#2 - Help Wanted
"Lost Souls, Part Two"
The flight from Las Vegas to New York City gave the man who sought the Sub-Mariner's aid plenty of time to figure out how he would find the undersea prince. Unfortunately, he came up with nothing. He was concerned that Namor would not remember who he was - after all, the Atlantean did spend several years of his life devoid of memory. Also, the stranger traveled extensively after his first and only contact with the Sub-Mariner, maintaining the lowest profile possible. In fact, the man spent decades travelling the world.
He told himself that recent events were forcing him out of his reclusive world, and to a degree, that was true. The hairless man was quite happy moving from place to place, enjoying the simple life whenever he could, always eager to learn. Anonymity had its advantages.
But a small part of him knew that it was time to do something meaningful. Again. Something that would attempt to rectify the mistakes of a past he felt he never had any control over.
When the plane landed, he left the terminal as quickly as he could. Confident that he got the maximum amount of rest during the trip, the man strode through a pair of sliding doors into the chilly winter air. Unfazed by the looks of the crowd around him, he shed his outer garments to reveal a red bodysuit, and he flew off on his own power toward the Manhattan sky
Nighthawk stood back as Hellstrom welcomed the blond man into his home. The fact that the man entered the home of the king of Hell so freely, so confidently, was vaguely unsettling to Nighthawk. Yet the newcomer with the crimson gem strung around his neck did not seem to be a man to fear.
Hellstrom greeted the man as a peer. "You've arrived just in time. Kyle, meet Elijah Bloodstone. When I need advice, I turn to him."
The avian adventurer approached Bloodstone with an increased curiosity. The old Daimon Hellstrom, thought Nighthawk, was a trustworthy ally, and a man who often sought the counsel of his teammates. Back then, he was introspective, both emotionally and intellectually, and the opinion of others truly mattered to him. Today, Daimon did not seem like he needed or cared for the suggestions of any man.
Bloodstone was the first to speak. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Nighthawk. Daimon's told me quite a bit about you."
"You have me at a disadvantage, then," the hero replied. "I know your name, and that's about it."
"Does it sound familiar?"
"It sounds kind of ominous, but I can't say I recognize it."
"Look at the respect that young people give you these days," Hellstrom chuckled, and the big man with the long blond hair shot him a look of mock disapproval. The lord of the netherworld turned to Nighthawk and continued. "I've already heard the story that Elijah is itching to tell you, so I think I'll take this opportunity to excuse myself for a few minutes. Someone else wants to say hello."
As Hellstrom walked upstairs, Bloodstone sat down in a large, plush chair and smiled; Nighthawk remained on his feet. Ten seconds elapsed in complete silence, and then Nighthawk quietly said, "Well, Mr. Bloodstone, I doubt that Daimon arranged for me to meet you unless he wanted me to work with you. You know my story - what's yours?"
"You're right. Daimon thinks that I'll be able to help you, should you decide to accept his offer and lead a new group of Defenders. Though I suppose you could call the team whatever you like." Bloodstone paused for a moment and continued with a slow-forming grin. "I think all the 'X' names are taken, sorry."
"I don't know my real name. My father took the name of Ulysses Bloodstone nearly ten millennia ago, when he happened upon a gem that could also be described as such. The Bloodstone, as it was thereafter known, was imbedded in his chest, and it gave my father abilities far beyond those of his tribemates: enhanced strength, intelligence, agility, and so on."
"Is that the Bloodstone you're wearing around your neck?" Nighthawk asked.
The big man stroked the chain the red rock was fastened to. "This? No. Just a ruby I mined out of Africa some time ago. The original Bloodstone was scattered to the seven winds a few years ago when my father died. A fragment was later retrieved by a group of mercenaries led by Helmut Zemo, but it was lost in a volcano."
"No matter. I was also born about ten thousand years ago, give or take a decade. Being a first-generation Bloodstone, I inherited my father's gifts, albeit to a slightly lesser degree. When I was fifteen, he left me for the first time to do whatever he did back then. Because neither of us was aware of the age-retarding properties of the gem, we both assumed, incorrectly as it were, that despite our other special abilities, our lifespans would be more or less normal - as short as the other members of our tribe."
"Of course, we were both wrong. I ran into him about eighty years later, neither of us the worse for wear. It seemed that immortality lay before us, yet I didn't know what to do with it. I didn't want to follow my father all over the globe... if there was such a thing as a rebellious octogenarian, I was it."
Nighthawk chuckled, amazed that the man sitting a few feet from him was a hundred times hundred years old; he continued his tale. "He left again, and I was alone. My mother and other siblings were dead; my friends could not hope to keep up to me. So I wandered around Europe and Asia for about a decade, until I met a man who was even older than me... several millions of years older than me. He was an Elder of the Universe. Are you familiar with the concept?"
"Very," responded an enthralled Nighthawk. "When I first started out, the Grandmaster was very involved with my activities. And the Silver Surfer mentioned them occasionally... the Collector, the Gardener... yeah, I've heard of them."
"I didn't meet any of those men. This Elder was relatively minor in comparison, almost nondescript in form and function - boring, actually. But I digress. We talked, and he told me that his life was devoted to the pursuit and mastery of one art. One simple, solitary thing."
"After we parted ways, and after a brief period of genuflection, I concluded that I would never confine myself to an existence such as that. I decided that I would learn as much as I could about everything. So, over the last ten thousand years, I have devoted myself to the mastery of any skill, and the thorough knowledge of every subject."
"I speak every language spoken on this planet. I am versed in most trades. I am accomplished in all matters biological, geographical, technological, and spiritual. In short, Nighthawk, I would be an invaluable asset to your group of world Defenders, and I am offering you my services."
Nighthawk's eyes rolled in their sockets as the six-foot-six Bloodstone concluded his monologue. Though he seemed like an honest, forthcoming man, Nighthawk was hesitant to trust his life to a stranger he had just met. And was he truly the genius he claimed to be? A second question occurred to him as well. "How did you meet Daimon?"
"Actually, he found me," the self-professed expert of everything answered. "Daimon wanted to meet me after he found out that I knew his father."
"How did you -" Nighthawk's next question trailed off when he spotted the master of the estate return with another old teammate from Kyle's Defenders days. The Gargoyle stepped in front of Hellstrom, a broad smile plastered on his hideous face, and he wrapped his arms around Nighthawk.
"Kyle!" the demonic-looking creature exclaimed. "Thank goodness you're safe and sound! You can't imagine how grateful these old eyes are to see you!"
"Me too, Isaac, me too." Nighthawk had heard that the Gargoyle was living with Hellstrom - something to do with taking care of Patsy - but given that she was dead, he was sure that the old man would have left by now. Isaac Christens was probably the most gentle, caring person that Nighthawk knew through his association with the Defenders... and now he lived with the recently coronated king of Hell? Was Daimon forcing him to stay? As soon as the notion entered his mind, he knew he would have to talk to Isaac privately.
The Gargoyle released his powerful grip on Nighthawk, the toothy grin still firmly in place. "So what brings you out to Fire Lake?"
Namor's sharply defined eyebrows were raised on his brow; he was not sure that he heard the Bowery's kitchen administrator correctly. On the anniversary of his rebirth, that moment in time when the second Human Torch found him wandering aimlessly (and shortly thereafter, restored his memory), the Sub-Mariner returned to the downtrodden district to anonymously help the poor and hungry humans that lived here. On this day, he was told that the Bowery housed - allegedly - a rather unusual visitor.
"You did say that man is the Two-Gun Kid?" the Atlantean asked. "A rather impossible claim, is it not?"
"I hope I look that good when I'm a hundred," the administrator replied with a sad laugh. "Seriously though, what can I do? Like I said before, he's harmless."
Namor was intrigued. During his brief association with the Avengers, he briefly read over the battles the team fought since their inception. Several years ago, the gunslinger called the Two-Gun Kid traveled forward in time and allied himself with the team. The Kid never became a formal member, though, and he returned to his own time when the opportunity presented itself.
To Namor's knowledge, there was no further mention of his name in the present day. As far as anyone knew, the Two-Gun Kid continued to fight crime a century ago. The Sub-Mariner wanted to talk to the scraggly, long-haired man again; he wanted to satisfy the inner voice telling him that this could not possibly be the same man whose best days were lived before the hybrid prince of Atlantis was even born.
Quickly finding him in the similarly destitute crowd, Namor whispered in the poor man's ear to avoid possible embarrassment. "You claim to be the Western legend known as the Two-Gun Kid." It was more a statement than a question.
"Are you mocking me? Do you think this is funny?" the cowboy hissed, pointing at his threadbare attire.
"Your predicament brings me no joy at all. Can we talk somewhere else... privately?"
"Why are you so damn interested in me? Why don't you just leave me alone?"
The Sub-Mariner considered his words carefully before answering. "If what you believe is true... if you are indeed the Two-Gun Kid... your presence in this era must be accounted for. You are not an old man. You appear to be in the prime of your life, although your clothing and your... hygiene... obscure that fact. You may not want to believe this, but I want to help you. Will you let me?"
The two men walked outside, silence the undersea prince's only answer. Flakes of snow fell randomly from the sky, and the vagabond who claimed to be the Two-Gun Kid removed his hat to let the precipitation dampen his dirty hair. He turned to Namor, and tears began streaming from his eyes.
"Sometimes," he began in somber tones, "I have days where I am utterly convinced that my name is really Matt Hawk, and I was a lawyer in Tombstone, Texas. I'm sure that I remember showdowns with bizarre characters like the Rattler and the Hurricane, and... the beauty of the land. It was purifying, the sun and the hot winds. And then I look around and I realize where I am, in this stinkhole of a city, and I can't for the life of me understand why God would do this to me."
"Sometimes, more often than not, none of those memories mean a thing to me. I mean, I don't remember my past. I'm just an ugly, hungry, homeless guy who fits in with all of the other dregs here. Nameless and faceless. You tell me, am I insane? Does any man deserve to be tortured by a brain full of thoughts he isn't even sure are real?"
The Sub-Mariner closed in on the distraught man, and without warning, he effortlessly grabbed him underneath his arms and took flight, his tiny ankle wings laughing off the laws of gravity. A few seconds later, the marine monarch found what he was looking for.
"What the hell are you doing?" the cowboy screamed, flailing in Namor's iron grip. "Let me go!"
"That was the plan," the Atlantean calmly replied. He dropped the derelict into an open, unfrozen patch of the river below, the frigid waters quickly swallowing the shocked man.
About ten miles north of the Bowery district, the man who hunted for the Sub-Mariner flew aimlessly, supported by an aura of electrical energy. I'm wasting time, he thought, and the clock is ticking.
He soared a couple of hundred feet over the New York asphalt, and a cloud of uncertainty seemed to float in front of him. A minute passed, sixty seconds during which the crimson-clad man realized that trying to pinpoint the one person on Earth that might remember him, and possibly help him, could hide anywhere. In a city of eight million people, on a planet where the hybrid lived equally at ease in air or in its oceans, finding one man... time to go to a hastily-formed plan B.
Extending his hands in front of him, he lashed out at a nearby office tower with waves of electricity. Windows exploded, and dozens of offices were blacked out, the various lighting systems drained of all energy. His task complete, the man in red continued to hover in front of the skyscraper, the word 'NAMOR' spelled out behind him.
In Hellstrom's mansion, the four men sat at a heavy circular table that seemed to glow faintly in the dark study. Feeling more at ease, Nighthawk pulled the mask away from his face. A pen and a pad of paper were placed in front of him, a glass of whiskey beside them. Hellstrom and Bloodstone sipped absinthe, while the Gargoyle enjoyed a glass of white wine.
Richmond picked up the pen and declared to no one on particular, "I feel like the general manager of the Mets."
Hellstrom smirked. "You do understand, Kyle, that the stakes here are considerably higher than winning the World Series, right?"
"Oh, I know." He scribbled on a blank page, testing the pen. "Nonetheless, let's continue along with my baseball analogy. Right now, I have a roster to fill. With a relatively small number of people whose collective skills and powers are suited for any type of battle, and with personalities that are able to quickly mesh. Right off the bat, I know I can't waste time asking certain members of, say, the Avengers or the Fantastic Four because they just won't join. So my talent pool, so to speak, is limited to a bunch of free agents."
"And ex-Defenders," the orange-skinned Gargoyle suggested.
Nighthawk shook his head. "Don't be so sure, Isaac. To be honest, a couple of them told me to stay away from Daimon. I don't imagine they'll want to help me if they think I'm working for him."
If Hellstrom was insulted, it did not show. The winged marvel started writing:
Me
Isaac
Bloodstone - walking library, fighting skills must be demonstrated
Need: Energy manipulator
Need: Hulk-level strength
Need: Stealth?
Need: A female or two
Daimon was sitting off the Nighthawk's right shoulder, and he pointed to the last sentence on the page. "Were you a little lonely during your coma? Or do I need to lend you my little black book?"
"You're hilarious. My sides are about to burst," Nighthawk murmured icily without looking up. "I don't want to lead an all-male team. Too much testosterone. Too many stupid brawls. If we have even one female on the team - and I don't mean a token woman, either, but one that'll carry her weight - the rest of the squad will be a little easier to manage. Subconsciously, they'll be better behaved. I think, anyways."
Bloodstone nodded in agreement, and Nighthawk started writing again. A single word was scrawled on the paper: Valkyrie.
"Does anyone know where Val is?" he asked.
Back in New York, the luminescence of a computer monitor weakly revealed the figure of a young man sitting at a computer keyboard. The message was sent: in less than 24 hours, the superheroic population was going to be radically affected.
Next: Okay, the threat is revealed. Promise. Next issue. Who makes the first cut?
Author Notes
Boy, what a tough issue to write. I know exactly who I want in this team, I just have a problem getting them all together. I truly hope that the resolution to this story arc satisfies whatever thimbleful of readers are taking this in.
Onto the roster: Nighthawk will indeed be the team leader in the field. The Gargoyle, Elijah Bloodstone... check. Namor - well, duh. Valkyrie? Gotta find her, but I have a feeling that the combined resources of Daimon and Bloodstone will do the trick.
Anyone else? Maybe that crazy cowboy... could he truly be the Two-Gun Kid? And if so, how did he wind up in 2002? And who's the electrically-powered dude desperately seeking the Sub-Mariner? One hint - he was once seen in the 40s, and in one 90s mini-series.
As always, your comments are welcomed. See you later.
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