This is the sixth chapter in the serialized action-packed drama that is
the life of Gerard Tolken, confused superhero and, so far, a total
failure at his chosen profession. On the trail of a former colleague's
kidnapped sibling, he has stumbled across an elaborate plot
masterminded by a mysterious(natch) supervillian. After exchanging
blows with the henchmen, Tolken lies incarcerated, his powers stolen
from him by the telepath Selene...

THE HAMMER AND THE CROSS
Chapter Six: "The Gentle Art of Making Enemies"
By Jim Cannon

      Taskmaster grimaced under the mask, one gloved hand
absentmindedly fingering the hilt of the energy blade clipped to his
utility belt. While the technicians were busy fixing the controls to
the jet, ruined by one of the heroes in a poor escape attempt, and Xian
continued to load the plane with the specimens, Taskmaster and the
Abomination questioned Selene in Taskmaster's office.
      "Then how the hell did Blondie manage to crack open the cell
door? You said you damped his powers," Taskmaster growled.
      "I would not suggest utilizing that tone with me, little man,"
Selene purred. But there was a hint of steel in her silky voice.
      "Please, the two of you, calm down," Emil Blonsky, the
Abomination, urged. "As the end of our partnership and the fruition 
of or toil grows closer, tempers begin to fray. This is
understandable. But matters will not be helped if we cannot discuss
things with civil tongues."
      Taskmaster grunted and sat back in his chair. Selene smiled and
spoke. "Dear Emil is correct, Tasky," she said throatily.
      "How?" Taskmaster repeated, referring to Selene's perceived
slip-up.
      "I don't know. He didn't break free of my psychic shackles, that
is certain," Selene said. "Although, not for lack or trying. The boy
has a strong mind, and some training."
      "He's not entirely human, I'd wager," Emil volunteered. "The
bones I broke knitted nicely. Maybe he's just naturally strong."
      "Mmm," Taskmaster said. "A possibility I don't like to entertain.
We underestimated these freaks. I suggest we don't do that again."
Abomination nodded, Selene gave Taskmaster a wicked smile, and crossed
her legs. Taskmaster squashed a half formed thought before it could be
completed. Selene's smile broadened.
      "Well," Taskmaster said, not skipping a beat, "on to other
business. How is the loading procedure proceeding?"
      "As can be expected," Emil supplied. "The specimens will be ready
for transport before the jet is." He paused for a moment, then said,
"How was your trip into town?"
      Taskmaster looked at him sharply. He knew Emil and Selene
disapproved of his sympathy for the children, and dreaded mentioning it
to his employer. But it eased his conscience, and, hopefully, would
quell the anxious dreams he had been victim to as of late. He met
Emil's green eyes. "Fine," he said.
      Emil nodded.
      Now, if only the boss would be so understanding.

      By midmorning, the jet's control panel was refitted and back in
working order. By noon, the crate that served as cell to the four
would-be heros was loaded on the craft beside the cylinders housing the
specimens. By 1:30 EST, Taskmaster, Selene, the Abomination, and their
unconcious charges were winging their way through South American skies,
heading for a remote atoll in the South Pacific.

***********************************************************************

      Dick Grayson, Nightwing, was having a bad day.
      *The bad guys aren't supposed to be this smart*, he thought to
himself. *Or I'm not supposed to be this dumb. Should have thought
things through, instead of barreling into the trap like a rank amateur.
Of course, how was I supposed to know Taskmaster had the flaming
impossible Hulk on the payroll?*
       *Thats it, Dick. Rationilize, make excuses, do anything but
figure a way out of here or admit you screwed up.* He looked around at
the bare metallic walls of the cell. Smooth, fitted tightly, bolted
together, composed of twelve-inch thick steel plate. The door was
welded shut. A few evenly spaced holes allowed air to circulate and
kept the battered foursome from suffocating.
      Their only ace was hogtied on the lower bunk. Siphon, the Avenger
had been able to break open the cell before, but was put down easily by
the Abomination. Now, instead of standing free and causing more
trouble, Taskmaster had fit a metal gag and a series of binders and
steel clasps around the kid's bulky frame, effectively immobilizing
him. Dick had tried his best to free the man, but the electronic locks
had proved too difficult for even his considerable technical skill.
     It was the same with the damping collar that graced Morning Star's
neck. A knockoff of a Shaw Industries model, the thick golden band
served to nullify the blond mutant's powers. It was a simple mechanism,
and, given time and the right tools, Dick was certain he could pry it
loose. He had time, of course, but the tools had been confiscated by
Taskmaster.
      The cute redhead, named Mars of all things -- Dick would have
thought Athena a better name -- was on the second bunk, vainly fiddling
with the controls on Siphon's binders. Siphon himself wore a resigned
expression under his gag, but Mars seemed determined to get him free.
Dick wondered just how close the two of them were, and what Mars was
doing after the caper.
      *I always did have a thing for redheads* He grimaced and forced
Cory out of his mind. Down that road was only pain and bittersweet
memories. A future dashed, a happiness quashed. Better to think about
their chances of surviving this mess.
      The very fact that they weren't dead yet gave Dick some hope, but
not much. Years of narrowly escaping elaborate death traps had given
him an appreciation for the whimsical sadism of the average costumed
criminal. He and his companions might just be fodder for some
mastermind's new surefire superhero extermination device. Of course,
Dick had escaped from every single death trap he had been in, but that
wasn't important. Old traps didn't worry him; new traps did.
      And the damn supercriminals kept devising more and more ingenious
ones.
      If only he had a wire, one measly lockpick, a single batarang.
Something, anything. Even a belt buckle...
      Dick paused, looked down at his waist. A belt buckle.
      He stood up, and began to loosen the belt.
      Morning Star looked at him oddly. "Hey, you're cute and all, but
don't you think we should wait for a more *private* moment."
      Dick grinned. "I have an idea. Let me see that collar of yours."
The tongue of the buckle was a small, narrow piece of metal, perfect
for spearing an eyelet, but would be a clumsy tool. Still, he had time
and patience, and it might be their only chance.
      *Whatever happened to the good old days when criminals left bags
of old sports equipment in their dungeons*, he thought, moving towards
Morning Star. *Things were always so much simpler when I wore the
yellow cape.*

***********************************************************************

      The plane flew in low, skimming the surface of the cerulean waves,
whipping up salt and spray. Taskmaster eased the throttle as the island
came into view on the horizon. Emil put down the book he was reading --
some treatise on biochemistry by a Doctor Hank McCoy -- and
straightened in his seat.
      "Is that it?" he asked in that rumbling growl he called a voice.
      Taskmaster nodded and directed the jet into a landing cycle. He
knew the atoll's automated defense systems were disabled. The Wizard
was expecting them. As he engaged the VTOL thrusters, the sea between
the reef and the land bubbled and churned; a massive building, squat
and wide, rose out of the waves. The roof, actually two doors,
scissored open, and Taskmaster moved the blackbird into position. After
a moment, he began to lower the craft into the structure.
     "Impressive," Emil remarked. Taskmaster smiled under the mask,
knowing that Emil had visted other planets, felt the heat of alien
suns. If anything on Earth could impress him still, especially if it
was something Taskmaster helped design, he was happy.
     Into the bowels of Alpha Base the sleek black jet descended,
engines roaring. In the hold, Xian mopped his brow and checked again
the status of the cannisters. Conditions remained stable. He allowed
himself a brief smile, and then went back to worrying about the rigors
of air travel.
      He did not worry for long, as the jet soon settled to the ground,
and the smooth whine of the engines subsided. As soon as the plane
stopped, Taskmaster unbuckled himself from his seat and bounded out of
the cockpit. Behind him, Emil stirred clumsily in the cramped room.
      A few quick strides took Taskmaster to the exit hatch. He popped
it open, freed the steps, and jogged down them even as the unfolded.
Outside, on the metallic floor of an undersea bunker, dozens of
crewman bustled about, preparing to unload the jet. About fifty yards
from where Taskmaster stood, a circle of quiet sat amid the hustling
forms of the hired help. A man in a sharp black suit stood there, one
hand thrust deep in his pants pocket, the other cupping a cigarette. As
Taskmaster walked toward him, the man took a drag on the cancer stick,
sucking deeply.
      A thin trail of smoke wafted up as he spoke. Taskmaster heard him
even over the rumble of machinery and chattering soldiers. "Welcome
back, Taskmaster. I trust all went well?" His voice was cold and deep,
a powerful voice, the voice of a man who was used to command, and used
to people following orders. He was an ugly man, his face malformed by
some ancient tragedy, but after a month of hanging with the
Abomination, it was nothing.
       Taskmaster still knew better than to look too long at his face.
He focused on a point over the man's shoulders. "Aye," he said. "The
trip was uneventful. The costumes haven't made any more trouble, and the
specimens are stable."
       "Excellent," the man said, taking another puff on his cigarette.
"Send the children to Lab 3. Have them set up for the Lazarus
Conditioning. I want the big Avenger in Lab 1. Tell Selene to meet me
there in two hours. You too. Send the other would-be heroes to the
Detention level. Separate cells." He smiled.
       His eyes met Taskmaster's, drawing the mercenary's gaze into the
deep, maddened pools that were the mastermind's orbs. Taskmaster
suppressed a shudder. "I so enjoy it when a plan works flawlessly. You
have served me well, Taskmaster. Much better than the Sandman or the
Trapster ever did. Expect a worthy reward, my friend."
       He gave Taskmaster a comradely thump on the shoulder, then
turned and departed, dropping the burning stick on the ground.
Taskmaster watched him go, then stamped out the cigarette on the floor.
       "Gee, thanks," he muttered, and left to see to the unloading.

***********************************************************************

      First, I gave in. I convinced myself I didn't care anymore,
convinced myself that there was no point in trying to escape. I was
resigned to our situation. We were going to die. And there was nothing
I could do about it. Beaten by the Abomination, hogtied in cold steel,
forced to sit impassively while our fates were decided. Unable to move,
unable to even speak. My spirits plummeted. I had no hope.
      And there, it would have eventually ended. I would truly have
died sooner or later. But.
      Nightwing never gave up. He must have known the situation was
hopeless. We were outnumbered and outgunned, had been beaten twice by
the same people. Taskmaster, Abomination, and Selene were intelligent
individuals. They slipped up once, they wouldn't do it again. Even with
our powers and weapons, we were no match for them.
      Couldn't he see that? Didn't he know? Of course he did. Then why
did he struggle to unlock Teresa's collar with his belt buckle?
Why did he toil at an impossible task, cursing continually under his
breath? Why didn't he realize we were dead and just give in?
      My fatality faded eventually, replaced by a cold anger that began
to grow. Anger at Nightwing, because he was too stupid to realize how
screwed we were. Sure, he might be able to bust us out again, but what
then? What would the great Nightwing do when we were free? He'd get his
ass handed to him by the Abomination again, and he'd either get
perished or sent back here.
     I seethed in my bonds for what seemed like hours. Tasha rubbed my
head absentmindedly, her mind occupied with watching Nightwing operate
on Teresa's collar. Did she buy it too? Did she think we had a chance?
I found my anger spilling over to encompass her as well. Stupid girl.
Think the Batman's sidekick is going to save you? It isn't going to
happen.
      I twisted in my bonds once again, or tried to at least. My arms
and legs had long since fallen asleep. I couldn't move. I was a
foolish, powerless cripple, and there was no way I could save us.
      I froze, and all the anger and hatred that built up over the last
few hours drained away. It wasn't Nightwing I was mad at. It wasn't
Tasha who angered me. It was myself.
     I was angry because I proved unable to face the challenge. I was
weak in body in spirit. I was no hero at all, I never had been. I was
playacting, wearing a costume that didn't fit me, using a name that was
not mine. I thought I was a hero because I brought my father's killers
to justice, I joined the Avengers. Wasn't that what heroes did?
     It was, yes. But I forgot something important, something I should
have remembered. Heroes do not, under any circumstance, give up. They
do not lie down and die. They do not accept defeat. They do not cringe
in the face of certain death. Did Captain America flinch when Hyde and
Batroc tied him to an anchor on a supertanker set to blow? Did Batman
shrug and merrily join the hereafter when Bane shattered his spine?
     More importantly, did either of those men depend on any
"superpowers" to save them in their hour of peril.
     No.
     I knew then what I had to do. What I should have done from the
beginning.
     Then they came and took me away.

     The Abomination peeled away the door to the crate, reached in a
massive arm and pulled me out like a sardine from a can. I had a moment
to notice we were in a hanger, and a different one than the last, and
then someone plunged a hypo into my shoulder, injecting me with some
quick acting serum. At full strength, I could have shrugged off the
effects of any drug Tasmaster gave me, but I wasn't, and I didn't. My
vision fogged over, and I lost consciousness.

     I came awake, still bound, but transferred to an x-shaped table.
Thick manacles wrapped tightly around my wrists and ankles, and a
similar belt kept my midsection attached to the table. Pins and needles
moved up and down my shoulders and thighs, my forearms and ankles, as
circulation gradually returned to my numbed limbs. I didn't even try to
test the strength of the bindrs; my attention was drawn to a silver
globe suspended from the ceiling, hanging directly over my head. Dozens
of needles, blades, saws, cords, and other surgical instruments
projected out from the globe in a macabre halo.
     Wrenching my gaze from the instrument, I examined the room. Three
figures stood around the table, and between them an array of computer
screens, keyboards, snaking cables, and blinking lights fleshed out the
smallish room. Selene, clad in her patented leather dominatrix costume,
lounged against a terminal, stroking a riding crop. On my left, as far
from Selene as he could get, stood a ten foot tall man in a white
cloak, wearing a skull mask. As I looked at him, his normal dimensions
asserted themselves, and I realized that whatever they used to knock me
out was screwing with my perceptions.
      I tried to refocus, and found myself looking at the third figure,
a man clad in a purple surgical gown and mask. Seeing that I was awake,
he stepped close to me, and drew down the mask. I was rewarded with the
sight of perhaps the ugliest man I ever laid eyes upon. His nose
swelled out of his face like a turnip, and hung low over cracked and
thin lips. A fine down of fuzzy red hair decorated his mishapen jaw,
unable to hide how malformed it was. Scraggly reddish brown locks
spilled over a smooth, pockmarked brow. He possessed massive brow
ridges with thin eyebrows, and the bony protrusions served to shadow
his eyes from my view.
      He straightened a bit, and smiled with cracked and yellowed
teeth. His eyes were uncovered, and he fixed me with his even, clinical
stare. His eyes were blue and hard as steel, with a decidedly maniacal
gleam that could not brighten his dour and twisted expression. Then he
spoke, in a voice as cold as new ice.
      "Doubtless you are wondering who I am, child, and why I brought
you here. The answers you seek will be given in due time, but first, I
would like to hear some answers myself."
      He flicked a switch outside of my range of vision, and the globe
above me hitched slightly. A quiet hum of power radiated from it. I
watched, fascinated, as one of the arms extended from the sphere, a
tiny drill bit on its end. The drill began to descend, aiming for my
forehead. I tensed tired muscles, and strained to get my head out of
the way, to no avail.
      The drill descended and halted, bare millimeters from my brow. I
could feel the air, stirred by the drill's spinning, move across my
forehead. I held my breath.
      The man leaned in close and whispered into my ear. His breath
smelled of carrion and dead things. "I'm sure you know how this game is
played. I ask you a question, and if you answer, I won't kill you," he
said. "Understand?"
      I didn't move. "Yes," I said.
      "Who are you?" he whispered.
      "My name is Siphon."
      He nodded. "Good. See how easy this is? Now, who are your
friends?"
      Sweat slid down my temple. Did the drill just move? No, it
couldn't have. I would have felt it. "Mars, Morning Star, and
Nightwing," I told him.
      The man looked back at Taskmaster and said, "See, he's a smart
boy. He understands." Taskmaster grunted. If I didn't know any better,
I would have thought he looked uncomfortable.
      "Now," the man said, turning back to me, "the difficult part.
What brought you after me? How did you find me?"
      I took a deep breath. Yes, the drill was definitely closer. I
could feel it pressing into my skin. "One of the children you took is a
sister of a friend. She followed your men...and the rest was easy." I
allowed myself a grim smile.
      "He has spirit, Taskmaster," the man said. "And who are you with,
Siphon? Can I expect more of your friends to arrive?"
      I tried to think. Should I lie, or tell the truth? The drill
pressed into my forehead. "No," I yelped. "We're alone."
      The drill pulled away. The man clapped. "Excellent. You are an
honest man, Siphon." I waited, half expecting hom to ask if "it" was
"safe." Only I didn't look like Dustin Hoffman, and he didn't look like
Laurance Olivier.
       "Now," I said, "you tell me a few things."
       The man glanced at Taskmaster, an expression of mock surprise on
his face. "Oh ho, my friend, this boy is a bold one." Taskmaster
nodded, but said nothing. I heard Selene chuckle.
       "Very well, Siphon," the man said, a grotesque smile splitting
his ruined features. "I am feeling generous today. Ask away. And I
promise to answer only those questions I like."
       I swallowed. *Right* "Who are you?"
       His face darkened, and the smile faded from his eyes. "I am the
Wizard, boy." The Wizard? My brain raced, trying to recognize that
nomme de guerre. A heartbeat, and I had it. The Wizard. Of course. An
old foe of the Fantastic Four, a brilliant mind turned to crime out of
jealousy of the Human Torch and rage at Mister Fantastic's brilliance.
The Wizard -- his real name escaped me -- once led the Fearsome Four, a
team consisting of the Sandman, the Trapster, and the Inhuman, Medusa.
The last I heard of him, he was serving a prison term for his
involvement with the so-called Acts of Vengeance a few years ago.
       I always thought him a second class mastermind, a poor man's
Doctor Doom. It bugged me that the pus-wad had taken my team and I down
as easily as they had.
       "What do you want with the mutant children?"
       His smile broadened, and his eyes lit up once again. "Yes, the
children. We cannot forget them, can we, Siphon? Their importance lies
in the fact that they are not simply mutants, but a very rare sub-race
of mutantkind, for some reason dubbed the 'externals.' Eternals would
be a better name if you asked me, but those silly mutants seem fond of
the 'x' sound. Go figure.
       "Anyway, the externals, as you may or may not know, are mutants
who are gifted with some measure of immortality. They cannot die unless
their heads are removed from their body. It may sound medieval, but it
is older than that. I heard that Apocalypse himself, the most famous
external, was born in ancient Egypt. Mutations are old indeed, Siphon."
       "I don't understand," I said. "Why is it important that these
children are ... externals?" I fumbled over the word.
       "Their importance rests on the fact that their cells are, in
laymen's terms, supercharged with life. Life that I need to steal, life
that I need to leach off of them. I am dying, you see. Cancer. Quite
terminal."
       Spittle flew from his lips as he leaned over and said, "But with
the life force of the externals coursing through me, I will live, and
never fear disease or old age again. That, Siphon, is their
importance."
       *This man is insane* I thought. *He's not making any sense. Life
force? Externals? He is deluding himself; but that doesn't make the
danger any less real.*
       "How?" I asked.
       "Its a rather simple process, really," he said in an even tone.
"The cylinders housing the children will be hooked up together, and
then joined to a central vat. I will be placed in that vat. And then,
in a process too complicated to describe to someone like you, I will be
bathed in the life energy of the mutants. My sickness will be remedied,
and my lifespan radically altered. Much of the energy will bleed off,
leaving me hale and hearty, but still human.
       "As for the children themselves, I'm afraid I wasn't able to
refine the process to ensure their survival. I'm a bit pressed for time
you see." He smiled wistfully.
       Rage lent me strength. I wrenched my right hand free of the
manacle, tearing steel and my wrist, and I took a swing at the Wizard.
Stunned, he stared dumbly, unable to react, at my fist.
       Taskmaster and Selene were not as slow. Taskmaster plucked the
Wizard out of the way, and Selene manipulated the table's arm, enabling
it to grab my own flailing limb and stretch it back into place. I
tugged at it as hard as I could, but Selene thwarted me by causing the
material of the table to flow up and over my hand, cementing it in
place.
      I growled low in my throat. "Wizard," I spat. "You're one sick,
evil fuck. And if you do anything that harms those children, there will
be no chance of you enjoying eternal life."
      The Wizard disengaged himself from Taskmaster's arms. "I am
surprised, Siphon. I thought you were bold and stupid, but I did not
realize you had a death wish.
      "Do not worry, though. I won't kill you yet. Instead, I shall
teach you an attitude lesson. Yes, a lesson. And I shall learn from it,
as well. I want to see how powerful your regenerative ability is when
your powers are locked away inside you."
       He reached over to a keyboard and typed in several commands.
The silver sphere over my head hummed with life again. It moved,
traveling slowly across my body on a track connected to the ceiling. It
halted over my stomach. Two arms unfolded and lowered close to my
torso. One arm had a wickedly curved blade, and the other had a three
pronged claw.
      The claw bit into my flesh, grabbing a hunk of meat. The blade
began to cut. I bit back a scream.
      "I think we will begin with a pound of flesh," the Wizard said
with humor in his voice.
      In a little while, I could contain it no longer, and the scream
bubbled forth, loud and agonizing.

***********************************************************************

Taskmaster, Abomination, et al are (C) Marvel Comics, used without
permission.
Nightwing is (C) DC Comics, used without permission. But there's really
little point in suing me, I'm a college student. That means Poor.

Siphon, Morning Star, and Mars are (C) James M.G. Cannon, who is not a
large corporation, but can still be possessive about his characters.

Comments, criticism, anecdotes, and dementia should be directed to
me at: X8CG@MUSIC.STLAWU.EDU