This message Premiere #9: Last Stands was posted by on Thursday, February 28, 2002 at 15:20.
The hologram of Doctor Zalas strode around the Oval Office as if he belonged there. “The advantages of an economic and political alliance are self-evident,” the Science Council Chairman told the President and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “You are a scientifically-backward, chaotic, and poorly-governed socio-political unit, and we are Technopolis. We will allow you to retain suitable autonomy as a managed service unit of our infrastructure, and…”
Dr Zalas disappeared in a crackle of static as Dan Drury, Director of the Super-Menace Protection Undercover Division, an international special operations unit, strode into the room, flanked by Al. B Harper and Sir Mumphrey Wilton. Harper carried some huge gadget that was spewing interference across the whole EM spectrum.
“Sorry about that,” he told the shocked President as SPUD agents disarmed the White House security guards. “Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible. Do not adjust your sets.”
“What is the meaning of this, Drury?” the National Security Advisor Herbert Garrick demanded.
“We have new information,” the SPUD director explained, “And we didn’t feel like sharing it with Max Headroom.”
“I’ve been sent on behalf of NATO,” Sir Mumphrey explained quickly. “I got pulled in given a certain familiarity with superhuman activities. Used to do some work for the British in the old days. Anyway, as you can imagine the Technopolis occupation of America is making the Europeans a little anxious.”
“We are not occupied,” the President objected. “Just…”
“Save it for the cameras, buddy,” Drury snorted. “We’ve got foreign troops in all our key cities and defense installations an’ there’s a see-thru bozo at the White House tellin’ the Prez what to do. That’s my definition of an occupation.”
“And that’s why we simulated a disruption in the carrier wave frequency for Dr Zalas’ holography signal,” Al B. Harper explained, hefting the chunky gunmetal-grey boy he was shouldering. “Nice to meet you by the way, Mister President. I didn’t vote for you.”
“The point is,” continued Sir Mumphrey, “that NATO and G7 intelligence assessments give a good chance of Technopolis assimilating the United States and then seeking to dominate the remainder of the planet. Some of the allies… well, they’re advocating a First Strike.”
“A nuclear attack?” Garrick objected. “That’s…”
“What we’d consider doing if it was somewhere else,” Drury pointed out. “They’re not getting’ clear signals from this office about whether we’re fightin’ or surrendering. And that’s why I thought we’d better have a little chat, Mister President.” The old soldier leaned over the desk and lit his cigar. “I’m here to lend th’ nation a little backbone.”
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Night was falling on a subdued and frightened Parodiopolis, a city under new management since Professor Brudas of the Technopolis Science Council had arrived with HOW MANY metahumans to act as a “peacekeeping” force. Chief Enforcer was Count Armageddon, one of the most powerful and dangerous of the most wanted Science Villains.
It was Armageddon who had slung Police Commissioner Graham from a lamppost in Parody Plaza, and who had murdered the two men who had dared to ask for his release. Reverend Fleetwood of the Zero St Mission was the third to come and make the request.
“Do you think your clerical collar will save you, priest?” Count Armageddon hissed. “We killed God back when we founded Technopolis, holy-man.”
“No, and no,” Fleetwood answered. “And I’m a minister, not a priest. But I think you’ve made your point now with Don Graham, don’t you?”
Armageddon pointed to the two charred areas where a police detective and Frog-Man had been evaporated. “Are you ready to be number three?” he demanded. “According to the files, Frog-Man can probably come back to life eventually even from my kaos blasts. You don’t get resurrected.”
“You’ve not been reading the right books,” Fleetwood smiled secretly. “Look, we’ve got the point. You’re in charge for now. Let me get this man to medical attention now. Please.”
Count Armageddon pointed a single finger at the reverend.
“Hold… it…” Commissioner Graham croaked, moving in his bonds for the first time in hours. “You don’t need to do this, Mac.”
“I think I do,” Fleetwood trembled. “We can not give in to terrorism, not bow to tyrants.”
“Right. But you still don’t need to do this. Go home. Even if this perp let me go I wouldn’t be leaving this spot.”
Armageddon turned and looked incredulously at the beaten-up old man.
“Y’see,” the Commissioner explained, “sooner of later the heroes are going to get here, and then I’ll be needed to arrest these scum.” He glared at the Count through swollen eyes. “It’s all about sending a message,” he declared.
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The trail of destruction ran thirty miles from MacDonald to Cunningham and cut through national park, industrial land, and half a dozen farmsteads. And still Amazing Guy and Thermonuclear Man continued to battle across Washington state.
“You’re getting’ weaker,” Thermonuclear Man gloated as Amazing Guy contained yet another hard radiation burst that would have otherwise sterilized a fifty mile radius. “I can feel those energy-walls of yours weakening.”
“I’m hardly finished yet,” Scott Brunsen answered, ignoring the pounding headache that his enemy’s repeated destruction of his energy-shields was causing. Thermonuclear Man could punch through Amazing Guy’s constructs with sustained bursts over a minute or so, and that hurt. It was literally like battling a walking atom bomb.
“Sure you are,” Thermonuclear Man boasted, hammering AG into the ground with what Technopolis classified as category ten strength. “Pretty soon I’ll pop your bubble an’ then that’s all she wrote. But I won’t kill you easy, just burn off your skin and melt your eyes. And then I’ll go looking for your loved ones and treat them to a little radioactive fun.”
Amazing Guy thrust and energy lance at the science villain’s chest, but he couldn’t penetrate his skin. “You won’t get the chance,” he promised. “I’m taking you down.”
The battle had raged for nearly three hours now. “Yeah?” Thermonuclear Man laughed. “You an’ whose army?”
Jack Rabbit bounced off the atomic terrorist’s head and tripped him into the scorched earth. “That would be us, I guess,” he called out.
The JBH had arrived.
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There were six people in the holding cell beneath the White Room apart from Visionary and the other League of Regulars. All of them were barely alive, each crippled by serious deformities after the Red Watchman had amused himself by shifting their flesh and internal organs about with his biomass control powers. None of them would survive the night.
“He said he would be back for us,” Cheryl remembered, huddling close to her husband.
“Any chance of getting out to the Happy Place?” Lisa checked with Yo, but the thought being shook his/her head. The power dampers prevented Yo from using any powers, just as Lisa couldn’t summons assistance.
“I don’t know what to say, Cheryl,” Visionary admitted. “I… er, I suppose I should tell you that….”
Then the door opened.
The four friends tried not to flinch as they faced their doom.
“Hi there,” beamed CrazySugarFreakBoy!
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The sun was just setting on the Bighorn Mountains west of Sheridan, Wyoming, where the Lair Legion prepared a last stand against incoming troops from Technopolis who sought to reclaim the Science Hero prisoners liberated by Premiere.
“Who do we have?” Fin Fang Foom checked with Hatman.
“Of our team, Donar, Dancer, G-Eyed, Enty and me ready to fight,” the Lair Legion’s deputy leader answered. “You and Nats aren’t really in peak condition but you’re in lots batter shape than most of the torture victims from that cell block that Premiere liberated. Ziles is exhausted but able to fight. Whitney’s wiped out for now, barely conscious. Falcon’s good to rumble. Premiere’s hardly breathing.”
“We have those two kids from Technopolis, Phase Shift and Windblossom,” Goldeneyed added. “He’s had some combat training as a Science Hero. She’s pretty scared but she’s trying her best to hold on, poor kid. She’s doing great looking after the worst of the wounded.
”
“Enemy incoming in less than a minute,” NTU-150 reported.
“Okay, set up a defense perimeter round the remains of this installation,” Fin Fang Foom ordered. “This is pretty much a suicide mission, so anybody that wants to get out of here, this is the time.”
“As if we were going to leave people who need us,” Dancer snorted. “And there’s always a chance.” And she started dancing.
Biohazard commanded the assault team that took point against the Lair Legion. He peeled off armored grav-gunships to left and right to bracket the enemy, then sent some of his heavy hitter front rankers down to soften the prey up with a few early casualties.
Then the Lair Legion and the whole complex they were defending rippled and vanished.
“What the hell kind of f*cking trick is this?” the science villain shouted. There was no longer even any churned up ground to indicate that the detainment block had fallen there.
The Lair Legion had gone.
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“What’s happening?” Fin Fang Foom demanded.
NTU-150 checked his global positioning computer. “We’ve moved,” he said, puzzled. “We’re five miles southwest of where we were before.” He glanced at the ruined prison layout smashed before him and the desperate injured former inmates. “We’ve all moved, as if this was where the installation fell down, not over there!”
“Ah, that would be my doing,” suggested the Hooded Hood. “Good evening. I have come to extend you all an invitation to dinner.”
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