GG Crono slowly walked down the long, long sidewalk, whistling a small show tune while taking in the quant old homes, all of which were painted a fading white for some unfathomable reason. Finally, he left the quiet suburbs and made his way into RPGC’s slums, a long-ruined section of town inhabited by those that had slipped beneath the radar of the rest of RPGC. Despite the rabidly-degenerating surroundings he found himself in, he nonetheless continued to walk down the sidewalk until he reached a corner liquir store.
Pierson sat on the curb, drinking a Pepsi while watching a bunch of drunken bums suspiciously watch a number of people pass by. GG Crono took up a seat next to him. “Okay, what’s this all about?”
“Those bums,” said Pierson. “They’ve been mugging people all over the slums the last couple days. The only reason I didn’t stop them before was because the UN’s gestapo was all over the place.”
“…Then, why are we doing this now?” asked GG Crono.
“Because they’re gone,” said Pierson. “They always take a day off to eat at Marie Calender’s. By the time they all get a table, it’ll be noon tomorrow. Now, let’s just wait until…”
Suddenly, the bums went after a young woman, visiting from a nearby town for some unknown reason. As the raggedy men drew switchblades and surrounded the woman, Pierson and GG Crono rose from their sitting spots and approached the attack, making sure that no one of any import was watching their movements. Finally satisfied of their safety, they grabbed the bums by the collar and slammed their heads together, quickly ending the menace.
“Are you alright, ma’am?” asked Pierson. The woman responded only by dumping the contents of her purse and running in panic. Sighing, GG Crono reached down to help pick up the purse’s contents…and heard the sound of M16s cocking. Sighing even heavier than before, he straightened himself out, and found himself staring directly into the helmet of a United Nations Special Forces soldier. “We finally got you, Pierson and GG Crono!”
“I thought you guys were at Marie Calenders!” said Pierson.
“We went yesterday,” said the soldier. “They were having a great sale on pumpkin pie!”
As the two were loaded into the back of a van, all Pierson could say was, “Damn you, pumpkin pie! DAMN YOU!”
Meanwhile, from a safe distance away, Poke and Fou-lu returned to the RPGCPD’s only car (a badly beaten, worn-out Pinto) and gave chase, determined to rescue their only contacts to the superheroic underground. Meanwhile, from another safe distance, the obligatory shadowy figure teleported away, having satisfied his mission to observe the UN forces.
SECRET ISLAND PRISON, SOMEWHERE IN THE ATLANTIC
Wilfredo Martinez was wheelchaired into the guardroom next to the prison’s sole cell block. At a small metal desk sat a woman, about forty years in age, wearing the same uniform as the UNSF soldiers. “Alright, warden, what is this all about?”
The warden left her desk and wordlessly opened the cell block doors. The guards continued to wheel Wilfredo in after her, as they passed cell after cell of superheroes and supervillains. Wil sadly hung his head at the sight of so many caged heroes, but in his heart, he still felt that the UN was justified. After all, not everyone with special abilities was a pure, justice-seeking hero; some were just nothing more than thugs and murderers.
Finally, the guards stopped just outside of one of the cells. Wil was completely stunned at who he saw inside: GG Crono and Pierson. The two RPGCers simply stared at their comrade, who responded with a cold glare all his own. “This…RPGC of yours is quickly becoming a troublespot,” said the warden. “We just got these two today, only after they’d apparantly tried to snatch a woman’s purse.”
“That doesn’t sound like them,” said Wil. “Still, is this all? Surely two people don’t account for-”
The warden showed the next cell over. Inside was a being Wil had never seen before, a formless man in a brown cloak. It was placed within an electromagnetic stasis field, electricity cackling and coursing through its body every fifteen seconds. “This…thing calls itself a god,” said the warden. “It took the lives of several men, but we still managed to capture it as it exited a dimensional portal. It seemed quite surprised when we managed to weaken it.”
“Maybe it was powerful on whatever world it came from,” said Wil. “Now, is there anything else-”
“Actually, there is,” said the warden. The entire tour group turned to the opposite cell, and saw Mabatsekker and Galloway, each trapped behind a series of forcefields. Galloway sat on a bench, seemingly resigned to his fate, while Mabat continued to pound on his own barrier, but to no avail. “These two were especially difficult. Galloway was already wanted for the murder of an Iranian diplomat in 2002; it was through some small miracle that he happened to be at the same place as a bank robbery. Mabatsekker was a bit more difficult, as Finland has not been exactly cooperative with the UN, but he was stupid enough to set foot in Russia, thanks to a small train incident.”
“And…what do you want me to do about this?” asked Wil.
“All five of these people attempted to be superheroes in some fashion,” said the warden. “You need to make them understand that there is no need for these kinds of heroes anymore. If they can just understand that small premise, we might be willing to release them back into society.”
Wil cringed at the warden’s words. They had never liked each other, as the warden was too paranoid and metaphobic to even listen to heroes or villains, and Wil believed that people like her took the law too far and only resulted in more destruction than was needed. Still, as one of the few sanctioned superheroes, Wil had no choice but to cooperate with the UN, and with her. “Fine, I’ll do it. Just…give me a couple minutes alone with them.”
The warden nodded, and she and the guards left the room, leaving the wheelchair-bound Wil to the prisoners. As he was about to begin speaking, however, his cell phone began to play a synthesized, ear-shattering show tune. Cursing his poor taste in music, Wil answered the phone. “Hello, this is Wilfredo Martinez. How may I help you?”
As the voice on the other end began to talk, Wil began to let out a wry smile, only to immediately wince in pain as his smile muscles flared up once again.
(to be continued)
This made me laugh.
Btw, I thought I’d describe 52 and Civil War just so you know what the similarities to your story are.