform. To the right of the bald man sat a man in a blue, white and red bodysuit with a mask covering his entire head. The bodysuit resembled Pierce's Checkmate armor like two lifeforms with a common ancestor. The last two seats were filled by an older woman in dowdy clothing and a brown-haired man in fatigues. The bald man did the majority of the talking, in Russian, with occasional responses from the figures on his immediate left and right.

Pierce moved away from the window and began to speak. "I think we can all pick out our objective. Leave him to me. The big guy I think I recognize - code named Stolnivolk, the Iron Wolf. He hits hard so, More, he's your responsibility. Everyone else - "

Pierce was cut short by the crashing sound of one window's boards exploding outward into splinters, caused by a black-clad figure's forceful exit to the alley. The man landed on his feet and looked around at the startled members of Bad Blood. He wore black leather, and a shock of jet black hair offset his pale skin. The man hissed at the heroes, revealing glistening fangs behind his pale lips.

"New plan!" Pierce announced immediately. "Karnival, Valence, Hangfire - handle the welcome wagon. More, Enigma, you're coming in with me." Pierce dove easily through the shattered board fragments still attached to the window frame. Enigma created a portal to pass through the wall; More knocked down the back door.

The pale man leapt at Valence, who was hovering ten feet off the ground. The pale man made the leap easily and wrapped his arms around Valence with astonishing strength, then an instant later had his fingers in Valence's hair and pulled back hard to expose Valence's neck. Valence reached out magnetically and summoned a scrap of metal flying toward him. The metal came between the pale man's fangs and Valence's throat just in time to save Valence from being bitten. Enraged, the pale man hissed furiously and sank his claws into Valence's scalp.

"Call me crazy, Hangfire, but I'm thinking vampire here," Karnival said.

"You and me both," Hangfire agreed. He shouted out, "Valence! Get out of the air! Get down here where we can help you!"

Valence rolled through the air and flew down to the street, dragging the vampire with him. As they landed Valence was atop his opponent, but the vampire quickly pulled himself up and over Valence, straddling him on the street. Karnival conjured forth a tall, glowing cross directly over Valence's head, but the vampire ignored the illusion. The vampire was so intent upon Valence that Hangfire was able to approach form the side, place both of his gun barrels against the creature's ribs, and unload several rounds. The vampire scarcely had time to throw a baleful glance at Hangfire before falling off to Valence's side.

Hangfire offered Valence a hand and helped him up. Along with Karnival, they headed for the back door of the nightclub. They could see Pierce grappling with the man in the stolen armor, More and Stolnivolk trading blows, the man in fatigues trying to tackle Enigma, and the bald man and old woman standing off to the side. The bald man barked orders furiously; the old woman stood mute and impassive at his side.

A strong set of claws wrapped around both Karnival's and Valence's throat, and they found themselves lifted off the ground, held at arm's length by the vampire. The side of the vampire's leather jacket was shredded from the gunfire, but the creature seemed otherwise unaffected. Without a word, the vampire's eyes conveyed its intent to Hangfire: "First your friends. Then you." Hangfire tensed and slowly reached for the back of his belt, watching his teammates struggle in the vampire's grip, wondering how well they could withstand an exploding grenade. Valence could probably deflect the shrapnel, and with warning might be able to protect Karnival as well.

Suddenly a yellow-orange bolt zoomed down from the dark night sky. Hangfire felt a blast of heat as the bolt seemed to bounce off the back of the vampire's head. As the bolt rose again, it slowed, and revealed itself to actually be a flying man-shaped figure. The figure was the same uniform color over every inch of its body, a glowing shade resembling superheated iron in the forge. The air around the figure shimmered in thermal convection. The being stopped several feet above the street and looked down.

The vampire had been knocked to the ground, losing its hold on Karnival and Valence. The glowing figure swooped down and lifted the vampire by the shoulders, flying high into the air. Somewhere in the air above the alley, the vampire burst into flames, and an inhuman scream echoed through the slum. The glowing figure looped around and began diving for the ground at high speed, then leveled off just above street level and released the burning body of the vampire, sending it hurtling like a missile into the brick wall at the alley's end. The figure landed lightly on its feet, and shifted form to a blond man in a gray bodysuit. "Looks like I got here just in time," he commented blithely.

"'Preciate the hand, buddy, but ..." Hangfire began to reply.

"But nothing," the newcomer interrupted, looking past Hangfire's shoulder and into the derelict nightclub, even as Valence and Karnival regained their feet. "Your friends aren't exactly done in there yet. And my name's not 'buddy.' You can call me Ember." Without another word the man's body ignited and he flew into the fray. Hangfire, Karnival and Valence followed.

Pierce had managed to lock a submission hold on his opponent, but the armored Russian made no sign of quietly laying down in defeat. More and Stolnivolk appeared equally locked in stalemate. Enigma had been able to thwart his adversary's attempts to force him back out into the alley, and as the rest of the team entered the building Enigma created a red aperture in space that sucked in the man in fatigues and shot him out across the club.

The bald man saw the four recently arrived heroes and spoke harshly to the older woman at his side. The woman began to move toward Hangfire, Karnival, Valence and Ember, and as she did so her form expanded and changed shape until she was no longer an old woman but a massive brown bear, charging with a feral snarl. Ember flew swiftly past the bear's head, landing a solid right cross into its muzzle, while Valence magnetically grabbed a nearby chair and thrust it into the bear's chest. The bear swatted at both Ember and the chair, roaring madly.

The man in fatigues had exited Enigma's warp near Stolnikov, and the Iron Wolf grabbed his comrade roughly, picking him up and placing him between Stolnikov and More. Stolnikov bellowed something to the man, and after a moment's hesitation the man closed his eyes. An explosion, centered on the man in fatigues, ripped through the club, sending More flying backwards as the blast caught him off guard and knocking almost everyone else off their feet. Stolnivolk, who remained upright in a tattered and scorched uniform, wasted no time, carrying the man who caused the explosion closer to More and screaming commands again.

This time, however, Enigma was prepared, and as soon as the man in fatigues closed his eyes he was pulled from Stolnivolk's hands and into a warp, to be deposited directly above the bald, bespectacled man. The seeming leader of the Russian thugs caught the full force of the second explosion and was knocked unconscious.

Karnival, meanwhile, created an illusion of a monstrous giant alligator with its four scaly legs straddling More's prone body. Stolnivolk let out a startled cry as the creature appeared, and then the phantasmal reptile sank its massive jawful of teeth into Stolnivolk's torso. Stolnivolk reeled under the mental assault, and went down to one knee. More pounced, rolling up into a squat and laying a haymaker across Stolnivolk's brow. It was the Iron Wolf's turn to fly across the club.

Hangfire drew a mercy bullet loaded gun and calmly fired at the exploding man as he pulled himself up off his leader. The man spun around from the impact of the rubber bullets and hit the floor hard again.

Ember came up on the bear from behind, wrapping his arms around its head across its eyes. The smell of singed fur began to permeate the air and the bear howled in pain. The bear staggered forward blindly, and Valence sent four chairs magnetically flying to pin the bear down by its legs.

Pierce had lost his hold on the man in the stolen armor due to the two explosions inside the nightclub, and now was on the defensive, dodging blows thrown with ferocious speed by his foe. Pierce executed a hands-free backflip to avoid a roundhouse kick, while removing what looked like a small battery from one gauntlet. Pierce feinted a counter-attack, and the Russian paused in his advance, which was all the opportunity Pierce needed. A flurry of kicks and punches spun Pierce's opponent around, and a precise chop at the base of the skull, just beneath the armor's sleek helmet, stunned the Russian. Almost too fast for eyes to follow, Pierce pulled loose another battery-like object from the back of the Russian's helmet, and slipped the one from his gauntlet in its place. Pierce then grabbed the other combatant and tossed him bodily across the room, into a groggy Stolnivolk near the far wall.

"Enough's enough. Enigma, we need out of here," Pierce announced. As he did so electric arcs began snaking around the armor-clad Russian. Stolnivolk attempted to push his comrade off and was caught in the same engulfing electrical current.

"Thought we were supposed to be bringing back the armor?" Enigma countered, although the red disc began opening in the air even as he asked.

"Supposed to get it out of Russian hands," Pierce retorted. "Close enough. Everybody out - NOW."

With no further argument the rest of the team, along with Ember, hurried through the warp portal. The space-traversing tunnel let Bad Blood out several blocks away from the site of their recent encounter.

"Think Stolni's gonna follow us?" More asked as they regrouped.

A loud, crashing sound echoed down the street at that moment, seeming to answer More's question. "Doubt it," Pierce answered. "The overload of power I ran through the stolen armor put out enough excess juice to bring the whole club down around the Iron Wolf's ears. The time it takes to dig himself and his team out is enough for us to get back to the plane and get out of here."

"Excellent," Ember nodded appreciatively. "Where's your plane?"

Pierce said nothing, and no one else volunteered the information. "Oh, come on," Ember protested. "You're not going to leave me hanging here, are you? After all we've been through together you can't give me a lift back to America? I would expect better treatment from Bad Blood."

If Pierce was surprised that Ember had identified the team, he did not show it. "Too bad," he said dryly.

"It's not like we don't have a couple of extra seats," Karnival pointed out.

"No. We don't know this guy. End of story," Pierce insisted.

"Pierce," Hangfire weighed in, "I've backed you up this whole gig. I've told K to get in line and get off your back. I'm even willing to overlook the fact that you had a plan for incapacitating the stolen armor which you neglected to share with the rest of us. But now that it's mission accomplished time, I gotta tell you - you're acting like a tool. All in favor of letting Ember fly home with us ..." Hangfire raised his hand, as did Enigma, More and Karnival. Valence's eyes darted around the group, but his arms remained crossed over his chest. Pierce stood like a statue. "You're outvoted," Hangfire observed.

"Fine. Let's move it, then," Pierce acquiesced, setting off toward the edge of the city.

* EASTERN EUROPEAN AIRSPACE *

"So where do you guys all hang out?" Ember asked from his seat in the stealth plane. "I mean I know you guys are from New Orleans, but do you have some kind of a base or something?"

"What makes you think you're entitled to information like that?" Pierce demanded brusquely.

"Are you kidding me?" Ember scoffed. "Isn't everyone on the team entitled to that kind of info?"

"Yeah, we are," Valence admitted, his tone of voice excluding Ember from the collective 'we' of Bad Blood.

Ember took a moment to ascertain the responses so far and rolled his eyes. "I saved your butts back there! And even if I hadn't, you gotta admit I'm a handy guy to have around. I'm not trying to move in and take over, I just want to do what you guys do. Why the big, bad clique attitude?"

Before anyone could answer, the cabin of the stealth plane expanded in every direction at once, the ceiling racing away to impossible heights while the floor yawed slowly to one side as it dropped. The cabin walls rippled and the stealth plane itself turned mind-boggling rolls through the air as Hangfire lost all bearings as well as his grip on the aircraft's controls. The stealth plane began a steep dive toward the ground, gaining speed as it approached the earth, while Bad Blood sprawled around the cabin, unable to tell up from down. Then the aircraft's nose smashed into the ground, the plane tore a wide trench in the dirt of the countryside, and the shriek of rending metal filled the air.

MESSAGES WRITTEN IN BLOOD ...

Badblood51@hotmail.com

No mail this time folks. I keep forgetting to put the e-mail address for mail in the letters section. I'd like to think that's the reason I haven't been hearing anything, though I suppose it's possible people have nothing to say to me whether I give them a means to communicate or not. Anyway, send your reactions, dissatisfactions, point-of-actions and Honey Smack-tions to badblood51@hotmail.com. Do it now!

NEXT ISSUE: Bad Blood Down! Somewhere in Eastern Europe, the team must figure out what caused them to crash - and the answer draws them into a conflict that runs deeper than they can possibly know. Plus, a special guest-appearance by not just one FDC character, but an entire team! This promises to be one of the most talked about issues of Bad Blood until the one that follows it! Be here then!