Supervillain War # 16








	[Flashback] Imagine if you can, the concept of eternal life… They were numerous, these Elders of the Universe, drifting among the newborn stars in formless abandon. They would endure, wandering still billions of years from now; and only when the cosmos had finally ceased its expansion from the primary fulmination that had birthed it – an incident that in itself had marked the passing of a previous existence – would Death ultimately claim them. But is such resilience truly to be envied? For there are those who would claim that immortality is as much a curse as it is a blessing. Even in the beginning, these Elders each had their idiosyncrasies. En Dwi Gast – who, far in the future, would come to be known as The Grandmaster during one period of evolution upon a singular planet named Earth – had already developed a keen eye for sport, particularly gladiatorial contests between representatives of myriad species, or sometimes entire races. En Dwi Gast indulged in war. Often, his fellow Elder Trycuo Slatterus would himself compete in these bloody conflicts, especially those of an individual nature, desperate to fulfil his own declaration that no warrior in existence might best him in physical combat. Like his brother, he would in time be known by a colloquial moniker, that of The Champion. Then there was Ord Zyonyz, The Gardener, for whom there was no greater pleasure than the propagation of life, and who would come to cultivate fauna on countless millions of barren and devastated worlds in the eons to follow; there was Tath Ki, The Contemplator, spellbound by the energies that powered the minds and souls of all living things; there was Kamo Tharnn, The Possessor, dedicated to the accrual of knowledge and history, and Taneleer Tivan, The Collector, driven by the all-consuming desire to accumulate living beings; and there were many more. There was kinship among the Elders, each of them slave to their obsessions but none harbouring any malevolence towards the universe that thrived about them, content instead to meander in ambivalence – all except for one. There was one member of that eternal clan who was governed by a fascination at odds with her fellows in those early millennia. Her name was Daes Shamblu… …and her obsession was hunger. In ages that would come to pass there would be those who would inherit Daes Shamblu’s mantle as The Devourer, not least Galan of Taa, a survivor of the previous cosmos who would come to threaten its successor under the name Galactus. However, in truth, the billions of deaths caused by Galactus were rendered paltry compared to those lost to the relentless feeding frenzy of Daes Shamblu. The other Elders found their sister’s conduct abhorrent, not in any moral sense that would inevitably be attributed to them in later aeons, but because her consummation of incalculable worlds and civilizations directly encroached upon their own activities, to the extent that they agreed that something would have to be done to stop her. It was Kamo Tharnn who conceived a solution, for he was a scholar of dimensional fluctuations, pockets of existence caused by the frequent overlapping of ethereal energies and cosmic radiation in the wake of the universe’s creation. One such dimension was a primordial soup of dark matter that had been established before a coalescence of gases had formed the first sun, and had thus never known light, or life; it was here that The Elders imprisoned their sister without compunction, aware only that her absence would allow them free study of their environment. These beings knew nothing of morality back then, nor mercy. They would later come to understand and appreciate the universe’s capacity for giving birth to destructive forces, of course, but by then it would be too late for Daes Shamblu. As the aeons passed, so Daes Shamblu starved, screaming, in the darkness; she survived only by devouring the liquid shadow in which she wallowed, at least until she reached a stage in her biological evolution whereupon she developed the capability of agamogenesis, enabling her to spontaneously reproduce. At this point Daes Shamblu commenced to feasting upon her own young in a relentless cycle of birth and consumption, although this exacerbated a process that had perhaps already become irreversible. Somewhere along the line, still far in the distant past, Daes Shamblu ceased to exist in her original form, becoming as one with the dark matter that formed her world. She became the embodiment of that darkness. The Dark Elder. And that should have been the end of it. Except for the fact that, during the evolution of one particular planet – the Earth – this pocket dimension was disturbed, not just once but routinely. Tiny apertures began to form in the fabric of reality in the locality of this planet, allowing the darkness – now imbued with the distilled essence of Daes Shamblu – to seep through into the universe from which she had once been banished. Sometimes this darkness was simply an elemental condition, no more sentient than fog or smoke; sometimes it infected living beings like a virus, or utilised them as a host, like a parasite. And, sometimes, the result was terrifyingly threatening to those who called the Earth their home. The escaped essence of Daes Shamblu had adopted many identities over the years, bonding with unwitting human hosts or infecting them like a disease. Some called her The Demiurge; others The Predator, or Kuma Rhan. She had birthed The Shadow King, Chthon, Kaa, Shialmar, Sinifer of the Faltine… so many aspects of a whole, many of which had evolved and mutated of their own accord over time, spawning a splintered legacy that had affected every breath of Earth’s history, not least in the form of a tome of immense mystical power called The Darkhold. Daes Shamblu’s spiritual energy had also been become known, in modern times, as Darkforce, exploited by numerous individuals who were blithely oblivious to the ancient and terrible origins of the power they sought to tap. Just recently, in New York, a human wielder who had been briefly cast adrift upon the outskirts of the Darkforce dimension had caused a violent rupture in the skin of reality. This incident had required many other users to gather to seal it once more – but not before the Dark Elder had glimpsed the possibility of escape. There was a woman who possessed a unique combination of powers that allowed her not only to extract and manipulate Darkforce, concentrating it into solid form, but who was also a telepath, enabling Daes Shamblu to establish a psychic link with her before the Manhattan doorway had been slammed shut. There was also another human specimen in the general vicinity of the New York incident, a man who had utilised Earth technology to gain access to a second pocket dimension, perforated with warp junctions betwixt worlds. That pocket realm was termed The Between; the man in question was one Jonathan Cohn, otherwise known as The Spot; and the woman was Tanya Sealy, alias Black Mamba. In ages past, Daes Shamblu had been unable to manifest fully in the true universe for her core being had become far too deeply rooted in the Darkforce dimension – but this modern Earth was a planet of such riches. These two human specimens, touched by the shadows, could offer her an escape… but it would require the power of another Elder, the same manner of power that had originally imprisoned her back at the beginning of time, to allow her to pass through The Between to freedom. For everything to fall into place, Daes Shamblu had to use what little influence she could exert upon the plane of reality to bring these three facets – The Spot, Black Mamba and an Elder of the Universe – together. And thus she set about her master plan… [Flashback ends] Tanya Sealy should have been driven insane; after all, no human mind could possibly comprehend the enormity of these events – events that had occurred over a period of time that encompassed the entire history of the universe. Fortunately she had an advantage in such circumstances. She was so accustomed to dissecting thought and memory with surgical precision that she could ignore the veritable torrent of information that would otherwise flood her own brain, concentrating only on the significant details. Thus, in a matter of minutes, she had gleaned the necessary data from what constituted the mind of The Spot – or rather this current manifestation of The Dark Elder, Daes Shamblu. And, when she was done, she extinguished the telepathic connection that she had established and stepped back, her body quivering. At this point her expression displayed a riot of emotions, ranging from fear and anger to elation – and a sense of power. Suddenly she understood the truth beyond the veil – and therefore she knew what must happen next. “I was the key, wasn’t I?” Black Mamba declared, her dark eyes luminous. “I remember what The Grandmaster – your fellow Elder – told us when he abducted us from the other side of the universe. Even a God might dream. The idea for this war came to him in a dream. But it wasn’t a casual happenstance. It was you, influencing his subconscious thoughts through me. After all, despite there being light years between us there are no limitations to a mind like mine; no distance is too great, no obstacle too complex to surmount. That mind simply reaches out and forges a connection. Without my knowledge you utilised my telepathic abilities to encourage The Grandmaster to gather us for this contest, disguising your true intentions beneath the notion of a ‘supervillain war’. But the game meant nothing to you; this entire charade was designed only to facilitate the abduction of the two beings you needed to bring together in the presence of an Elder’s power…” Daes Shamblu smiled, growing tall and thin in crooked silhouette, her eyes as red as bleeding hearts. One being with the ability to access an unique conduit dimension. Another with psychic control over Darkforce itself. And a third, an Elder, infused with the power primordial. The beast shivered with delight. You humans are so fleeting, your genetic quirks so disparate… oh, the aeons I have drifted in the dark in anticipation of such an alignment! My greatest spawn, Chthon, came so close to preparing the way, but always fell short. Yet now, now, the time has come for my return – and for retribution. “You want to destroy the Elders who exiled you,” Black Mamba murmured. “Even if that means unleashing chaos upon the universe.” I thrive upon chaos, human girl. Mamba cocked her head. “So, why not start now?” she asked. “After all, here’s one of your enemies, The Grandmaster, helpless before you. Or rather… helpless before me.” She weaved a hand then, brow furrowed in concentration, and away to her right on the perimeter of the Court of En Dwi Gast the tide of Darkforce identified by The Trapster as a prison swelled and shimmered… and then parted with a foul hiss. Curled into a ball like some monstrous child, The Grandmaster hovered in mid-air, his white hair hanging down about an icy blue face that was sullen with shame. The Elder didn’t open his eyes, nor make any movement other than take a shuddering breath. His failure weighed upon him like a stone about his throat. “The Trapster was right, wasn’t he?” Black Mamba exclaimed. “You could kill me just as easily as you did him a few minutes ago. But you need me, just as you needed The Spot. Did we survive this far on our own merits, or were you on hand to protect us all the way along? Actually, no… don’t answer. It doesn’t mean anything, not now. The only thing that matters is that, through me, you’re keeping The Grandmaster contained – but not killing him. And I think I know why.” Daes Shamblu shifted and snarled, but with each passing moment her lack of imminent threat was becoming all the more apparent. Mamba smiled, slowly. “You’re like a newborn,” she breathed. “Crawling out of the darkness, back into this universe of light… you need time to gather your strength. You can slaughter us humans without much effort, but not him. So what will happen if I set him loose again…?” Black Mamba closed her eyes and suddenly thrust both palms out towards where The Grandmaster was cocooned, a gasp of exertion erupting from her chest. The Darkforce sparked and snapped, but ultimately held firm. Not powerful enough, human girl! Daes Shamblu hissed. You are in my thrall, and I’ll not allow disobedience. Your mind will shatter before - “Disobedience?” Mamba growled. “You obviously haven’t been paying attention. What The Needle did to me, leaving me at the mercy of Bullseye, giving me an understanding of what my victims must have felt like, to lose all control… that made me angry. Furious. And now you’re trying the same thing…?” Her brow creased with renewed concentration. “I reckon it goes to show,” she muttered. “Just because you’re billions of years old, doesn’t mean you’re not all kinds of stupid.” She reached out with her mind a second time, then… …and, after a moment of silence so sharp it could slice through flesh and bone… …the Darkforce that formed The Grandmaster’s prison burst, exploding in a shriek of shadowflame that hurled both Black Mamba and Daes Shamblu backwards across the Court, leaving twin trails of darkness in their wake. The Grandmaster raised his head and opened his eyes, punctures of burning red in deep sockets – but his gaze was sorrowful, lacking the barest hint of defiance. “It’s too late,” he moaned, wringing his hands. “I summoned my fellow Elders here, thinking that together we could exile her as we did before – but she’ll escape long before they arrive. She has patience; she’ll pass through the junction and hide where none of us can find her, devouring new worlds as she ever did and feeding on life itself, growing in power. And then she’ll hunt us down and feast upon our ancient blood…” “No!” Mamba snarled, glancing between the despairing giant and the shadow form of Daes Shamblu who was – as En Dwi Gast had predicted – no longer adopting an offensive stance but rather was on the verge of gathering her strength to take flight. “You are responsible for this!” she cried at The Grandmaster. “She’s too powerful for me – it’s you who has to stop her!” “There’s no hope,” The Grandmaster whispered. “Even now she seeks to flee through the dimension of Between…” Black Mamba whirled, hands upon her head in frustration as Daes Shamblu began to conjure a warp in the air between them, as The Spot would have done. The creature was proudly displaying that terrible smile, black on black, as she sashayed forth on elongated limbs and splayed claws. She was triumphant. Exultant. But then, at the last moment, Mamba’s green eyes flew wide. “All we have to do is delay her, until the other Elders arrive?” she hissed. “Then we’ll damn well delay her!” Alone, human girl? Daes Shamblu hissed. En Dwi Gast is a pitiful wretch – happy enough to watch others shed blood at his whim but he never was a fighter himself, and never will be. You have no help at hand, and even your formidable psychic control cannot manipulate my Darkforce when I am anchored here by a physical host… “Well, that’s where you’re wrong. I’ve got a ready-made army, and considering everything they’ve just been through they’re all bound to be mad as hell, don’t you think?” Mamba whirled back towards The Grandmaster, her expression fierce. “You do this for me, you son of a bitch!” she commanded. “I’m the last survivor. I won your game! So now I claim my prize. You’ve got the power over life and death? Well, bring them back. Bring them all back, under my direct command. Understand me? Bring them back!” Daes Shamblu froze at the edge of the warp, staring across the Court at where The Grandmaster was still curled among the shadows, shivering and snivelling. In that instant, however, there was a subtle change in the Elder’s demeanour. The game. The love of the game. As both Daes Shamblu and Black Mamba watched, a sly and utterly insane smile crossed the giant’s lips and his red eyes flared with replenished glee. “Yes!” he sighed, rapturously. “Oh, yes! Oh, the game, the timeless beauty of the game… and to the victor, the spoils!” He flourished one hand, suddenly animated. In the space of a heartbeat, the air throughout the Court shimmered and hissed – and with a crackle of reconstituted atoms, a legion of humanoid forms all took shape, arranged about the vast chequered floor like pawns in a context of galactic chess. Black Mamba roared in triumph. Daes Shamblu shrieked, and instinctively darted forth towards the warp hole before her… …only to slam into a wall of solidified energy that had appeared between her and her escape route at that exact moment. The energy was tinged with red, and glimmered like glass. It was been created, with exquisite irony, via the transformation of the Dark Elder’s own howl into a barrier: the conversion of sound into matter. Standing off to one side, the being known as Klaw – last seen dissipated over a wide area throughout the body of a lake and thereafter petrified to stone but now fully restored to his prime state – cocked his head and twisted his approximation of a mouth into a nightmarish black smile. “Leaving the party so soon?” he cackled, brandishing the silver cone of his sonic transducer, now firmly re-affixed to the stump of his right wrist. “Please, stay awhile… and allow me to crank up the volume!” Klaw extended the transducer and immediately the red wall fluctuated, re-forming into a tapered lance that stabbed forth without warning, piercing Daes Shamblu through the chest. The Dark Elder shuddered, red eyes flaring wide, then screeched in fury. She thrust out one arm of blackest shadow, which itself reconfigured into a spear in the blink of an eye and punctured Klaw through the head, splitting him down the centre and leaving the two of them momentarily impaled on each other’s weapons in a macabre mirror image – but both still very much alive. Daes Shamblu snarled, then wrenched back her arm, pulling Klaw into her embrace… and then, her jaw suddenly snapping wide to five times its previous size, she lunged forward and bit down about her enemy’s neck and shoulders, decapitating him with a single, sickening crack. She twisted and spat Klaw’s head to the floor, where it rolled over and over… and then came to rest on the jagged stump of its neck. Klaw’s eyes sparkled, and his slit of a mouth morphed into a puckered hole. “Oooooh,” he exclaimed. “Tetchy, tetchy.” The Dark Elder hurled the remains of Klaw’s convulsing energy body aside and whirled back towards the warp hole, but once again found her path blocked – this time by a throng of no less than eight individuals. Boomerang was spinning one of his signature missiles on the tip of his index finger. Jack O’Lantern was palming a copper pumpkin grenade. Unicorn was ready to charge, head bowed, the horn in the centre of the forehead of his helmet glowing with psychokinetic power. Shockwave was adopting a Ju-Jitsu stance, metal gauntlets crackling with electricity. Coldheart was brandishing her twin katana, returned to her possession and once again charged to full power. Blacklash was cradling his whip. The Needle was threatening with his six-foot steel barb. And Stained Glass Scarlet was fitting a quarrel into the shaft of her crossbow and then taking aim. Eight players of the game, some who had even faced one another down on the battlefield moon of Se’dai; eight victims, each of whom had died this day at the hands of their fellow villains. Now, at Black Mamba’s request, they had been restored with a single purpose in mind. “You want out of here, hellspawn,” Blacklash snarled, “You’re going to have to come through us.” Daes Shamblu’s eyes darkened still further, until they were but windows upon the dimension where she had been imprisoned since the dawn of time. So be it, she hissed. But I wonder… how many times can I kill you before there’s nothing left for my brother to resurrect? The Dark Elder threw herself forward then, and her enemies rose as one to meet her. The Needle sliced at her throat, but his weapon merely sank into what was now merely a gust of black smoke; in retaliation, claws tore at his limbs and torso with incredible speed, shredding him in a mist of bloodied flesh. Coldheart stole in, ducking beneath a similar strike and thrusting with both swords. One of her blades passed harmlessly through Daes Shamblu’s shifting form but the other struck home briefly, eliciting a cry of pain and a burst of crackling ice. “She’s in there!” Coldheart snapped, preparing to strike again. “She’s not just shadow. She’s - ” A fistful of black talons shot forth and closed about Coldheart’s skull, crushing it to dust with the barest squeeze. As the woman’s headless corpse fell backwards Shockwave and Blacklash both stepped into her place. “She used The Spot’s body to manifest!” Black Mamba cried from the sidelines, obviously desperately frustrated that she could offer nothing in the way of tangible help. “She needs him to be able to cross between dimensions – that’s what’s in there. That’s what we need to attack!” His bronze armour gleaming like a beacon, Shockwave struck with venom, sweeping kicks and punches through the massing Darkforce in an attempt to strike something solid. Blacklash sneered and pulled back his whip. “Need some direction?” he asked – and then thrust out with the coils of his lash, an assault that was rewarded with a definite explosion of energy at the heart of the shadows, accompanied by a keening wail. “Much obliged,” Shockwave declared from behind his reflective faceplate, instantly homing in on the area of contact and chopping down with the flats of his gauntlets against the obscured body of his foe. He managed to connect with three such strikes before a hook of Darkforce penetrated his armour and sank into his gut, then disembowelled him from crotch to sternum, before snapping out and removing Blacklash’s whip hand at the wrist. Insects! Daes Shamblu screamed. Meddling human lice! Blacklash was torn asunder as the Dark Elder’s fury coalesced into a veritable hurricane of black energy. Boomerang and Jack O’Lantern took to the skies on jet boots and Disc Glider respectively, working in harmony despite their earlier personal altercation, but even as they began to rain missiles down upon their adversary so they were speared and sliced by a flurry of black tentacles, blood spurting from their wounds like the sparks from exploding firecrackers. Unicorn thundered forward, shrieking in his madness – his resurrection had restored him to his customary state, after all, not healed him of his previous maladies – and unleashed a blast of psychic energy that struck Daes Shamblu like a seismic quake; but to no avail. A second later a wide blade of Darkforce swept across his abdomen, separating his upper and lower torso in a welter of blood. The woman known as Stained Glass Scarlet watched all this with a calm intensity, her eyes bright beneath her cowl. “I am God’s vassal,” she breathed, aiming her crossbow. “I do His work. Whatever you are, you are not of His creation. You’re a deviant: an abomination. And I shall destroy you!” Scarlet released her quarrel… …and it slammed into the Dark Elder’s skull as if the enshrouding darkness was not even present, guided perhaps by an unseen hand of light. For a moment the Darkforce fractured, more glass than smoke – a splintered mirror, with Daes Shamblu’s reflection at its core. In that second there was suddenly silence. A weight of anticipation. And then, a black claw reached up and swatted the offending bolt away… and the Elder threw back her head and shrieked with such almighty wrath that the entire Court of En Dwi Gast shuddered as if it were on the verge of disintegration. Black tentacles, dozens of them, erupted from Daes Shamblu’s chest and then each tentacle in turn released a hail of quills. Stained Glass Scarlet fell, impaled by hundreds of needles each fashioned from pure Darkforce. Beyond her, the next wave of reanimated villains suffered a similar fate; Stegron, Tiger Shark, The Molten Man, Tarot, Styx, Lady Deathstrike, Nekra, The Jester, Armadillo, The Rhino, Chemistro, The Grey Gargoyle… all these individuals, capable in their own fashion of holding their own against some of the greatest heroes of the planet Earth, were slain for the second time that day in the span between one heartbeat and the next, thudding to the chequered floor like pincushions. Black Mamba stared on, aghast. It was one thing for the flock to have been whittled away piece by piece on the battlefield of Se’dai, for at least down there all of them had stood a chance. But to witness them culled like this, with such brutal efficiency… “What the hell were you expecting, toots?” a familiar voice snarled. “Some kind of victory charge?” Black Mamba turned to see a leering Bullseye at her shoulder, his eyes bright with hate in the slits of his mask, and she flinched reflexively. However, her enemy didn’t appear inclined to attack – at least, not her. The same could be said for the three hulking brutes aligned beyond him: Titania at the centre, flanked by Mister Hyde and a glowering Sabretooth. “Evidently you are not a scholar of history, young lady,” Hyde sneered, “Else you wouldn’t be surprised that the callous despatching of troops to their dark and bloody deaths is an integral facet of any war. In a conflict against a God we’re nothing more than colourful cannon fodder…” Mamba shook her head, her expression horrified. “I didn’t… I mean, that wasn’t - ” “I want to kill you,” Sabretooth hissed, leaning in close. “You know that, right? If my mind was my own right now you’d already be shredded into ribbons for what you did to me, how you left me helpless for that bastard Styx to dissolve me from the inside out with his sick little poisons. But I can’t. Because all I can do is throw myself on the bonfire same as all these other poor chumps. Look. Look!” Black Mamba glanced back towards Daes Shamblu, and the continued assault upon her by her foes. Firebrand screamed in from one side, all smoke and flame, whilst Corona swept down from the other; the two of them unleashed waves of fire and concussive energy in a simultaneous blast, causing the Dark Elder to momentarily combust with an agonised shriek. But only for a moment. Before either villain could gather their strength for a second attack they were both snared by whips of Darkforce that swung them against one another at incredible speed, the resulting crack of impact signifying the shattering of their bones. Then came Blizzard, attempting to freeze Daes Shamblu into an ice sculpture, whilst Coldheart stabbed and sliced with her swords, adding her own cryogenic ability to – Wait. Mamba gasped. Coldheart? But she’d already seen the swordswoman fall once, her head crushed… “We’re going to keep coming back,” Titania growled. “You see? That’s what you’ve wished for. The Grandmaster can continue to bring us back, to die over and over and over, for however long it takes. And we have to attack. We can’t refuse.” Black Mamba looked on, her blood running cold, as she saw Daes Shamblu slaughter Blizzard and Coldheart with scythes of solidified darkness, followed closely by a bloody evisceration of Conundrum, Mayhem, The Trapster and The Scorpion – and, once again, Blacklash and Armadillo. Wherever these individuals fell their bodies lay for a few seconds in pools of blood and splintered bones… and then, at the behest of En Dwi Gast who was lurking on the edge of the melee, those corpses began to swiftly regenerate, knitting back together so that they might engage once more. If it had simply been a case of these men and women being reduced to animated cadavers then it may have been less horrific. However, they were all more than just marionettes, guided by fingers plucking at invisible strings. They were alive. Sentient. Every stroke of anguish was real, etched upon their faces, branded upon their souls… and all at Black Mamba’s command. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, trembling. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand. But… don’t you see? If I stop this – if I make The Grandmaster stand down – then Daes Shamblu escapes. She wins. And then it’s only a matter of time before - ” But either her audience wasn’t interested or they couldn’t resist the psychic decree being imposed upon them any longer. Bullseye, Sabretooth, Titania and Mister Hyde all charged forward en masse at that moment, the former instinctively striving to exploit any weak points in the Dark Elder’s armoury with a hail of shuriken whilst the other three thundered in with claws and fists and pure brute strength. Daes Shamblu’s howls betrayed her pain and fury, and perhaps she stumbled beneath this particular wave of attack more than any other, but ultimately the status quo remained; she could not be defeated, only deflected from her goal of reaching the warp portal. “Don’t blame yourself,” another familiar voice murmured. “After all, you’ve got to remember who you’re dealing with here.” Black Mamba turned once more, and this time she couldn’t help but sob with relief as she saw the man in the gleaming silver suit and mask, his goggles – as ever – slightly askew. “We aren’t heroes,” said Jalome Beacher, otherwise known as Slyde – a man who had died in Mamba’s arms after saving her life down on the battlefield, but who was now alive once more. “We’ve all got different motivations,” he continued, gently. “Greed. Selfishness. Hate. The need to inflict cruelty. But that’s the point of all of this, remember? The Grandmaster didn’t want heroes, people who were always going to be happy to sacrifice themselves for their fellows, or for a just cause, or even for the existence of the universe. This solution – using us, like living bullets – is the only way it could work. If you’d have given us a choice, well… we’d all have turned our backs.” “Not you,” Mamba said, fondly. “You would have stayed.” Slyde shook his head sadly. “No,” he stated. “I’m a runner at heart. I’m sorry, but I am. And even if by some miracle I had stayed it would’ve been for the wrong reasons – it would have been for you, not the universe. And that’s not enough, because I don’t know how many times I could have faced down certain death in those circumstances, even knowing I’d be brought back again afterwards. You see, Sabretooth killed me. He killed me. I remember what it felt like. And I always will. I can’t just erase that, I can’t go back. And whatever I was before – whatever any of us were – I’m thinking none of us could possibly come out of this experience without having had all our faults intensified.” Daes Shamblu was in the ascendancy once more at the heart of the Court of En Dwi Gast, snatching a spinning Whirlwind out of mid-air and using him to batter Spiral and The Enforcers – three of whom were cyborgs – to a pulp of flesh and metal. Slyde watched on in numb despair. “When you look at what’s happening here,” he declared, quietly, “All the dying and resurrection… it may seem worthless, as if there’s no point in grieving or feeling shocked by any of it because if death isn’t the end then it loses all meaning. But it doesn’t. If anything, now I’ve actually experienced it, death has more meaning. Do you understand?” Black Mamba bowed her head, her tears running freely. Slyde reach out and cupped her chin in his gloved palm, stroking softly at her wet cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You won,” he said. “However this all ends, you won the most important prize you could have imagined. Out of all of us, you’re the one who didn’t die. And, believe me, there’s not a single one of us who wouldn’t swap places with you right now if we could.” And, with that, Slyde kicked out and skated forward at high speed. He was, in all truth, one of a handful of those villains abducted by The Grandmaster for his cruel game whose offensive abilities were seriously lacking. With no weapons and no special powers to speak of, he barely registered as a threat; Daes Shamblu absently cut him down with a blade of darkness before he had even encroached within twenty feet of her. Black Mamba watched him die for the second time, then kept on watching as he returned to life and attacked again. And died again. It was horrific. It was obscene. And something that was now becoming obvious was that Daes Shamblu wasn’t tiring beneath the sustained assaults against her – on the contrary, she was beginning to counter them with increasing efficiency. In fact she was so close now to the warp hole that - “My brethren!” The Grandmaster suddenly cried. “They’re almost here! I can feel their presence drawing ever closer! They - ” “It’s too late,” Black Mamba murmured, hoarsely. “It’s all been for nothing. All the dying. She’s won.” Daes Shamblu was shrieking, but no longer in rage – instead she was on the cusp of triumph, having finally reached the safety of the shimmering warp hole. The wave of villains helplessly hurling themselves at her had become a blur amidst the shadows, their individual identities merging into a desperate mass, but no longer with any discernible effect. The Dark Elder was swatting them aside with ease, adapting to their powers and attack patterns and countering every strike. At the last she turned, the ghastly black mask of her face lit with eyes that were the coruscating burn of dying stars, a portent perhaps of what would come when she set out to shatter the universe. Hungry! she roared. Hungry for death and sorrow and pain! I grow stronger with every drop of blood spilled – foolish germs, your reckless endeavours serve merely to feed me! Daes Shamblu stepped into the portal, passing from this dimension of reality into that of Between… …only to falter at the sound of a voice from close by. A woman’s voice, prim and delicate, with a cultured English accent. “As I said,” the voice declared, “Running away with your spotty tail between your legs is your speciality, yes? But it takes all the running you can do, to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else, you must run at least twice as fast as that…” The Dark Elder’s head turned, black eyes flaring as they settled upon a distinctive figure wearing bunny ears and a short skirt, clutching an umbrella. Alice Caffrey, The White Rabbit. Daes Shamblu sneered. Of all those gathered here to wage war, she hissed, You are surely the most ludicrous. “Well, pphthptpt. You should learn not to make personal remarks. It’s very rude.” There was silence and stillness throughout the Court; the battle was done. All eyes were now on this final exchange. The White Rabbit cocked her head, smoothing back her blonde hair quite self-consciously. “I was wondering,” she said, quietly. “Notwithstanding the fact we have the potential to fight like cat and dog – neither of which appeal to me, it must be said, although that’s beside the point – I feel we have a certain… rapport. And, as such, I would not be overly affronted should you wish to accompany me upon a date. What say you, dear Spot?” Daes Shamblu snarled deep in her chest, a rumble of blackest thunderstorms gathering about the horizon. The Spot is dead, human child, she hissed. You speak now to the obliteration of all there is. “Well, I’m not sure that’s entirely true…” The White Rabbit twirled her umbrella and smiled coyly. “As previously noted,” she purred, “There’s always a case for intellect over brute strength. Remember? Whilst my compatriots have been helplessly fluttering against you like moths to a teapot, I have been using my own power – that of my pretty little noggin – in the pursuit of a more cerebral solution. And joy! Delight! I believe I’m right! Yon lady, dressed in the seemingly popular fashion of debatable morals, declared that we must all be revived from our deceased state, The Spot included. And, as I fail to spot him – as it were – among our number, my assumption is that his resurrection has taken place within you.” Daes Shamblu faltered. There wasn’t time for this; beyond the translucent walls of The Grandmaster’s craft there was a palpable shimmer of extraterrestrial energies, signifying the approach of enormous power – power primordial, in the form of En Dwi Gast’s fellow Elders. However, she couldn’t force herself to plunge through the warp portal to the Between, and thus to escape… not without knowing if the words uttered by this absurdly dressed lunatic alongside her were true. Daes Shamblu looked inside herself, searching. The answer was founded, ultimately, in the notion of the soul. The Spot’s body resided at the heart of her, relatively unharmed, for she required the physical mass of it to act as an anchor in this universe whilst she remained weak. She had, however, expunged the elemental energies that constituted the spirit of all living things, leaving behind a husk of dead meat. Believing this to be an irreversible state, and distracted by the assault upon her shadow form, she had therefore been less than vigilant with regard to anything that had occurred thereafter. The Grandmaster had long possessed a mastery not just over Death but also life. His gift of resurrection was not simply the rudimentary reanimation of flesh but also the perfect reconstitution of the soul. With black fingers, Daes Shamblu reached out for the hollow shell at her core… …only to realise that it wasn’t hollow any more when a chalk-white face suddenly twisted towards her and grew a pair of polkadot eyes – and a wide, black smile. “Well, hello,” said Jonathan Cohn, otherwise known as The Spot. “I gather you’d like to book passage through a certain little pocket dimension of my acquaintance? Absolutely not a problem. Feel free. However, just one thing before you go…” The Spot’s smile fell and his eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m afraid I won’t be coming with you. I belong here, you see… unlike you.” And then, those eyes simply vanished – along with every other black blemish on The Spot’s body, all suddenly shrinking to tiny specks before disappearing with a loud pop! Since gaining his powers from the study of the residual energies of the being known as Cloak, Jonathan had never fully understood the fundamental properties of his warp gates, nor been aware that Darkforce could bleed between the various dimensions of reality provided it was attached to a resident host. In truth, he didn’t really comprehend much of it now, either. But he did understand that by rejecting his powers now he was, in turn, casting out the hooks of living shadow that linked him with Daes Shamblu… leaving the Dark Elder suddenly, franticly adrift. Whereas a moment before Daes Shamblu had been desperate to pass through the black aperture into Between, now – shrieking – she attempted to pull clear. For now Between wasn’t an escape, a connecting corridor betwixt this region of the universe and any other she could choose; without a physical anchor it was simply a one-way exit from reality into a pocket dimension that was, ostensibly, no different from the one she had been imprisoned in since the dawn of time. However, with the union between Darkforce and flesh having been severed, one other change was now evident. Tanya Sealy, Black Mamba, stepped forward with cold intent, her eyes bright beneath a fringe of black hair and the gleam of a coiled snake tiara. “No more human host,” she declared, softly. “I guess that means I’m not redundant any more… right?” Stop! the writhing shadow storm that was Daes Shamblu wailed, utterly helpless in that final moment. Please! Please! What are you doing…? “I would have thought that was obvious,” Mamba replied. “I’m sending you back to your own private Hell.” And with that, her mind lashed out like a whip, fuelled with anger and shame and disgust… …and, screaming, the essence of Daes Shamblu was driven backwards across the threshold of the warp hole and immediately vanished, passing through from one dimension into another! For a second or two those unholy screams remained, but then they died with a resonant snap as the portal quivered… …shimmered… …and then blinked out of existence, like the snuff of a flame, leaving only a residue of black smoke as a reminder of the beast that it had swallowed whole. Instantly, there was a haunting silence that caused all those present to recoil, shivering. Jonathan Cohn sank to his knees, trembling. His face was pale beneath a shock of brown hair, but certainly not as pale as before. He also had normal features once more rather than clusters of black spots – well, relatively normal. In truth he was somewhere between ordinary and pug ugly, and having lost his shirt and jacket earlier his skinny, awkward frame was exposed for all to see. Nothing remained of The Spot – not a single, solitary polkadot. But that was okay. Because it meant that there was nothing left of Daes Shamblu either. Jonathan glanced up as a slender shadow fell across him. The White Rabbit stared down, ears standing to attention upon her blonde crown. She twirled her umbrella. “Tally ho,” she said, gently. “Don’t let him know she liked him best, for this must ever be; a secret kept from all the rest, between yourself and me. You see?” Jonathan smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I think I do…” Black Mamba whirled where she stood, glaring across the Court towards The Grandmaster. “Is that it?” she cried. “Will she come back? Can the Darkforce break through again like it did before? What do we have to do to - ” “The dimension where Daes Shamblu now resides is a cage of two conflicting energy sources,” a deep voice rumbled from overhead. Black Mamba looked up slowly, as did each and every villain in the vicinity. No one spoke as they attempted to comprehend the impossible scene that was now revealed to them – above, drifting down through the shell of The Grandmaster’s craft as if it didn’t exist, were five gigantic figures, each bathed in shimmering light. Each human mind would interpret these beings slightly differently in terms of form and feature, but in each instance they would bestow definite visual identification, as they had with En Dwi Gast. It was the Elder named Ord Zynoyz, The Gardener – flesh and hair the hue of ancient parchment, a gown of colourless sackcloth, and a golden crook clasped in one mighty fist – who had spoken, and who now continued. “A cocoon realm,” The Gardener declared, “Perforated with apertures of both Darkforce and its antithesis, a residual energy from the spontaneous ignition of the first star that may as well be termed Lightforce. Left alone, Daes Shamblu would swiftly isolate the weaker junctions of her new prison and attempt to break through into this universe once more. Be assured, however, that we shall not allow this eventuality to occur a second time…” As one, The Elders scrutinised the gathering of humans before them, seemingly unimpressed by their garish attire and motley condition. Then, again in tandem, they turned to stare at their fellow, En Dwi Gast, who remained cowering on the perimeter of his Court, the glare of his red eyes dimmed almost to black with disgrace. “O, Brother,” sighed the balding, barely-clad figure of Tath Ki, The Contemplator. “When will you ever learn…?” Kamo Tharnn, The Possessor – gaunt and silver-haired, face bound with a blindfold of rags and cradling a crooked staff in his arms – was silent, his expression cold. Taneleer Tivan, The Collector – dark-skinned with a shock of ice-white hair, with misshapen features and a hunch to his back – snorted with derision at the whole affair. Only Trycuo Slatterus, The Champion – muscular, with sapphire skin and hair the colour of flames – cast a look back in the direction of those individuals who were watching on in exhausted disbelief. The Elder narrowed his eyes, then smirked. “Humans,” he barked. “Always so very… entertaining. Enlighten me then, players of En Dwi Gast’s latest game, to the most important piece of information… who won?” Black Mamba breathed deeply, glancing back at those gathered in her wake. Some, such as Slyde and The White Rabbit, looked on sympathetically. Others, such as Bullseye and Sabretooth, were simmering with undisguised hatred. There were, it must be said, more aligned with the latter camp than the former. Mamba shivered, then turned back to meet The Champion’s gaze. “That would be me,” she said. “For what it’s worth… I won the war.” The Champion raised a bushy red eyebrow in surprise. “Really?” he murmured. “Well that’s the beauty of your kind, isn’t it? Your unpredictability. That’s why The Grandmaster just can’t leave you alone.” The Elder shook his head then, and casually raised a hand towards the crowd. Immediately they each began to feel a trembling in their flesh and a crackling in their brains. Quivering. Shifting. Fading… “Wait!” Black Mamba cried. “What are you doing?” “I’m sending you back where you came from, human. The game is over. You won, remember?” “But… the consequences…” “Will be spectacular, I’m sure.” Black Mamba’s eyes narrowed. “Everything we’ve gone through,” she snapped. “Will we remember?” The Champion’s eyes darkened, and his fellow Elders all turned to stare. “You’ll remember,” The Contemplator informed them, his voice a distant rasp. “All of you, for better or worse. As for those consequences you speak of, well… that’s none of our concern. Be assured of one thing, however. Our brother will not be permitted to meddle in your affairs again. There shall be no more games… and no more reprieves. Your lives belong to you once more, and you alone – and there’ll be no return once you reach the end. Exist wisely, humans. Be aware that from this moment on… each day could truly be your last.” Black Mamba clenched her hands into fists, impotent and enraged. She opened her mouth to speak again… …but it was too late. In the next instant – under the sorrowful gaze of En Dwi Gast, The Grandmaster – she and her forty-one fellow villains were gone from Se’dai, the battlefield moon of Rem, never to return. [Epilogue] They reappear at random, scattered throughout the world, in some cases in circumstances similar to those of their abduction, in some cases markedly different. Time has passed, a period of twenty-four hours; such a negligible interlude in one respect but so significant for those whose lives have been hijacked and – in all cases but one – ended, then restored. There will now follow a stage of introspection but, for most, this will not last long. After all, they are – as En Dwi Gast has noted – criminals at heart, psychopaths and opportunists, governed by avarice and rage. They are supervillains. They will always remember that their lives have been stripped from them so cruelly then returned to them as if the process means nothing when in truth it means everything… but, ultimately, they will forever tread a well-worn path with neither the inclination nor the motivation to stray. Perhaps their brush with death will even bolster their resolve to take what they want from the world whenever they want, and be damned with the fallout; perhaps, for these men and women with their strange names devised to elicit fear and respect, and with their terrible powers, life holds no greater meaning than the next conflict with those heroes who might oppose them. For others, however, the immediate future will inevitably be more… eventful. In New York City, three individuals cement their recently established acquaintance by agreeing to come together to attend the exclusive Manhattan office of renowned meta-criminal psychologist Doctor Ashley Kafka. Antonio Rodriguez is a desperate man tragically imprisoned in the hulking body of a monster; Alice Caffrey is a forceful young woman of formidable intellect who exists in a delusional state; and Jonathan Cohn is a nervous fellow seeking to return to a normal life now that his powers are lost. Only when a fourth individual unwittingly finds himself visiting Doctor Kafka at the same time does it seem that fickle fate is playing a hand… but how will Jalome Beacher react when he learns the identity of his fellow patients in what could well become the most bizarre session of group therapy in history? In Japan, Yuriko Oyama seeks solitude as she strives to come to terms with a startling development – a situation mirrored elsewhere, where an increasingly deranged Leonard Lester searches in vain for a surgeon who can restore to him what has been lost. In both instances, the effects of the osteoclastic acid created by Pete Petruski and used to devastate their physical grafts of metal to bone have not been rectified by their resurrection at the hands of The Grandmaster; in fact, all traces of Adamantium have been removed from their respective physiologies, and they are now both simply human, albeit still blessed with their own unique, preternatural skills. They will perhaps clash again, in time… but for now, for Lester, his every waking moment is consumed with burning hatred for another woman, whom he blames for the loss of his cybernetic implants. In his heart he swears that Tanya Sealy will pay dearly for what she’s done. On The Raft, the maximum-security island penitentiary for super-powered criminals located off the coast of the Eastern Seaboard of the United States, a morose Crusher Creel treats the presence at the door of his cell of a guard named Harry Salt with contempt – until he begins to listen to Harry’s words. It appears that Mary MacPherran, Crusher’s wife, has not only been sighted alive in the middle of Missoula – of all places – but also that she appears remarkably well for a woman who, twenty-four hours previously, was decreed to be suffering from irreversible brain damage… and, with a gruff snort, Crusher cannot help but shed a tear. In a fleapit town in Washington State, some fifty miles south of Seattle, Donnie Gill is holed up in a motel room, stretched out not on his bed but beneath it, down in the dark with the filth and the cockroaches. Donnie is shivering and weeping. He hasn’t stopped since returning to Earth. He is in perfect health, with nary a physical scar as a reminder of his treatment at the hands of The Jester, but the mental scars… well, they won’t be fading any time soon. Donnie knows he should get back in contact with Tony Stark and Clay Wilson. He knows they’ll take care of him. He knows that, in the end, everything will be okay. It’s just that, at the moment, he’s happy here – in the dark, where it’s safe. And he’s praying that the distant sound of jangling bells he keeps hearing is just his imagination. In Chicago, Maguire Beck is kicking back in her own apartment, eating pizza and enjoying an old black-and-white movie. Of all those villains who participated in The Grandmaster’s game she is certainly one of the happiest – after all, whereas so many of her fellows lost something out there in the depths of space, she gained. Before the war she was a nobody, with no faith in her abilities. Now, even though she ultimately failed to win outright, her confidence has been boosted… and she is beginning to piece together a plan for what comes next. Somewhere out there is a lecherous wretch of a man running around in her dead cousin’s costume, besmirching the identity he built up over so many years: an identity that rightfully belongs to Maggie. And, however much blood is spilled, she’s going to take it back. In New York City, a woman in a scarlet, ankle-length raincoat and hood returns to the Holy Ghost Church on 42nd Street, whereupon she kneels before the alter, a tumble of russet hair falling down about her face. Twenty-four hours ago she was prepared to die. Now she understands exactly that it feels like, to leave one’s life behind… and she knows, if there was ever any doubt, that there is nothing to fear but fear itself. She takes a revolver from her red leather bag, places the cold barrel in her mouth, and closes her eyes. Then, just like before, she pulls the trigger. This time, however, the result is more predictable. Just as the Contemplator said: from now on, there’s no more coming back. In New Jersey, two men sit in a bar nursing beers, barely talking. Twenty-four hours ago, Snake Marston and Hammer Harrison were members of the criminal gang called The Enforcers; now, everything has changed. Their former colleagues are no longer the men they once were. In truth, they’re no longer even men. When The Grandmaster had brought Ox, Montana and Fancy Dan back to life he hadn’t bothered to restore them to their original, human state, apparently believing them to be more potent as cyborgs. At least, back here on Earth, the poor shmucks are fully sentient once more… but perhaps this isn’t such a good thing when one’s head and appendages have been augmented or entirely replaced by metal and wires. Marston and Harrison will have to go it alone from here. Ox, Montana and Fancy Dan have a private mission – they’re going to track down the six-armed psychopath who has done this to them and force her to reverse the process, even if it takes them the rest of their unnatural lives. In Boston, Pete Petruski has spent the day attempting to contact old colleagues but without success. It’s no surprise that Curtis Carr, Lancaster Sneed and Fred Myers are refusing to take his calls. Word of the casual treachery he showed his supposed friends on the battlefield will spread like wildfire; soon even the likes of Gladiator, The Eel, Razorfist, The Shocker and Angar The Screamer will be treating him like a pariah, and what will that mean for The Alliance? How can something that almost ended so right actually finish like this? Disgruntled, Petruski hits the scotch, and is only stirred from the ensuing stupor when his telephone rings. He answers with a sudden sense of creeping dread. “You know who this?” the voice on the other end of the line asks. Petruski is finding it difficult to breathe. “I understand you did what you had to do, Pete,” the voice continues, quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I can let it go, you know? I’ve got a reputation now. I can’t just let someone take that away from me. I would tell you to watch your back, but we both know you’ll never see me coming, no matter how many of your cronies you line up against me. I guess what I’m saying is… you and me ain’t done, Pete. And you’ll be reaping the whirlwind real soon, man. Real soon…” The line goes dead and Petruski silently replaces the receiver. Then, with a sigh, he leans back in his chair and pours himself another glass. Obviously, the war isn’t over; actually, it’s just beginning. In New Mexico, at a desert motel, nine individuals are gathered in a darkly lit room. The tenth member of the group, the woman who has requested this assembly, arrives just after sundown. It’s the first time in almost two years these people have agreed to a meeting. They’re only at half strength, with a number of no shows, but this is a start. If needs must, Tanya Sealy muses, she can always recruit… however, with Davis Lawfers, Cleo Nerfertiti, Blanche Sitnziki, Gordon Fraley and Gustav Krueger among those present she knows she has enough heavy-hitters to get things rolling. “I call this new meeting of The Serpent Society to order,” Tanya states. “I’ve got a story to tell you and you’re not probably not going to believe it. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t have disturbed you from wherever your lives have taken you. But matters are out of my hands. I have reason to believe that I’m a marked woman – and if I’m going to survive whatever comes next I’m going to need your help…” And, in the end, that is all. Except for one small detail. In Denver, a man named Lance Edwards awakens one morning from a terrible dream. In his dream he is bathed by light – hot, cruel, incandescent light. Brighter than the sun, brighter than the distant stars… brighter still, perhaps, than the very first star ever to ignite in the heavens. And, beyond the light, there is a voice. Distant. But getting closer. A voice proclaiming that it is hungry. Lance doesn’t quite know what to make of it all, but he’s intrigued. This is something he wishes to explore. He’ll have to be careful, of course – after all, he hasn’t managed to survive as a fugitive from justice these past few years just by changing his name from Edward Lansky. He’ll have to make sure he doesn’t draw attention to himself. But, if anyone can work out the puzzle of the light, it’s the man who was once a master of it. Lance takes a deep breath, smiles, then settles back into his pillows and closes his eyes. Throughout the world – throughout the universe – life goes on as it ever does. But who knows what tomorrow might bring…? The end.