THE CORPS issue 9: Enforcer Capone in, "An Offer Refused" by Twilight Scribe

As you may have guessed, I've never been entirely content with my position. In my time spent in London, I've learned I hated the town. Loathed it. The dark city streets, my one escape from the tedious procession of Family parties, functions, and meetings I'm obligated to attend, were always quiet. London was clean, sterile, and dead. A far departure from my native Chicago, a city of light, noise, and drunken revelry. Being stuck in the oppressing, stodgy atmosphere of the old town made me sick. The only good I can ever remember that came as a result of my stay was my newfound power, and my only triumph was my fight against Nighthawk.

I found him, caught him, cornered him, and I finally beat him.

Nighthawk, some may have called him my archenemy, they may have been right. The annoying bastard of a vigilante plagued the Family, my family, for years. My pop even offered me leadership of the Chicago Outfit if I could bring him down. He was a nuisance in the most extreme sense of the word.

The damn vigilante gained quite a following, for a kook in his grandpa's mask and long johns. Ever since he came on the scene all those years ago the civilians have loved him, revered him as a hero. I don't know why, then again I may be a bit biased. The bastard's only killed my grandpa and been singling me out since I turned sixteen. He seems to enjoy harassing me personally. The point is, I got him.

Nighthawk, the untouchable, invincible freedom fighter was there, held at gunpoint pending arrest and execution thanks to Yours Truly. I must admit, it was a very satisfying end to my first real super-powered excursion. Very satisfying indeed. Vengeance isn't a concept I usually buy into, but in this case I was sorely tempted to just pull the trigger. Luckily for me, I resisted the urge and stood guard, confident that my captive would keep me company until my backup arrived. The plan was to take him back to headquarters for a little heart-to-heart with the heads of the Family. Just a nice little chat, one that would probably end up involving a few baseball bats and some rubber tubing. Of course, things rarely go according to plan when you deal with a guy like Nighthawk. I was willing to bet he wouldn't be breathing for more than five minutes once the boys got here.

At the time I'm sure my inexperience showed through. Sure, I was a grown man, my father's top lieutenant and enforcer, but I was still a sight shaky with my powers. I had only received them about a week prior.

That night I had ditched a formal party, thrown by my hosts for a few visiting Yakuza dignitaries, and slipped away into the murk of a London night. After a couple drinks in every bar I knew of, and I knew of plenty, I stumbled onto a nostalgia-type bar tucked away in a dingy back-alley and styled after an old-time speakeasy. It was a grimy little dive full of noise, flapper gals, and their zoot-suited escorts; the kind of place I'd only ever seen in the old photos of Grandpa Al and his associates back in the days of prohibition.

Normally I'd have skipped out before one of those loose gals noticed me and her date brought up grievances, the kind aired with the pull of a trigger, but there was something about the filth that kept me there, reminded me of home. So I stayed, and drank. And drank, and drank, and argued with the bartender, and drank some more.

It had to be well past midnight before anyone stopped me. A dame in a light blue sequined dress sashayed over and took the seat to my right. She laid a hand on my wrist and told me to "slow down there, Brius, or you'll drink the bar dry." I ignored her. The fact that she knew my name was nothing extraordinary, I was a celebrity. Everyone wants to know you when you're mob royalty. If I wanted to get real picky I could've gone off on her for not calling me 'Mr. Capone.'

I went on nursing my scotch until her fella showed up and decided it'd be fine to sit at my left. Looking back, I suppose I took it a bit too personally, it was a free bar after all and he was nothing but friendly. I just really dislike social situations, you see? Like I was saying, he walked up to the bar and took the empty seat to my left. As soon as he sat the volume in the bar dropped to a dull hum, like half the patrons just up and left. It was unnerving enough to make my hand, the one unencumbered by a glass, drift towards the grip of my trusty pistol. The fella noticed and stiffened, not like I cared. His hesitation made time for me to give him a once-over.

He was a tall man with white hair, slicked back under a black fedora, and a closely trimmed beard. I could tell from his cut, wizened face that he was old enough to be his lady friend's father. I was sure there was an intriguing story behind that little observation, but I couldn't deny the man had style. Had he been wearing something other than his current suit of ridiculous purple and black pinstripe he could have easily fit in with the senior members of the Family. I decided to hear him out.

"My name is Merlyn, and this is my daughter Roma." It was nice to find the answer to my question so quick, but I was a little disappointed the story wasn't juicier. I let him go on. "I see you like guns."

He said that in reference, no doubt, to my earlier move. For the record, I have two specially modified M1911 Colt pistols. Both lovely single-action, semi-automatic guns. Call it a remnant of my boyhood fascination with the old west, but I like the idea of a gunslinger being a master marksman, a shooter of skill. That's why I don't put any stock in the new machine gun shmutz that rolls out of the factories nowadays. Those take about as much skill to use as a landmine. I don't like guns, I like my guns, and I told him so.

Merlyn surprised me by agreeing and offering to buy the next round. Once I sobered up I realized it was a good move on his part to try and appease the hot-tempered, armed drunk. Letting the drunk get his hands on more booze however, was not as smart; something Roma must have realized since she protested and did her damnedest to keep me from my alcohol. Had she not been a dame I would've popped her one. Merlyn must have agreed she was being oversensitive about the whole business as he offered again, more insistent than before.

"Come on Brius, another round! I'm buying and you look like you could use a drink." My only answer was a loud scoff. What the hell did he think I'd been slamming down all night, lemonade? He must've decided it was time to up the ante because the joviality dropped off his face like a body into the East River, something I have enough experience with to recognize even when drunk. He still wore a smile plastered across his mug, but it spoke of secrets, like he knew an encyclopedia worth of things I didn't. Buzzed as I was, I didn't like it.

Any other time, any other place, I would've had him in my sights before his hand fell out of view, but the alcohol in my system betrayed me and he got to this piece before I did. Like bloody magic he hauled one of those automated tommy-guns I hate so much from out of nowhere and laid it on the bar. God only knows where he was hiding it, a large part of me hopes I never find out.

Merlyn laughed loud enough to draw the attention of every goon and broad in the joint, probably because of the amusing expression I must've been wearing. I was more than a little shocked at how he could pull so much heat out of thin air and go completely unnoticed by everyone, even the barkeep who was looking right at us. Like I should have done right from the beginning, I began to suspect a set-up.

With a casual wave Merlyn caught the bartender's attention and ordered two shots of whiskey. Roma, he explained, didn't drink. By the time the hooch came, I was relatively sure he wasn't going to plug me and therefore much calmer. As I had noted Merlyn's interesting choice in clothing earlier, I noted a peculiar quirk of the bartender's. I'd never been in a bar where a shot of whiskey was served in a full mug before.

I stared into the bottom of my mug as he took a draft from his, gesturing with the vessel when he came up for air and told me "That's yours, if you want it. Could be a help on the streets." Like hell it could. If he hadn't had the upper hand, I would have reiterated my views on automatic weaponry and informed him of just where he could put that gun. Likely the same place he pulled it out of to start with. But I kept my trap closed and continued to peer into my drink, looking like I was thinking it over.

Roma, bless her teetotalling little heart, decided enough was enough and put her hand on my shoulder this time. I glanced over to find her grinning a sympathetic smile and absentmindedly playing with a large, golden pocket watch. "I'm sorry. Father always acts like this after a night on the town." She paused for a second, following my eyes to her hand and smiled even wider, like I'd just given her the compliment of a lifetime, then snapped the pocket watch open. "My, it's gotten very late. We really must be going. It's been fun, Brius."

Those words were such a massive relief I almost collapsed onto the bar. I didn't see her old man put his gun away, an unsolved mystery I'm glad to leave well enough alone, but as she slid out of her chair I felt Roma slide something heavy into the breast pocket of my tux and whisper some parting words. It wouldn't be until later that I realized it was that heavy pocket watch of hers, and I still haven't figured out what "good choice" was supposed to mean.

I woke up in my bed the next morning, pleasantly surprised to be hangover-free. My boys, the bodyguards my hosts had so graciously provided for me, said that after they realized I skipped from the party last night they scoured the whole city searching for me. I was finally found passed out on a boardwalk bench along the Thames. Safe, but shnockered out of my head and wearing a "crazy circus getup" that the maids left neatly folded on my desk; complete with my guns and Roma's timepiece on the top of the pile.

The next day I learned I could fly after falling from a rooftop in a raid gone sour. Once discovered, I practiced nonstop until I mastered my newfound powers. Well, I got good enough that I could keep from crashing into the sides of every dump in London. My flying was still erratic, but it was enough to bring me to the rooftop that mattered. The gritty, tar-daubed playground six stories above the city streets; the smog-caked rooftop that could have passed for a native in the Chicago skyline.

If you've forgotten already, I'm talking about the shadowed corner of London where I brought down Nighthawk.

Sirens screamed from a few blocks over, steadily gaining on our location, a mechanical herald announcing my backup's approach. As I stood there, the wind trying to scoot under my beloved hat to mess with my hair, carrying the ringing klaxons from the streets below to my ears, I thought back on one of the stories Grandpa Al told me as a kid about the "good old days." He'd said that way back when, before the Family seized everything, the sound of sirens meant the police were coming and any Family members should dust out. Funny how things change. My pop always loved the irony.

As my backup drew ever closer I bent down and reached a hand around the top edge of Nighthawk's mask. He tensed up, but the cold steel barrel pressed tight under his chin helped him keep his cool. A couple seconds later, the bird-motif metal plate was gone, revealing a face I'd seen hundreds of times before in the photos the Family had stuffed into his dossier. Like our intelligence had always insisted, the Nighthawk I had was none other than Robert Ness, grandson of Elliot Ness.

I stepped back to a careful distance, spinning Nighthawk's, or should I say Ness', mask by its rim with one finger. I intended to keep it as a trophy, like my grandpa had after beating the first Nighthawk half a century ago. My new powers had given me astounding confidence. Had I still been a regular joe, letting my mind wander while guarding Nighthawk would've been the last thing I'd ever do, but now it didn't matter. I have a feeling Ness knew it too. Just from the look in his eyes I could tell he wouldn't be pulling any gimmicks out of that utility belt of his. Besides, even if he did get away from me for a minute, he wouldn't be able to escape. How can you run from someone who flies, or beat down a pursuer who's hundreds of times stronger than you with an endurance to match? How can you hide from someone who can hear your heartbeat from fifty yards, then punch through a brick wall to get to you? You can't, that's how.

As I watched him try to haul his carcass up off the tarpapered roof I felt as if I had a clear window into his skull. He was running through explanations in his head, trying to figure out how I'd got go strong and trying to cope with his loss. I know it sounds conceited, but for a second I thought I saw a relieved expression on his face, like he was glad it was me who took him out instead of some random hood. It made sense, there's some honor in being done in by your life-long enemy.

That's when I realized how well I knew the bastard. After two and a half decades you get to know someone, no matter how much you hate them. Nighthawk wasn't suicidal, he didn't have a death wish, and I'm sure he wasn't looking forward to whatever VIP treatment the Family was going to serve up. He was the kind of guy who was able to accept that one day, sooner than later, his death would catch up to him and chances were it wouldn't be of old age or the least bit peaceful. But then, that's no big surprise when you go against the Family.

I knew him well enough to guess that in his head he wasn't fuming about being defeated, or unmasked, or his rapidly approaching and no doubt gruesome demise. No, if he was the same Nighthawk I'd been trying to kill since I was a teen, he was busy worrying about all the people he wouldn't be around to protect. It's a well-known fact that the Family's fear kept their guns aimed at Nighthawk and away from the civilians unlucky enough to cross them, but after they got rid of their vigilante problem the Family would be free to hassle the normal folk with impunity. I didn't like the thought, but when the people suffer, the Family profits, so they never stop. It's funny, but the only agreement Nighthawk and I ever came to was on that very subject. Turns out we both hate bullies.

I also realized that for once I knew more about him than his personality. I knew who he was. Finally having a face to connect to the name Nighthawk was probably one of the weirdest feelings of my life. For the first time ever I was able to piece together the info from Ness' file with the Nighthawk I knew and see some sanity, some purpose, something other than a bastard in a coat and mask. Don't get me wrong, I still wanted to kill him, but I'd gleaned a lot of info while reading up on the past outlined in his file.

Unlike me, Robert Ness grew up poor. His first few years of life were spent in a squalid apartment, if you could even call it that, with him mother. She was the sole breadwinner for the family since his father was in jail, courtesy of my father. I'd always been impressed that a lady in her position had been able to take care of herself and a kid while under the constant scrutiny of the boys of the Chicago Outfit. The file says she worked a bunch a jobs over the years. Her last being a nurse at Chicago General, until she caught TB from a patient and kicked it a few months later. Robert was alone, dropped onto the Chicago streets to fend for himself at the ripe old age of twelve. That's the only part of his family 's story that I regret. His mum sounds like she was a great old broad.

The root of the Ness family's troubles was Robert's grandfather, Elliot Ness. I read his file too; it's almost as thick as Robert's. Way back when, before the Family gained control of... everything, the CIA sicced Elliot and ten other agents on my Grandpa Al. Their mission was to find some angle that the suits in Washington could use to bring him down. They did a great job too; our doctors always said Ness was the cause of Grandpa's first heart attack. Fortunately for all Family members, the Chicago Outfit cornered the stock market and took over the country before Ness and his boys could fulfill their mission. The team of agents was disbanded and the next you hear about Elliot Ness is the news of his execution on the grounds of "vigilantism" as the first Nighthawk. The hard feelings between our two families just spiraled out of control through the generations into the wonderful hate we enjoy today.

I happen to know the second Nighthawk, Robert, got his start stealing his grandfather's mask from its trophy case in the Chicago Historical Society's museum. Impressive for a fifteen-year-old. A couple years later he finished off my sick old grandpa in his own study, something nobody thought possible. As leader of the Chicago Outfit, Grandpa Al was better protected than the president. Hell, he was the president. But as Nighthawk, the kid was great. Too bad he didn't know when to quit.

An eye for an eye, a grandpa for a grandpa. It should have been enough, but Ness, Nighthawk, refused to let it go. He made himself into a problem for the Family, and I've always been a firm believe in the old adage that there's no problem that can't be fixed with a sock in the kisser. Nighthawk proved it to be true. The punch I laid across his jaw knocked him flat. I didn't even have to draw my guns until after he was downed. He looked like he wanted to pop me one in return but hadn't scraped up the strength to do so just yet. I walked away to the edge of the roof and let him get some rest.

I guess I let my mind wander as I heard the sirens cut out, an announcement that my backup had arrived as was running up the stairs to the roof. In the sudden silence I picked up a coughing noise coming from over my shoulder, unmistakable to any enforcer as the sound of a man hacking up blood, then Nighthawk yelling. Whether he was trying to appeal to me or whether he was just plain pissed I didn't know since I was ignoring him. My money was on being pissed. I caught the tail end of his rant as I turned back to face him.

"-how can you do this?!" I assumed that "this" meant turning him in, and for a moment I was stunned he would even ask. All this time I thought he had at least enough volts of brainpower to realize that even if he didn't agree, in the eyes of the Family he was a criminal, one that I was bent on bringing to justice. If he didn't understand that after the last twenty-five years of animosity, there was no way I'd make him get it now. As he opened his trap again I trained my pistol between his eyes but he refused to clam up. Must've figured here was no point, he had nothing left to lose but his life, and look how much good that had done him.

"Do you protect the mob because you think it's good for the world? The country? The people? Do you think you're the hero?" The venom in his voice burned more acidic than anything my boys could've squeezed from a car battery and his question his me hard. For once the snide commentary that eternally rolled through me head went silent.

I guess that yeah, in a way I'd always seen myself as a hero. As a kid I grew up listening to Grandpa Al's stories from the days of prohibition, tales of the blood and gore and viscera that came with the gang wars and fighting the police. I'd never really enjoyed what I did for my father. Took pride in my work, yes, but never enjoyed myself. My rationale had always been that what I did kept the peace, kept the world under control, and prevented more Valentine's Day massacres. If you look at it that way, then yeah, I was a hero. I told him so and emphasized my point with a gentle tightening of my trigger finger. Nighthawk just laughed, reminding me of a drunk Merlyn.

"What a joke. When was the last time you left your comfy rooms in the palace and really looked at this city, or any city for that matter? Take a quick scan, Capone, the place is a hellhole. The whole world is, courtesy of you and the mob." I had always thought I'd be the one to win the World's Most Cynical Bastard award, but here was Nighthawk, taking the cake and the title with every word.

It was surprising to hear him talk. The extreme level of bitterness was out of character for him, but under all the mud he was slinging laid a scant assortment of truths, like a box of chocolates with nothing but the coconut-filled ones left. I couldn't deny that the Family's rule had been harsh. There wasn't a single one of their methods that I didn't take some umbrage with. Under the Capone dynasty Chicago had become tougher, but life thrived in all but the meanest burghs. Here in London under La Cosa Nostra the entire city had degenerated, fallen into the muck of greed and corruption that surfaces even within the Mafia, especially within the Mafia. As much as I hated it, Nighthawk was right. Not only that, but I think he knew I thought so too. Yeah, he knew he struck a nerve. I could tell by the smirk that wormed its way over his face.

It took all my willpower to keep from pulling the trigger back that extra quarter-inch and blowing the bird away like I'd always planned, but I managed. For once, he was right. My time in London gave me plenty of opportunities to see just how brutal La Cosa Nostra's MO was. The Sicilians' methods made everything my father asked seem tame. Realizations like that made my conscience perk up.

I've always had a conscience, a hell of a strong one at that. Growing up with a stern grandmother who lays down more guilt trips than a roofer does shingles will do that to you. Luckily for me, and any man in this business, I've always been able to quiet it down and push it out of the way long enough to do my job; but ever since I got that pocket watch from Roma something had changed. Along with the new powers came this sense of duty to England. I couldn't understand why an American-born boy like myself would feel compelled to defend the Union Jack, but the urge was there, like a little dame sitting in my head and nagging me every step of the way.

I re-holstered my gun and watched as Nighthawk finally managed to pull himself to his feet. Like I said before, he was right. London was a cold, dead shell of a town because of La Cosa Nostra. Their scare tactics kept the people quiet and under control. Their constant surveillance kept folks from stepping out of line. The streets were so sickeningly clean because no one was willing to fight, to dirty up the streets with a little of their sweat and blood. It took me the entire tenure of my office to figure it out, but I finally understood why the city I lived in and hated was so different from my home. The buildings were the same, but the people were crushed, all the hope squeezed out of them by the Sicilians. I'm not a guy who buys into a lot of that New Age touchy-feely crap, but this was an inevitable truth.

I sent Nighthawk another glare. To his credit, he hadn't fallen over yet, though he still looked unsteady. I must've hit him harder than I though, these days I'm not so sure of my own strength. After hearing his take on the issues, combined with the howlings of my newly reawakened conscience, I suppose I came to an epiphany. Call me crazy, but I figured that serving the Family's interests wasn't going to do squat to fulfill whatever duty my conscience told me I had. The way to do "what's right", the way that drew me, was to rock the boat. To protect the people, the country itself and not the Mafia government that ran it. Once I knew what was wrong I was sure that, with a little elbow grease, London could become the next Chicago. A sort of home-away-from-home for me, since I wouldn't be going home anytime soon if I followed through with my plan. I could safely say the Family wouldn't be so happy to see me then.

By the time I was finished absorbing my new outlook on life and the responsibility that came with those shiny new powers of mine, my backup, funny I still thought of them that way, had arrived and was hollering for me to rip the locked door off its hinges and let them up so they could "dust that bird!"

Coming to a quick, but by no means easy, decision, I tossed Nighthawk's mask back to him. To say he looked surprised would be like saying dying may be bad for your health. He stood stock still with mask in hand, sizing me up. I couldn't blame him for being suspicious, but the chump seemed to have forgotten how he was short on time and staying meant being pumped full of lead once my boys broke down the door. Said door was already looking a might dilapidated, what with the great effort the boys were applying to it in their attempts to pry it open. I decided it would be a shame if anything were to happen to it before Nighthawk could escape, so I drew my pistol again and fired.

The bullet grazed across his cheek, just like I meant for it to, leaving a shallow gash in its wake. It wasn't a major wound by any means, but the sound, sting, and blood shocked Nighthawk back into action; and I needed some satisfaction after wasting my night's work on a whim. Besides, it was easier to shoot the bastard and save his miserable life than to say thanks. He gave me one last dirty look before clipping his mask back on and swinging over the edge of the roof to the fire escape, beating it across the city skyline as fast as he could.

When he was out of sight, I could still see him but he'd be invisible to the boys, I let my backup onto the roof. They wanted to know what happened so I told them the truth, a convenient version of it, that is. I caught and unmasked Nighthawk, but he escaped. Turns out he was Robert Ness like we'd always suspected.

They bought the story. So did the Don when I told him back at the palace. That's the beautiful thing about fighting a guy who's been on the run for twenty-some years, you just have to say "he escaped" and you're off the hook. After my quick and fib-filled debriefing I packed my belongings under the pretense of moving to a different wing of the palace. I left the next night under the cover of whatever party my hosts had seen fit to throw; I hardly paid attention anymore. My bodyguards, faithful to the precedent they'd set a week ago when I got my powers, didn't start searching for me until I was already long gone.

London is a big town with plenty of places for a person to hide. My cranny is a modest apartment above a gun shop in Soho and a little office down the street. To say it's a change from my quarters in the palace is an understatement if I ever heard one, but at least I have the mice for company. The scenery's not half-bad either. I've got a great view of Broad Street from my office. I can look out whenever I want and see the ruins of the contaminated well that started the cholera outbreak of 1854. It's a lovely part of town, but I don't worry about it too much.

Sure, life's harder now that I have to worry about paying rent, bills, and getting my grub, but I can't complain. My little snooping business makes me enough dough to squeak by on and that's good enough for me. Unlike the rest of the Family, I don't run on caviar and champagne. I guess I'm like what my Grandpa Al used to call a "Private Eye." It's a good career choice for me, since being a detective helps me get the scoop on the Family's activities without being in the public eye like a reporter. Brius "Enforcer" Capone, private eye, working the streets to take down the mob one goon at a time. I don't know if my old man would've been amused by that batch of irony, but I don't really care nowadays. I guess he'll just have to rule the Chicago Outfit by himself.

Thanks to my work the city's slowly improving. I'm looking forward to the day, probably just a couple months away now, when I can look out my window and see Chicago.

All characters trademark and copyright Marvel Comics, Inc.

Captain Krypton!
Black Knight & Squire!
Meggan!
Prince Namor, the Aqua-Man!

... THE EXCALIBUR FRIENDS!

in ... "The Master Menace of Mastermind, Part Three!" by Michael Norwitz

The foreman at Thames Electrical showed Britain's Finest heroes around the transformer.

"I can't explain it," he said. "The power just seemed sucked out of them. I've never seen the like."

Captain Krypton nodded, "I have."

Black Knight called out from the safety platform atop the transformer, "Captain, take a look at this!"

Captain Krypton flew up and joined the Black Knight. "What do you see, old friend?" He used his heightened senses. "Odd marks ... what do they mean to you?"

"Bird claws ... but see? Incredibly powerful, right into the metal, and there's no organic matter left behind." Black Knight peered again through his mini-magnifying glass.

"Mechanical birds?" Captain Krypton pondered, "That doesn't sound quite like Mastermind's style. Eh?" He turned his face skyward. "Do you hear that?"

Black Knight said, "What is it?

A familiar voice called out, "My special flock, you pumpkin-headed paladins!"

Captain Krypton turned around, "Lord Penguin!"

"Yes, it is I!" Lord Penguin sneered, "and with the mechanical birds which Mastermind has proved me ... far more powerful than my old ones ... soon the skies shall be mine!"

At his words, the sky turned dark, and the heroes saw hundreds of birds soaring to them, constructed of Mastermind's familiar glittering, artificial glass technology. Black Knight turned to his friend, "You handle the skies, I'll take care of our mutual old foe here?" He reached into his scabbard and drew out his famed black sword.

Captain Krypton nodded, "Sensible as ever, old friend," and headed again skyward.

Lord Penguin drew from his umbrella his dueling sword, this time a special one: clearly made from the same technology as his artificial avians, it crackled with energy. "You usually overcome my superior facility with the epee with some cunning ploy, but now I have a compensation!"

Black Knight grinned, "And expecting some sort of trick like this, now I have rubber-lined gloves." His sword swung forward, meeting Lord Penguin's in battle with a crackle of energy.

In the skies, the birds flocked against Captain Krypton, swooping and striking as he moved in near-supersonic speed, crushing them in his powerful hands. Each time there was a crackle of energy. He exposited, his voice strained, "They've siphoned off a lot of electricity ... and they're changed their frequencies as they attack. I think they're trying to ... short-circuit my force-field!"

Black Knight and Lord Penguin shifted back and forth on the safety platform, swords sending off sparks. "Why are you doing this, Lord Penguin? This isn't your usual sort of strategy ... mechanical birds? Have you abandoned your ecological goals?"

Lord Penguin lunged, "Never! Mastermind promised me the skies if I helped him." He caught the corner of Black Knight's helm, electricity charging through it. "Arh," the Black Knight said, and fell to his knees. Lord Penguin gloated, "Soon mankind's reign of terror over the winged world shall end, and no longer shall my friends be eaten and killed for sport!"

Captain Krypton was distracted by his ally's plight, and just then a hawk swooped down, catching him from behind. Fizzle! "Arh," he cried, as he fell to the platform, his force-field spitting and crackling.

Black Knight swung out with his buccaneer-booted foot, catching Lord Penguin in the belly. "Waugh," grumbled the fiend, as Black Knight ran over to assist his fallen ally.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Captain Krypton nodded, "I think it's time for a reverse strike."

Black Knight nodded, "With my Aragorn glider I can easily take care of the birds ... they won't be able to resist cold steel! And Lord Penguin's sword won't matter against your strength!"

Captain Krypton swooped down, returning with the glider. Black Knight hooked into it, and the red-and-blue clad hero gave him a massive boost skyward.

Lord Penguin aimed his sword at Captain Krypton's shoulder. The latter's force-field being weakened, the hero winced in pain. "It's not that ... simple, I'm afraid," he said, and reached up, grabbing his opponent's sword with his hand. A halo of electricity surrounded the combatants and then with a sharp sound Lord Penguin's epee was shattered! "Waugh!" he cried out in frustration.

Black Knight glided among the metal birds, his ebony sword flashing, felling the creations of Mastermind's evil plot. A final swoop from one of the falcons tore his glider before the Black Knight could decapitate it, and he started to fall towards Earth ... only to land in the waiting arms of Captain Krypton.

Captain Krypton set his friend down on the platform. The Black Knight grinned at him. "Well, Lord Penguin made the same mistake these villains always do," he said, looking down at the defeated arch-foe.

Captain Krypton nodded, "They always underestimate the value of teamwork!"

"Speaking of," Black Knight said, "I think it's time to call in some reinforcements. I think I know just the special guest-star who can help us!"