Issue #84

"Full Court Press"

By Dale Glaser

Jay Abrams swiftly descended from a crystal-clear sky on cerulean feathered wings, wings which receded into Abrams's shoulder blades as he grew from a height of only a few inches to a more typical human stature. By the time he alighted in the cobblestone alleyway he had been angling down toward, his wings had completely disappeared and he stood just over six feet in height; the only remarkable aspect of his appearance was his Blue Jay costume. He pushed his sapphire-plumed cowl back off his head and removed his golden gauntlets, pressing a hidden button on the right gauntlet as he divested it, which caused a small compression compartment hidden in the middle knuckle to open and eject a thin brown ribbon; on contact with the air, the ribbon expanded to a full sized leather coat. Abrams donned the coat, covering his white tunic and most of his blue tights as he belted it around his waist, and tucked his gauntlets and cowl in an inner pocket. Newly attired to blend in, he strolled out of the mouth of the alley.

He could have flown directly to Land Rover Arena, but he had arrived earlier than required in Bologna so that he could ascertain for himself how recent events were playing out in the media outside of France. He followed the avenue to a street corner where an elderly, aproned vendor was hawking copies of the Metro newspaper, and paid the man for a copy. Abrams scanned the front page, noted that the space above the fold was dominated by a story concerning the Italian Parliament and a partisan battle over law enforcement budgets, and flipped the paper over.

There it was, below the fold but easily the second largest headline on the front page: Revson Scandal Grows. Abrams gave the first couple of paragraphs a cursory examination, but only to get a sense of the tone taken in describing facts he already knew too well about Revson executives essentially funding human trafficking overseas and making use of child slaves in their own homes as unpaid servants. If the Metro was any indication, the Italian people were outraged and disgusted.

And rightly so, Abrams thought to himself. I just wish we had known about it sooner so that we could have done something about it, instead of getting dragged down in the wake of Revson's implosion. In fact, the Justice League Europe had not been brought nearly as low as the Revson corporation. Most of the company’s high-ranking executives had been implicated to some extent and arrested, each now strategizing with lawyers on the best way to convince law enforcement that he may have become embroiled in human trafficking but that someone else, a different company officer, had started the ball rolling. Revson assets had been seized, operations effectively shut down, and investors could scarcely abandon the corporation fast enough as stock values plummeted. In all likelihood, the company would be bankrupted out of existence before the end of the year, and few if any observers would mourn Revson’s ignominious end.

The Justice League Europe was faring better in the court of public opinion, if the Italian press was a reliable barometer. It was understood that Revson provided only financial backing for the League, and that institutional corruption within the corporation did not automatically impugn the superheroes funded by it. Nevertheless, with office doors locked and barred and purse strings effectively cut, the JLE now had no headquarters and no budget, and while the backlash might be minor so far, Abrams was far from convinced that they had felt the last of the scandal’s effects.

Abrams reached the Arena on foot and approached the will-call window, where he received a printed ticket held in his name. He entered through turnstiles where his ticket was electronically scanned, then followed the directions which Constance D’Aramis had given, down the concourse to a set of escalators which ultimately led to the venue’s private skyboxes. Abrams found the G suite and let himself in the door.

Most of the rest of the Justice League Europe was awaiting him inside the suite. Constance D’Aramis, one half of the pair of identical twins who inhabited the Crimson Fox identity, had risen from a leather couch at the sound of the doorknob turning and greeted Abrams at the threshold with a kiss on each cheek. She was dressed in civilian clothes, as was the rest of the team, in Constance’s case a flowing magenta poet shirt, tailored charcoal slacks, and high-heeled shoes. On the other end of the couch sat Kimiyo Hoshi, otherwise known as Doctor Light, who was modestly attired in a white cardigan, a long skirt and flats.

Facing the couch was a chrome-accented bar, where Chandra Gupta and Frostbite occupied two of the matching bar stools. Frostbite’s elven nature, including his pale blue skin and pointed ears, was impossible to disguise, but he had nevertheless donned a ratty hockey jersey and cargo pants for the occasion, as opposed to his usual briefs-only ensemble. Chandra Gupta, who as Maya wore the stylized armor and jewelry of a Hindu goddess, had opted for a belly-baring shirt and hip huggers, accented with a slightly reduced collection of golden bangles.

Standing against the plate glass wall of the suite, through which the visiting Kasnia Regents and hometown Fortitudo Bologna could be seen warming up on the basketball court, were Karen Starr and Seneca. Karen’s blonde hair was slicked back and glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, but her statuesque figure seemed ill-served by her mint green blouse and distressed blue jeans; her Power Girl alter ego was obvious despite the attempts at disguise, with her lowcut, skintight costume all the more glaring for its absence. Seneca, too, could hardly be expected to conceal his towering height or massive musculature, but all the same had found a knit cap to cover his distinctive mohawk, and a voluminous western-style shirt worn over reinforced trousers.

“I guess that makes everyone, so we might as well get started,” Karen announced. “For starters, thanks to Constance for providing us with a reasonably secure space to gather on short notice.”

“Pas du tout,” Constance waved away the congenial applause that followed. “The skybox tickets were a gift which I am embarrassed to admit I put to very little use. I am happy to offer it.”

“Still, we appreciate it,” Kimiyo added.

“The least I can do,” Constance insisted, “considering that it may be the last thing I do for the Justice League Europe.”

“What?” a chorus of voices responded in confusion.

“Mes amis,” Constance sighed. “You may pretend to surprise, but we all knew this day was coming. I have been unable to serve in full capacity as a member of the League since my return, and rather than continue with one foot in and one foot out, I will bid you au revoir.”

“And what about Vivian?” Abrams asked.

Constance nodded thoughtfully. “My sister … the woman who is another world’s version of my sister … can she and I find in one another that which we thought was lost forever? Je ne sais pas. But for each other’s sake, we will try. Vivian can no more serve the League than I, but wherever we go from here, she and I will go together.”

“We must all respect your decision, of course,” Seneca offered. “But it is always hard to say farewell.”

“Well then the timing of this is going to seem even more wretched,” Chandi said regretfully.

“No, Chandi, you too?” Kimiyo asked.

Chandi shook her head. “Not me, no. But Hugh, he said …” She shifted her weight slightly on the bar stool to reach into her back pocket. As she pulled out a folded sheet of paper, she went on, “I stopped by the hospital yesterday to say hi to him, and he told me that when he gets released he’s going to go back to New Zealand.”

“For how long?” Frostbite inquired.

“I think indefinitely,” Chandi said, unfolding the paper in her hands. She scanned the writing on it for a moment before looking up. “I could read this to you guys, but it’s a letter of resignation, that’s the upshot.”

Hugh Dawkins, the Tasmanian Devil, was the one active member of Justice League Europe absent from the gathering; he was convalescing from injuries sustained in battle with the Hate League in Bialya.* As the announcement of his impending departure sank in, a gloom fell across the skybox suite, punctuated abruptly as the arena lights went dark, colored pinspots danced across the general admission seats, and bass-heavy electronica began to boom from the sound system for the player introductions. Raising her voice slightly above the din, Karen said, “So Fox is out, Taz is out … who else? Or are we even going to bother keeping the JLE around?”
(* last issue – DWG)

“Fair question,” Frostbite agreed.

“I was joking,” Karen clarified angrily.

“I’m not,” Frostbite snapped back. “What, like the world’s going to fall to pieces if we all take a breather? You think the JLA couldn’t pick up our slack?”

“Their focus is more planetary, if not interplanetary or interdimensional,” Kimiyo observed. “And the overwhelming majority of heroes not on active JLA duty restrict themselves to the United States exclusively. There are so many regional issues which might otherwise slip through the cracks …”

“Except for the Seven Soldiers in England,” Frostbite countered. “Or Soyuz in Russia. Or the Global Guardians.”

“All right, hold on,” Abrams interjected. “Soyuz is just as territorial as any team based in the States. And the Global Guardians … at this point isn’t that just Cascade, Rising Sun and Owlwoman?”

“Actually I heard they had recruited a few new members recently,” Chandi asserted. “Sala Nisaba, Phantasmo, some new Slovenian kid who calls himself Zmaj. Definite upgrades in the line-up.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually taking his side,” Karen protested.

“What? No, no, just … clarifying?” Chandi blinked. “Although … I’m not saying the JLE should disband, but if the question is whether or not we could disband, I don’t know … Frostbite has a point?”

“And I can’t be the only one who’s just about choking on the irony at this point,” Frostbite forged ahead.

“Meaning what?” Seneca challenged.

“Come off it,” Frostbite sneered. “We go to Bialya to look for a U.N. crisis team that was investigating human trafficking, because President Hashim literally keeps his own slave harem, and then we come home to find out our sponsors have been engaging in the exact same crime! We’d be doing ourselves a favor by just going away before things get any worse.”

“That is not irony,” Seneca argued ponderously. “That is an unfortunate coincidence. The Justice League Europe had nothing to do with the men and women who took in refugees and made them indentured servants. Had we known about it, we would have worked to stop it, just as we worked to shift the power structure in Bialya.”

Frostbite said nothing in reply, but rolled his eyes aggrievedly as he swallowed several mouthfuls from a bottle of beer.

“Look, this is crazy,” Karen insisted. “I was under the impression that we were coming together today to brainstorm the best ways to move the JLE forward, not debate whether or not there should be a JLE in the first place. Quitters aside … no offense, Constance … I still think this team has a future. No, let me rephrase that: I know this team has a future. Even if that future is me and whoever else wants to rebuild it from the ground up after everyone else in this room walks away. So let’s start right there. Who’s still in?”

A tense silence settled over the suite, interrupted only by the muted sounds of the basketball game and reactions from the crowd. Finally, Constance spoke: “As always, I admire your passion, Karen. But my answer remains the same. I must go.”

“I’m in,” Kimiyo declared, rising to her feet. “I believe in our mission, no matter the hardship. And there may be other teams who can do what we do, but I don’t see any of them actually doing it.”

Frostbite belched, earning a fresh look of opprobrium from Karen which he ignored.

“I have committed myself to the Justice League Europe in order to atone for my past transgressions,” Seneca stated. “Were I no longer able to continue, I would commit myself elsewhere. But so long as the majority agrees to remain together, I shall stay.”

Abrams considered Seneca’s ambiguous expression of conditional support, which did little to swing the balance of the debate. Frostbite’s hostility had shifted from open rebellion to quiet, sullen negativity, which still made a potentially toxic combination with Constance’s and Hugh’s resignations. Karen and Kimiyo were admirably loyal to the idea of the Justice League Europe. Was he equally bound to the team? Abrams recalled Laura’s invitation to join her in her secluded fortress, and knew that a sabbatical would provide the perfect opportunity. But no sooner had he formulated the notion than he was rejecting it. He refused to deliver the final blow which would terminate this incarnation of the JLE. “I’m not going anywhere,” Abrams proclaimed.

“Me neither,” Chandi assured her teammates, trying to give her youthful countenance as steely a regard as it could convey. “There’s no giving up now and no going back.”

All eyes turned to Frostbite, who sighed dramatically and shook his head. “All right, all right, I’m not gonna go solo or break up the band or anything like that, either. But as long as we’re putting everything out there, we need to make some changes.”

“Well, like I said,” Karen rejoined, having regained her composure as the dire and fateful moment had passed, “that’s what I expected this get-together to be about. For example, where is the JLE going to call home now?”

“I hear Amsterdam’s cool,” Frostbite offered.

“I’m sure it is,” Karen responded with a brittle smile. “But maybe we should think about it a little more strategically. For instance …”

Her words were drowned out by a sudden assault of noise from the basketball court, a high-pitched cacophony that rattled the plate glass of the skybox wall. The members of the Justice League Europe ran as one to the suite’s viewing windows as panicked screams from the spectators below began to rise in volume and urgency. The arena’s house lights began to turn on, section by section, until another pulsating sonic fusillade caused an explosion high overhead, leaving the space in a weird half-power illumination. The interrupted lighting, however, was still sufficient to reveal the perpetrators: a group of eight masked gunmen who were fanning out across the basketball court.

“Stand back!” Abrams exhorted his teammates as he spread his hands against the transparent plate before him. The sheet of glass shrank to a square no more than an inch on each side, which Abrams set aside. He dove through the new opening, shrinking rapidly and spreading his wings as he shed his jacket and once again donned his Blue Jay cowl and gloves.

The gunmen were dressed in similar uniforms, with minor variations. All wore non-descript white jumpsuits, boots and gloves. Their faces were completely hidden by stylized masks derived from Chinese theater traditions, simple oval shapes painted with bold swoops and ribbons of color rising from the eyeholes and framing the carved mouths of the masks, in intricate combinations of yellow, green, black and white. Their weapons, by contrast, were ultra-modern, possibly prototypes, all chrome surfaces and streamlined curves in the general shape of a rifle or machine gun. As Blue Jay swooped toward them, three of the masked gunmen were converging on their target in the courtside seats, while the other five trained their sights on the JLE’s miniature flyer and opened fire.

Blue Jay zigzagged through the air to avoid the shrieking vibrations’ physical assault, but the ear-splitting sounds were everywhere and nearly overwhelmed him. He managed to skim past one of the gunmen’s ears, close enough to deliver a half-hearted backhand, but the blow merely jostled the gunman rather than incapacitating him. Blue Jay’s momentum continued to carry him forward, until he angled his wings to bank and turn around behind his attackers.

From that position he could see the rest of the Justice League Europe entering the fray. Karen had tousled her hair and changed into her Power Girl costume, or more likely had been wearing it under her clothes, although Blue Jay momentarily wondered where the cape had been hidden. Kimiyo was similarly battle-ready in her Doctor Light costume, its auric and white luminous, perhaps literally so if she had constructed the costume on the spot as a solid hologram. Frostbite had merely left behind his shirt and pants, baring his body piercings and tattoos in nothing but indigo briefs as he slid along a serpentine stream of water which froze to ice beneath his feet. The flying torrent was being generated by Chandi, who rode at its liquid forefront just ahead of the snow elf, firing watery arrows from her magic bow. Lacking her Maya costume, she had co-opted Frostbite’s approach by stripping down to sky-blue bra and panties, while retaining all of her gold bracelets and earrings and sheathing herself in an aura of mystic fire. Blue Jay debated whether or not to ask Chandi later just how many other bad habits in addition to exhibitionism she had been picking up from Frostbite.

The three gunmen intent on the front row of floor seats had reached their quarry and dragged him to his feet. The man was tall, gray-haired but tan, dressed in a crisp shirt and sport jacket which conveyed a casual ease with great wealth. The man pleaded desperately in Italian, slipping off a massive wristwatch and reaching for the leather billfold inside his jacket, but one of the gunmen slapped the wallet to the floor and shoved his rifle’s gleaming muzzle into the man’s chin. A younger woman in a sparkly minidress who had been seated next to the wealthy man screamed and moved to intervene, and was shoved away by another gunman.

Doctor Light was the first to reach the trio harassing the man, her fists shining like beacons. She projected a dazzling photonic globe which enclosed the victim of the gunmen as well as the rifle jabbing his throat, effectively separating the weapon from the grasp of the assailant. Doctor Light levitated the glowing sphere out of the midst of the three gunmen, who turned on her with alarm. Of the two who remained armed, one grabbed the wealthy man’s female companion as a human shield and lodged the barrel of his rifle against her temple, while the other took direct aim at Doctor Light.

Power Girl arrived in the next instant, reaching out for the muzzle of the gun against the young woman’s head and effortlessly deforming half the weapon’s barrel with a squeeze of her fingers. With her free hand, Power Girl punched the gunman, cracking his mask and knocking him to the floor. Blue Jay barreled into the solar plexus of the other gunman, the concentrated force of the blow knocking the wind out of the would-be attacker and sending his rifle’s hot screeching wildly off-target; a sizable hole was blasted near center court. Doctor Light generated an illuminated hammer to strike down the unarmed member of the trio.

“The harmonics profile of those sonic rifles remind you of anything?” Maya asked, as she and Frostbite reached the basketball court.

“Like what?” Frostbite asked distractedly, winking at one of the Regents’ cheerleaders who looked especially fetching in her black and red halter and hot pants.

“It sounds like a snippet of a Chinese opera, if the CD were stuck and skipping on the same beat over and over again,” Maya replied, taking aim with a blazing mystic arrow which she fired at one of the five remaining gunmen, stunning him. “Drums, cymbals, strings and flutes in non-Western intervals … between that and the masks, you have to give them credit for some serious thematic unity.”

“Oh, are we giving credit for things like that now?” Frostbite retorted. One of the gunmen’s rifles jammed, causing him to toss the weapon aside and charge toward the snow elf with fingers curled for a chin na grapple-lock. Frostbite drew a deep breath and exhaled towards his opponent’s hands, instantly numbing them in the chill rush of air. The attack on Frostbite landed clumsily and ineffectually, while a follow-up was prevented by Frostbite driving his elbow into the back of the masked man’s head.

The gunmen still armed and standing changed tactics. Working with silent efficiency, each one took aim and fired in turn at one of the steel cables suspending the scoreboard apparatus from the arena’s rafters over the center of the basketball court. The first two sonic pulses sheared the cables on the visitor’s side simultaneously, causing the entire massive array to swing toward the home side. The next ear-splitting shots severed the remaining cables, and momentum carried the scoreboard out over the crowd. The gunmen ran in the opposite direction as spectators screamed in terror and struggled frantically to avoid the plummeting mass of metal and electronics.

Seneca leapt off the mezzanine railing and caught the scoreboard in his powerful grip. Like several of his teammates, he had abandoned his street clothes and now wore only leggings and war paint, in shades virtually identical to the lipstick and eye shadow worn by Constance D’Aramis. Seneca carried the scoreboard through the air over his head, landed on the court and set the apparatus down gently on the hardwood.

The members of Justice League Europe gathered around the Iroquois strongman, with several of the masked gunmen trailing dazedly behind Doctor Light in hard light shackles. Maya looked around at her teammates and grinned unabashedly. “Come on, you guys, how in the world could any of us ever give this up?”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: You may have noticed a change in writing duties here on Justice League Europe recently. I didn't want to draw too much attention to it during the Battle For Bialya crossover with Power Girl, but now that I'm settling in I wanted to take a moment to welcome everyone to what I hope will be a long and fruitful run on JLE.

I was a big fan of the JLE comics back in the day, and when I first discovered FauxDC I was thrilled that someone was working with the concept at all. Then I read a few of the issues written by Brendan Crowther, aka BrenCrow, and I was instantly a big fan of his as well. That quickly led to a Bad Blood/EuroGuard crossover with the respective #8 issues of each series, which was a lot of fun to plan and pull off. I had always wanted to return to another team-up at some point, and finally saw the opportunity in Bad Blood #25. Unfortunately, at that point, BrenCrow was no longer writing for FDC, and no one knew how to reach him. I took the liberty of giving the team, back to the JLE name at that point, a prominent appearance in my title anyway.

Then, during 2010's Dangerous Toys event, I found myself writing another JLE appearance and realized how much I missed the team. I decided at that point that I should revive the title myself. In an ideal world, BrenCrow would still be around and writing JLE for my amusement, but barring that, this seems like the next best thing. I just want to make it absolutely clear that this was a last resort when multiple attempts to track BrenCrow down met with zero success. I still appreciate the work he did on this title, and I hope to honor it and build off it, hopefully telling some stories he would have been amused by, too.

But as I make the title my own, there are inevitably going to be some changes. You've already seen some of the roster adjustments taking place this issue, and there are many more to come. You may also have noticed I've removed BrenCrow's old role call header and his signature background color. Like I said, none of these reflect in any way a dislike for the way BrenCrow handled JLE, it's just another indicator that I'm taking the wheel and tricking out the ride my own way.

At any rate, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy where we go from here! (Oh, and BrenCrow, if you ever happen to stumble across this because your cyber-ears were burning or whatever, PLEASE drop me a line!)

DG

EUROPINION

All feedback -- positive, neutral and negative -- can be looped to Dale!