"Floyd Lawton."

"Yeah?"

"Are you available?"

"For a date?"

"For a job."

"Even better."

"Are you?"

"Sure. Maybe. Depends."

"On?"

"How much is it worth to you?"

"The question, Mister Lawton, is how much is it worth to you?"

"Meaning?"

"Amanda Waller."

"The Wall. You working for her?"

"Maybe she works for me."

"The Wall don't work for nobody."

"Too true. She recommended you."

"I'm great at bar mitzvahs."

"She said you had a sense of humor."

"Surprised she knows what that is."

"..."

"Fine. So the Wall recommended me. For what?"

"A job."

"Got that part. What kind of job?"

"The usual. Certain death, high pay, not necessarily in that order."

"..."

"Well Mister Lawton?"

"Groovy."

THE SERPENT SANCTION
Issue #1
Making the Band

"Bleed." The assassin known as Bane lifted the length of steel pipe he clutched in his hands and brought it down again on the lump of meat and muscle that had been human. Blood arced in a dark spray across the wall of the parking garage and Bane stepped back as it splattered his boots and pants. Behind the black and white mask he wore, his eyes narrowed. "Stop bleeding." he said as he brought the pipe down again with a meaty thwock! More blood popped, dappling his bare arms and mask and he snorted in momentary frustration.

"Oooh. That's gonna be a bitch to get clean."

Bane turned slowly, the pipe sliding through his grip until he tilted it back and laid the bloody end over one broad shoulder. He took in the crimson and silver costumed figure sitting on the hood of nearby car, a silver mask, featureless but for a modified targeting array over the spot where one eye would be, hiding any distinguishing facial characteristics. Of course, the mask in and of itself was a distinguishing characteristic.

"Lawton." Bane said. Deadshot hopped off his perch and crossed his arms.

"Bane."

"Lawton."

"Bane."

"Lawton."

"I said...Bane." Deadshot enunciated the last two letters of Bane's name. "I can do this all night."

"So can I."

"Do we really have to?"

"I suppose not." Bane shrugged. He cocked his head. "To what do I owe this unrenumerated pleasure?"

"The winds of fortune."

"What?"

"What what?"

"Lawton."

"Yeah, yeah. Look, you free?" Deadshot gestured at the body Bane had been beating on. "I've got an opportunity for you. If you're interested."

"I'm interested."

"You don't know what it is yet."

"Does it pay?"

"Yep."

"Then I'm interested."

"You gonna finish up?" Deadshot looked at the body. Bane looked down at it, raised the pipe and slammed it down through what had once been an abdomen and into the concrete below. He waved cement dust out of his face and looked back at Deadshot.

"Finished."

"Malone."

Fastball squatted on his aero-platform, juggling sphereical explosives as he eyed the apartment building across the street and tried to blend in to the shadows of the rooftop he had positioned himself on. However, clad in a black bodystocking and gold and silver armor and standing on a triangle of alien metal hovering five feet off the surface of the roof, he did the exact opposite. Deadshot could hear the approaching sirens from where he leaned against a chimney.

"Malone." he said again. Fastball flipped him the bird.

"Shhh. I'm trying to concentrate."

"On what?"

"My screwball." Fastball rose smoothly, easily balancing on his platform on one foot as he wound up and whipped his arm forward, hurling an explosive as fast as his boosted strength and reflexes allowed. It sped straight and true, right through an open window. Someone screamed and the explosive device went off with a resounding roar that shattered windows up and down the street and set car alarms to shrieking. Deadshot clapped once. Twice.

"You've been practicing."

"Only way to stay in the game."

"Wouldn't go that far." Deadshot pushed himself away from the chimney and leaned over the edge of the roof, watching as the fire from the explosive began to spread. "Messy."

"You're one to talk."

"I do love to talk."

"Not what I meant."

"Don't honestly care." Deadshot turned his head, looking at Fastball. "You're messy. Also a bit of an idiot."

"Gee thanks."

"Shut up. Despite these and other failings, I'm giving you an opportunity here. If you're smart enough to take it."

"Since when are you a team player?"

"Since I found the right team numbnuts. You in or out?"

"Can I play infield?"

"Please don't touch that." Lady Elaine Marsh-Morton stood in the drawing room of her family estate, dressed in a slinky red number, a snifter of something sweet in one hand. Deadshot put down the antique flintlock he'd been toying with and turned to face her. Dressed in a suit that was the height of European fashion, Lawton looked less a killer and more the millionaire playboy he had once been.

"Nice weapon." He looked around the room at the rifles, pistols and knives of all descriptions that lined the walls between bookshelves. "Weapons." he amended. "Been busy?"

"Always. Yourself?"

"Seen better days."

"Shame. You look quite fetching from where I'm standing Lawton."

"Flatter will get you everywhere Lady Vic."

"Please, not while I'm off-job." She held up a hand, tossing her wealth of blonde hair with a twist of her swan-like neck. "Bad luck an' all."

"Make your own luck."

"Luck costs a pretty bob."

"Then you must be in the market. I've got a job lined up."

"And you're sharing?"

"With you?" Deadshot made a show of looking her up and down. He grinned. "Sure."

"I'm all a-flutter."

"Hey, I don't go for just any girl."

"Glad to hear it." She smiled and took a sip of her drink. "Pay good?"

"The best baby."

"I'm in. Oh...and Lawton?"

"Yeah?"

A knife appeared in her hand and just as swiftly buried itself in the wall behind Deadshot's head, narrowly missing him.

"Don't call me baby luv."

"Morillo."

"Don't call me that!" Plunder whirled, coat flapping, gloved hands tightening on the high-powered rifle he clutched. Clad in his usual blue coat and body armor and featureless mask, he made an imposing figure. "Don't call me that." he said again, more calmly this time. He turned back and settled the gun into the crook of the tree he was leaning against, fiddling with the scope. "What do you want? This is my hit."

"Not here to butt in, trust me."

"Good. Hate to have to kill you."

"Hate to see you try Plunder." Deadshot sat on his haunches, forearms hanging off his knees. His mask was pushed up on his head and a cigarette dangled from his lips. "Meant I'd have to kill you."

"You'd try." Plunder didn't turn around. He leaned in to the rifle and clicked off the safety. "We done with the tough guy talk now?"

"Sure. Who's the mark?"

"Senator Fitch."

"Metahuman Reform bill guy?"

"Yep. Somebody don't want that bill getting passed."

"Cool." Deadshot blew a plume of smoke out of his mouth and tapped the end of his cigarette, spilling ash onto the ground. "You gonna shoot him anytime soon."

"I'm lining up the shot. Please be quiet."

"Just saying, he ain't gonna stand on those steps for much longer."

"I'm aware of that, thank you."

"Might wanna shoot him. Nnnnnow."

"I'm not ready yet."

"Now?"

"No! Goddamnit!" Plunder pulled the trigger. Deadshot craned his head, trying to peer around the tree.

"Missed him?"

"No! I blew his goddamn head off!"

"Then what are you upset about?"

"I was aiming for his heart!"

"Dead is dead."

"Why are you here again?" Plunder said, exasperation evident in his voice as he turned around. Deadshot stood and flicked away his cigarette.

"So. You busy now?"

"Hi." Deadshot waggled his fingers at Knockout as she held herself upside down on the pole she had been gyrating against. Music by Lynard Skynard blared through the strip club, rattling the bottles on the tables. Deadshot tried to flick the ash off the tip of his cigarette but the ashtray kept vibrating away. Knockout, six feet in height and with a mane of cherry bomb red hair and at the moment completely nude but for a pair of green bikini bottoms, pulled herself upright with one hand and stepped off the stage onto Deadshot's table, causing it to wobble as she grinded to the music. She looked down at him, smirking through the curtain of crimson tresses that spilled over her angelic face.

"Floyd. I didn't know you were a fan of the arts."

"Lot you don't know about me." Deadshot grinned up at her. "How's this place treating you?"

"Better than most, worse than some."

"Ready to get a real job yet?"

"I make good money here." She sank to all fours and rolled onto her back, legs in the air and crossed at the ankles.

"You'll make better with me."

"Promise?" She tapped her lips with a fingernail and batted her eyes at him in mock innocence. Deadshot crossed his heart with two fingers.

"Scout's honor."

"How could I resist you Floyd?"

"Nobody can babe. Not even one of Granny Goodness' girls."

"Well. Don't we just look like the biggest, happiest family." Fastball said, feet up on the table the six colorfully costumed professionals sat around. It was a nondescript table in a nondescript room in a nondescript house in an undisclosed location. In fact, the only thing 'descript' about the house was its occupants and the series of immense flatscreen television monitors that dominated the room Fastball and the others sat in. One on each wall. The house was a decrepit ruin on the outside and not much better on the inside. Each of the six occupants had arrived one after the other, Deadshot being the last to arrive, a half empty sixpack dangling from one hand.

"You got a weird idea of family." Deadshot said, pulling out a chair and sitting heavily. The others looked at him expectantly as he took a long swig from a can. Deadshot looked up, foam dripping from his lips. "What?"

"What do you mean what?" Fastball said, droping his feet to the floor and sitting up straight. "Why are we here Floyd?"

"No clue."

"What?"

"What what?"

"Floyd!"

"Gentlemen. Ladies." The voice that suddenly seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere at once was a distorted melange of a dozen different voices-men, women, children even. Deadshot raised a beer in salute as the television monitors flickered to life as one.

"There we go. Right on time."

"Please be quiet Mister Lawton." A face appeared on every single screen, a distorted pixel-image approximation of a human countenance built of pieces from a dozen faces. "We are Mockingbird."

"Good for you." Plunder said, snatching a beer from Deadshot's six pack.

"Hey! Get your own!"

"All in the name jerk."

"Gentlemen." Mockingbird. "You were hand-picked. All of you. Please do not make us regret that decision." On three of the screens the composite face wavered and vanished replaced by a building many of those present were familiar with in intimate detail. "Belle Reve Prison. Louisiana." The building wavered and was replaced by the face of pure evil. Bald, narrow featured with golden eyes and hairless save for two tufts of hair protruding from either side of the chin. "Lord Naga or Kobra as he is known to the world's intelligence services. Some of you have met him. Worked for him or against him. Been a part of his schemes in some way." The scene switched again, back to the prison. A massive explosion tore through the building, gutting it in seconds. "An unexplained explosion ocurred within the prison walls at five-fifty on Monday of this week. Kobra escaped twelve minutes later after killing two guards and three inmates. He is currently at large and considered armed and dangerous."

"We're gonna have to go after Kobra?" Fastball shook his head. "Shit."

"Incorrect Mister Malone. And correct too in a way." The screens shifted again to a face that was eerily similar to Kobra's though possessed of a full head of black hair and lacking the facial hair. "Jason Burr. Twin brother to Kobra. Believed dead for the past decade by most intelligence services, we know better." The screens flickered, showing a city at a distance. "The city of Shiruta. Capital of Kahndaq. A country on the Sinai Peninsula. Many of you are familiar with it."

Mockingbird was silent for a moment, as if waiting for assent. The gathered mercenaries were silent however, eyes riveted to the screen.

"For the past decade, Jason Burr has been held in isolation by the Cobra Cult."

"Why?" Lady Vic leaned forward, eyes narrowing within her helmet. "Who is he to Kobra, besides the obvious?"

"Not your concern Lady Marsh-Morton." Mockingbird's face reappeared on all the screens. "Your concern, and that of the others gathered here is that Jason Burr escaped from his confinement at exactly the same moment as his brother was escaping from Belle Reve. As yet, he has not been recaptured. You six were hired to travel to Shiruta and acquire Jason Burr for this organization."

"And who, exactly, is this organization?" Bane spoke up. Mockingbird was silent, digital eyes flickering over each of them in turn.

"We are Mockingbird. And we are the ones paying you."

Jason Burr ran.

The sun was setting over the city of Shiruta, turning the dusty streets orange. The color reminded him of pain. He ran faster, his lungs straining against his ribs causing flashes of pain to ricochet up and down his spine. His skin had tasted the lash, the electrode and the spike these last few months. All gentle gifts of his loving brother. All promises never fulfilled. So Jason Burr ran, though his feet had been broken and blistered, though his vertebrae had been cracked and shifted, though his mind had been shaken and skewered, he ran and ran and ran.

And the sons of the serpent came after, and hell followed with them.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Next Issue: SECRET SIX: THE SERPENT SANCTION continues as our merry band travels to Kahndaq and begins their first mission but obstacles abound both within the group and without as they 'HIT THE GROUND RUNNING'...