Issue #9

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"The Past Catches Up With Everybody"

by Chuck Burke

In a small Italian restaurant on the north side of Syracuse, a familiar couple lingers over dinner.

"So have you decided about your vacation yet?" asks the dark-haired, broad-shouldered man sitting with his back to the wall.

The short, dark-haired woman sitting opposite him twirls a wine glass in her hand, watching the sediment of the wine swirling in the bottom of the glass. "No, I still haven't figured out if I want to stay around town, or head up to Canada for a few days." She brings the glass to her mouth and drinks down the last of her wine. "I guess I'm just not used to the idea of a whole week off from work. The last time I took off that much time was when Matt…"

Ted Grant reaches over and lays a hand over hers. "You okay, Abby?"

Abby Walker looks up into his eyes. "Yeah, I guess so. It's just, well, Matt and I used to come here sometimes, and it brings back memories."

"As long as they're good memories, there ain't nothing wrong with that." Ted glances down at her hand, where a simple golden band encircles the ring finger of her left hand. "You've never said much about him, but I noticed you still wear your wedding band when you're not in uniform, so I figured it wasn't a divorce."

Abby cocks her head, a puzzled look on her face. "That's right, I've never told you about Matt, have I?" She chuckles, shaking her head. "I don't believe this, we've been going together for what, four, five months? How come you never asked?"

"Not really any of my business, I figure. I mean, if you want me to know, you'd say so."

"Well, Matt and I met when I was in the Army, when I was training in demolitions. He was in Special Forces, and was at Fort Hood for advanced training. A year later, we were married, and for the most part we managed to get postings together. When he was selected for a position in, well, a position where I couldn't follow, I was winding up my second hitch. I got out and came back to Syracuse, joined the police department, and he was here whenever he wasn't on assignment." Abby looks up at the ceiling, and Ted sees the glint of tears at the corners of her eyes. "We were married for almost eight years when he was killed."

"Line of duty?"

"Yeah. Things went seriously wrong for him and several others." She takes a napkin offered by Ted and dabs at her eyes. That was almost four years ago."

Silence falls at the table for a few minutes. It is only broken when Abby gets up from her chair. "I think I'd like to go now."

Fifteen minutes later, Abby and Ted are walking up to her townhouse when Ted reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "Damn," he mutters.

"What is it?"

"Burglar alarm, at my old gym in the Bronx," replies Ted, looking at the phone's screen.

"It's closed, isn't it? The police can handle it."

"Not this. It's a system I have with some of my old stoolies. They break into the gym, wait in the office. They only use it when it's something big."

"But it will take you over five hours to get there, won't it?"

"No, I can actually be there in a couple minutes." Ted looks down at her. "Feel like coming along?"

"Are you asking Abby Walker, or Lieutenant Walker?" she asks with a grin.

"Hey, I'll take both of ya!" he replies with a grin, punching a speed-dial code on the phone. "DINAH, activate inbound teleporter, on my mark, two persons." Within seconds, the couple fades from view.

Seconds later, they re-appear in a glowing, green room with a window looking down at North America. "What the-?" asks Abby.

"Welcome to the Higher Authority. Give me a minute to change, will ya?" Ted dashes off down a corridor, leaving Abby alone in the meeting room. She looks down at the still globe below for a few minutes, then glances around at the photos on the walls. One in particular catches her attention. When Ted walks back in, clad in the dark blue of his Wildcat costume, she is still staring at it.

"Those are Checkmate agents, aren't they?" she asks, pointing at the picture.

"Hmm? Oh, those guys? Yeah, I guess it's some sort of double-secret spy agency, or something. You deal with them before?" Wildcat calls up a list of pre-set destinations on a wall-mounted touchscreen.

"Yeah, I guess you could say that," replies Abby, coming to join him in the transporter's alcove. She reaches into her purse and pulls out her badge and pistol. She slips the badge onto her belt, and chambers a round. "Just in case. Shall we?"

"Five minutes. After that, I'm outta here." Looking around the darkened office, he brushes dust off of a desk and sits on it. "Damn, I've missed this place."

"Too bad you only paid attention to the boxing lessons, Tommy." Tommy Mitchell jumps up off the desk and turns around. Framed in a doorway stands a tall figure, clad in a dark blue body suit topped by a cat-mask. "Maybe if you'd listened to some of the other stuff that Grant and Sloane tried to teach you kids, you wouldn't be spending half your time in the joint."

"Yeah, I think I finally figured that out while I was in there this last time. That's why I figured I'd come to you with this, instead of trying to get a job out of it." Seeing movement behind Wildcat, Tommy takes a step backwards. "Hey, who's that with you?"

"Friend of mine." Wildcat steps into the room, and Abby steps forward with her 9mm held in a standard Weaver stance. "It's all right, Lieutenant. Tommy and I are old friends. He won't be any trouble." To Tommy's relief, she lowers her weapon. She does not, he notes, put the safety on. "So, what have you got for me?"

"I just got out today. Word's going around in the joint for anybody getting out in the next month or so that someone's hiring muscle. Heavy hitters, especially."

"Single job, or looking for long term?"

"Long term."

"You got a name?"

"Two names. Word is, it's the Ultra-Humanite. But he's shedding the freak show body he's had the last couple years."

"I can understand that. The ape was bad enough, but last time I seen him he looked bad enough to scare kids from two states away. So, whose face are we looking for?"

"The Sportsmaster."

Several hundred miles away, in a run down, yet still imposing Antebellum mansion, a letter trembles in an aged hand.

"Atermis! Artemis, where are you. Get in here!"

Moments later, a tall young woman with long, straight, reddish-brown hair strides into the room. "What is it, Mother? Are you all right?" she asks, looking down at the slender, white-haired woman sitting upright on a half-sofa in the sunlight streaming through a set of French doors.

"I may be getting addled in the head, if you don't read this letter the way I do!" Paula Crock hands the letter to her daughter. "It's from Jake. He wrote it using the codes we taught you when you were a child."

Scanning the sheet, Artemis looks up. "He doesn't know, I take it? About Wildcat?"

Paula shakes her head. "Looks like Jake's true father hasn't had the nerve to tell him yet. But this isn't about that: it's about your father."

Artemis sits on a couch and places the letter on a coffee table. She frowns as she concentrates on extracting the right words from the letter. After five minutes time, during which she reaches for a notepad and jots down some words, she looks up. "Daddy was at Belle Reeve last year? But that's impossible!"

Paula leaned back on her divan. "Good, you translated it the same way I did. I'm not going crazy." Ignoring the smirk from her daughter, she goes on. "Nothing is impossible, sweetie. Especially where mystery men and the government are concerned."

"He wants to talk to you in person. How can we get into Belle Reeve to talk to him?"

"How many outstanding warrants do you have right now?" Artemis shrugs. "Right. And they won't be too crazy about letting me in, even though I don't have any charges hanging over me." Paula taps a slender finger against her jaw. "Oh, I have it. Wildcat hasn't had the chance to get re-acquainted with his son yet - how about we give him a little incentive?"

Laughter fills the room as she reaches for a telephone.

"Welcome to the Good Winds Lodge, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. My name is Paul, and if there is anything you need during your stay, just ask." The genial tone is in contrast with the proprietor's craggy, weathered face. "Either Kaitlin or I will take care of it."

"Thank you, Paul. I've heard good things about your place, and we've been looking forward to this weekend for months." James Anderson leads his wife toward the steps leading up from the rustic lounge of the lodge.

"Why don't you go and relax, Paul? I've got things covered here." Kaitlyn waves him away from the counter. Paul smiles and walks into his office. Closing the door, he sits down at the computer.

Something from Charlie, he muses. Opening the e-mail, he reads: "I think I have a hit on that equipment you asked about. Looks like someone is trying to duplicate the cloning process that you told me about."

Paul Kirk opens a reply window. "Get me a location, an address, a name, anything you can. Payment in the usual manner."

Before he can do anything else, a reply comes back. "Damn, you're good kid. Let's see who - huh? That can't be right, he's dead. Or maybe not," he mumbles as he types a quick thank you and sends it off.

With the message sent, Paul leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers in front of his face, thinking about the path that led up to this day. Five months ago, he was hiding under an assumed name, relying on a few notes from a Council cloning lab to track down others like him, clones of a 1940's mysteryman called Manhunter. A few weeks after meeting up with the hero called Wildcat, a package arrived at the lodge with information on the Council's operations and personnel, gathered several years earlier when the bulk of the Council was destroyed by the original Manhunter and Batman. Since that time, he has been expanding his search, looking for information not only on surviving clones, but those who might try to revive the Council or re-create their technology. Charlie, a computer hacker who has proven extremely reliable, has been tracking purchases of equipment similar to that used by the Council.

"Someone is building their own cloning lab," muses Paul. "I think I'm going to need some help with this." He flips open a Rolodex on his desk, turning to the letter G. "Hope I'm not disturbing any plans, Ted."

"Oh, give me a freakin' break here, will ya?" Ted Grant looks up from the notepad where he is jotting down names and phone numbers as he checks his voice mail. "Okay, Abby, here's a riddle for you: what do Tommy Mitchell, Paula Crock and Kirk Paulie all have in common?"

"Kirk Paulie? From the Good Winds Lodge?" Abby leans back in her chair. "Well, I'm assuming Kirk and Paula are both on your voice mail. Aside from that?"

"Yeah, aside from that."

"Well, Paula was married to Crusher Crock, the original Sportsmaster, and Jake, the current holder of that name, thinks that they're his parents. Did the Manhunter have anything to do with the Sportsmaster when he was alive?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Ted puts down his pen and leans on the arm of the couch. "Kirk just called me saying he's been tracking purchases of equipment that might be used to duplicate the Council's cloning operation. He's got a line on a major purchase a few months ago. Signed for by Lawrence Crock."

"Oh, shit. Could he be working with the Ultra-Humanite?"

"Kinda tough to do when you're dead. More likely, Ultra used the name. But it gets better: Paula Crock wants me to meet her and take her to Belle Reeve. She got a message from Jake, saying Crusher was there within the past year. Which is about 3 years after he supposedly died."

"So maybe he isn't dead. The government hasn't always been too honest about the status of metahuman criminals, after all." Abby stands up and comes over to kiss Ted. "So, what time are we leaving, and how are we traveling?"

"Whoa, you're jumping ahead here a bit, aren't you?"

"Tell me if I'm wrong: Paula Crock wants to talk to Jake. You want to convince him that the Crocks aren't his parents. From what you've told me about Paula, she's offered to help convince him, if you get her in to see him. Now, Paul calls - yes, I know he is now using 'his' own name - and given the way he operates, he's ready to move on this information immediately."

"Okay, okay. Leaving here at seven-thirty tomorrow."

"That's what I figured. I have to pack, and there are a couple of things I need to pick up. How are we traveling?"

"Leave that to me, sweetheart."

"What did you call this thing?" asks Abby, gesturing to indicate the noisy, open craft in which she and Wildcat are flying over the Adirondack Mountains.

"A Sky Skimmer," replies Wildcat. "That's what the Star-Spangled Kid called it when he built it for the JSA. This is number four, out of six that he made."

"What happened to the other five?" asks Abby with a worried tone in her voice.

"Let's see… The first one got blown out of the air by Vulcan. That's when the Kid decided we needed to have more than one on hand. I think one of them is still out at the old Infinity Inc headquarters in Hollywood. Two of them are in the hanger under the JSA's old headquarters. Then there's number five."

"What happened to number five?"

"It's got one of Hawkman's maces stuck in the drive. Hawkman doesn't have much patience with technology."

Abby laughs as she brushes her hair out of her face for the umpteenth time since taking flight. "I don't suppose this thing is a convertible, is it?"

"Oh, don't like the wind in your hair?" Wildcat reaches down and pulls a lever next to his seat. A plexiglass cowling comes up out of the back of the craft. "That should help."

"Wonderful." Abby relaxes, letting out breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Sky-Skimmer. Some name."

"Hey, Sylvester was a bright kid, but he was horrible with names. I mean, c'mon, he went from being the Star-Spangled Kid to calling himself Sky-Man!"

"That was him? I met him once, when he visited Fort Hood. Please tell me he wasn't as much of a nerd as he looked in that costume!"

"I'm afraid so. But he was a good kid. One I was glad to have at my side, you know?"

"I understand, Ted. But, really - Sky Skimmer? Sky-Man?"

"Hey, that's nothing, babe. Back in the 40's, he and his partner had a flying car. They called it the Star-Rocket Racer!"

Abby throws her head back, howling with laughter as the Sky Skimmer starts descending towards the Good Winds Lodge.

"Now, tell me again why we're going to New Orleans." Manhunter leans forward between the two front seats of the Sky Skimmer. "The address the equipment was shipped to is in Colorado."

"We're picking up Crusher Crock's son. He's in Belle Reeve." Out of the corner of his eye, Wildcat sees questioning looks from both Manhunter and from Abby. He ignores her look. "Belle Reeve is a special prison for metahumans."

"You said Crock is dead, though. What makes you think his son knows anything about this?"

"The kid's mother got a message from him, saying his father had been at Belle Reeve within the past year. So, it's possible the old man isn't dead after all." Wildcat points at a screen on the dashboard. "We're stopping to pick up the mother in Virginia."

"You think she'd be able to help? What is she, another supervillian?" asked Manhunter with a chuckle.

"Actually, yes," replies Wildcat. "More or less retired now. Went by the name of Huntress, back in the day."

"Huntress? Oh, hell." Wildcat glances back over his shoulder to see Manhunter slumped back in a seat, hands over his face. "This isn't going to be good."

"No. Absolutely not!" The Huntress' shrill voice echoes in the foyer of the mansion.

"What? Why the hell not?" asks an exasperated Wildcat, following her in the front door.

She whirls on him, like on of her panthers ready to strike. "You're kidding, right? You show up in that reject from a Star Wars movie, expecting me to fly halfway across the country in it! Then I find out you've brought HIM with you!"

"Manhunter? What's your beef with him?"

"My beef?" she shrieks. "After what he did to me, I-" Her eyes narrow down to slits, and her voice drops in both volume and pitch. "You don't know, do you?"

Wildcat comes to a stop, crossing his arms across his chest. "I'm guessing I don't. Why don't you fill me in?"

The Huntress walks over to a chair and sits down. "We had a, I don't know what you'd call it, a thing! Back when I was trying to be a do-gooder."

"You mean, a romance? An affair?"

"Yeah, something like that. I was just a damn fool kid, and I was in love with this handsome, rugged hero. It was before Crusher, before you." She lets out a sharp laugh. "He was my first."

Wildcat kneels down in front of the older woman in the tiger-striped costume. "For whatever it's worth, this guy isn't quite the Manhunter you knew. He's a clone of the original."

"Does he remember the original's life?"

"I think he said he has all of Paul's memories, up until Paul supposedly died in '47."

"Damnation! So he should remember me, and what we did. And he's an abomination on top of it all!"

"Huh?"

"He's a clone. He's not a real person, he's a copy. The fact that he's a clone of someone I loved is just adding insult to injury."

"Look, Paula, Manhunter came to me with information about a possible cloning operation." Seeing her puzzled look, Wildcat continues. "Whoever is running it is using Crusher's name. Add that to the tip I got that the Ultra-Humanite is planning to make a move, as Crusher-"

"That bastard! But how does that tie into what Jake told me?"

"That's what we're going to find out. But we all have to work together. Can you put aside your issues with Manhunter and do that?"

"I was able to work with that ninny, Ragdoll, wasn't I?"

Outside, Abby and Manhunter stand by the Sky Skimmer, looking around at the semi-wild surroundings of the Crock estate. "Looks like someone didn't pay their groundskeeper," mutters Abby.

Off to one side, they both hear a cracking sound. Abby's service pistol is in her hand in an instant, but not before a pair of shuriken are whistling through the air into the trees. Manhunter's right hand follows through from the throwing motion to draw a Luger pistol from its holster. "Come on out. Now!" barks the Manhunter.

"Jumpy, aren't we?" The brush parts as a tall, bronze-haired young woman steps through. In her left hand she holds a recurve bow, in which the two shuriken are embedded. "You didn't think I would let Mother run off with you folks without me, did you?" She plucks the throwing stars free of the wood and tosses them to Manhunter. "Who are you supposed to be?"

"I'm called Manhunter."

"Really? I've been called that a few times myself." Abby tries to choke back a laugh as Artemis Crock turns toward her, tipping down her sunglasses as she looks down at the shorter woman. "And you must be Grant's cop friend."

"Yeah, you can call me Abby. Unless I have to bust your ass sometime, then you can call me Lieutenant. I take it you're Artemis?"

"Yeah. So, when does this show get on the road?"

"As fast as you can get your gear loaded." They turn as Wildcat and the Huntress emerge from the house.

"Artemis, we need the trunks. Yours, mine and Jake's." When Wildcat turns with a puzzled look toward her, the Huntress adds "Look, if we're going after Ultra, we need every advantage we can get. If you or your cop can get Jake released to your custody, I want to have his gear with us."

"Let me give you a hand with the gear," says Manhunter, moving to follow Artemis toward a barn behind the house.

"You must be Abby. Ted hasn't said much about you, but what he has said has all been good." The Huntress looks her up and down. "I hope you know what you're getting into on this trip, young lady."

"Don't worry about me, Paula. If we have to take down the Ultra-Humanite, I'm prepared to be in the thick of it." Abby shoots a glance at Wildcat. "Moreso than any of you imagine."

It is late in the afternoon as the Sky Skimmer descends towards a forbidding facility on the outskirts of New Orleans. Settling in a walled-in area adjacent to the Belle Reeve prison, Wildcat, Abby and Paula, now wearing street clothes, exit the vehicle.

"Artemis, you've still got outstanding warrants, so there's no way we're getting you inside. Manhunter, your identity is in limbo as far as DEO is concerned, so you're out here as well." Wildcat points to the guard towers. "They keep this as a sort of parking lot for visiting members of the JSA and JLA, but once you're in here, you're under lockdown until I come out. Don't try to move this heap while you're here."

Wildcat walks with Abby and Paula to a checkpoint. He pulls an ID card from a pocked in the waist of his costume and places it a lockbox. Once he closes it, the guard opens it from the other side of the bullet-proof barrier. "We're here to see Jacob Crock."

"Who're these two?" asks the guard.

"Tabitha Walker, Syracuse police department," replies Abby, presenting the card case with her badge and department ID in the same manner. "This is Paula Crock, Jacob's mother."

"List here says it's just Wildcat and the kid's mother. We don't have you on here, Ms, ah, Lieutenant Walker." The guard starts to hand her badge back through the lockbox when she holds up a hand.

"Captain, if you check behind my department ID, you'll see that I am authorized."

When the guard checks again, he visibly straightens. "Yes, Ma'am." He passes their IDs back through the lockbox and deactivates the lock on the door. "Come on through, folks."

Stepping through, they find themselves before a table with three trays on it. "Anything metallic, any kind of weapon, any pens or other pointed objects, put them in the tray. We'll give you a receipt for them." The guard glances at Abby. "Ma'am?"

"Certainly. No need to break protocol." Reaching around behind her, she pulls a pair of pistols from holsters in the waistband of her black jeans. She places one foot up on a chair, pulls up the leg of her jeans and removes a holster strapped around her ankle with a third small pistol, and places all three guns in the tray, followed by six magazines for the larger pistols, and two for the ankle piece. Seeing the stares from her companions, she smiles. "What? You didn't think I'd make this trip unprepared, did you?"

Paula chuckles. "Oh, Wildcat, I think I like her."

"Yeah, so do I. But let's get on with this."

"Mr. ahhh, Wildcat, the warden set aside a conference room for you to." One of the guards leads them through a door and down a short corridor. "We don't allow costumed heroes in the regular visiting area anymore, it gets the cons to fighting." He opens a door and ushers them inside. "We'll have your kid down in a moment, ma'am," he adds, nodding toward Paula.

When he leaves, Wildcat turns to Abby. "I don't suppose you'd mind telling me what just happened back there, would you?"

"Later. The explanation is for you, and Paula if you want. But not for the prison staff."

Wildcat nods his assent as the door opens again. Two guards walk in, one to either side of a dark-haired, athletic young man in an orange jumpsuit. "One Jason Crock, as you requested," says one of the guards as they push the young man down into a chair. "Warden says you have thirty minutes. We'll be right outside if you need us."

Wildcat nods his head. "Thanks, guys. We should be all right."

Once the guards are outside, Jake looks at Paula. "What's he doing here?"

"It's all right, Jake," Paula replies, reaching across the table to lay a hand on his arm. He's going to help us find out what's happened to Crusher."

"That's right, kid. There's something screwy going on, and your dad seems to be caught in the middle of it." Paula turns and gives Wildcat a puzzled look. "So, how about you tell us what you've heard about him since you've been in here?"

"I don't get it. First of all, aren't you supposed to be dead? That's what I'm in here for, after all."

"That was the old Wildcat. I'm the younger model." Wildcat leans over to Abby and whispers "The kid's got a point, though. He shouldn't be in here for killing me when I ain't dead."

"At first, nobody around here paid much attention to me. They heard the name Sportsmaster, but figured I was another jock who copied Dad's gimmick. Then a couple of cons caught on to my last name and put it together. That's when they started asking what my old man was doing now, if I was using his name. I told them he'd supposedly died in prison a couple years ago, and they said they'd seen him here last year. So I started asking around, and checking any files I could." One side of Jake's mouth turns up in a smile. "I got a job in here, working in one of the administrative offices so I could dig around a little."

"Smart idea, honey," says Paula. "What did you find out?"

"About ten months ago, Dad was paroled to the custody of this company called UltraGen. They'd contacted the DEO looking for some test subjects for some new medicines."

Abby looks at Wildcat. "Ultra. Think it's connected?"

"You bet it is! Especially considering that the last time the JSA tangled with him, he was working through a dummy corporation called GenTech!"

Abby pulls Wildcat over to a far corner of the room. "Do you think Crock is working with the Ultra-Humanite, or is he being used by him?" she whispers.

"Ultra don't play well with others, baby. More then likely, he got Crock sprung out of here so he could clone him, and put his brain in a young, strong body." Wildcat shakes his head. "Chances are, by now, he's probably killed Crusher."

"Maybe. Now, what are you going to do about Jake? Aren't you going to tell him?"

"Not now. What I want to do is bring him with us."

"I thought so."

"Yeah? How come?"

"Hmm, let's see… We're going up against a major-league threat, there's five of us, with no superpowers between us. Based on the first time you met him, he's obviously good in a fight, and Paula's brought along his weapons. You didn't object when they put that gear in the flyer."

"There's another reason, babe." When Abby cocks her head to one side inquiringly, he continues. "As far as he knows, that's his father out there. If I'd had a chance to fight for my old man's life, or to avenge him, I'da done it in a heartbeat. Jake deserves that shot."

"And if he gets killed in the process?"

"I ain't letting that happen."

Abby lets out a barely audible "Hunh," walks to the door, and steps out of the room. "Look, kid, we think we know where your dad is, and we're planning to go after him. My cop friend is going to see about getting you released to my custody. You want in on a rescue attempt?"

Jake Crock looks from the face of the woman he believes to be his mother, to the face of the father he doesn't know, and back again. "Are you serious? I don't know why you're trying to save a guy who's been trying to kill you, or the guy who wore that costume before you, for fifty years, but yeah, I want in. Hell yeah!"

Fifteen minutes later, Wildcat, Abby Walker, Paula Crock and Jake Crock walk out of the prison and into the landing yard. Climbing into the Sky Skimmer, Wildcat looks at Manhunter. "Think you can fly this thing?"

"I don't know, 'Cat."

"Could you drive a '39 Mercury?"

"Well, yeah, of course-"

"Then you can fly this thing. The Star-Spangled Kid never did learn anything about airplane controls, everything he knew about driving came from cars. Let's get headed for Colorado." Manhunter moves up into the driver's seat, with Artemis in the seat next to him. Wildcat sits in the wider rear section with the others. "So, Abby, what made that guard suddenly start treating you like you're the freakin' governor or something?"

"Remember when I told you my husband and I were in the service?" Wildcat nods. "Well, when Matt got selected for special duty, like I told you the other night, I couldn't follow. But I did work for the same agency, and it's the sort of position that you never fully leave behind."

"But you're a civilian now, a cop. You can't be working for a government agency at the same time, can you?"

"Not exactly. But I'm sort of a consultant, I get called on for special situations. Mostly for demolitions, but sometimes for other work."

"Sheesh, I thought I was the one with the double life."

"I'm sorry, but we're supposed to keep a low profile."

"Okay, I'm confused!" declares Paula. "Just who the devil is it you work for?"

Before Abby can answer, two different alarms go off. One is in the dashboard of the Sky Skimmer.

"'Cat, got an incoming message on the screen from someone called Dinah. Says there's a major explosion about eight miles south of here, looks to be out in the Gulf. Something about meta-human involvement."

"Ah, hell, bad enough most of the JSA is out of touch, we could use them tackling Ultra, but this on top of it. Ain't there some hero team based around New Orleans?"

Manhunter is shrugging as Abby pulls out her cell phone, which is emitting a tone unlike anything the others have heard before. "Damn. I'm getting a signal on that one two. We've got a man down there, and he's in trouble." She pulls a duffel bag out from under the seat and pulls out a bulky jacket covered in flat, black nylon. As she pulls it on, she rips off a Velcroed patch on the left breast, and reaches behind her to pull off a larger patch on the back. Both of them reveal a silver silhouette of a playing piece from the game of chess.

"You've got to be kidding me!" exclaims Wildcat. "No wonder you kept this a secret."

"Yeah, now you know," says Abby as she runs her hand over the image of a pawn on her chest. "I'm Checkmate. And we've got to get down there right away."

Checkmate? That's right, and in FDC, if you're in Checkmate, chances are you're going to meet up with Bad Blood!

So, while you're waiting for the next issue of Wildcat, go read Bad Blood 25, the big, bad anniversary blowout guest-starring everybody Dale Glaser could squeeze out of the other FauxDC writers!

Then come back here next time, as I return the favor and bring a few members of Bad Blood along for the showdown with the Ultra-Humanite!

Till then, send comments, complaints, suggestions, requests, PayPal vouchers and anything else to fdcwriter@hauntedparsonage.us .

Da 'Cat!