LC: Super Scrubs Issue #1

SUPER SCRUBS
ISSUE #1:
DARK TIMES FOR LONGSHOT CITY

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SOMEWHERE IN THE APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS

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It's a crisp fall morning as one of JANUS's ATAP* vehicles climbs the winding mountain road that leads to the old army testing grounds that the powerful and secretive organization took possession of a year ago, just after the Squadron tragically fell while defending the planet. It's a lush, green landscape -- these are some of the oldest mountains in the world -- but a lonely one. Few people frequent these roads and tails, and mists sometimes hang strangely in the air long past dawn; trails are often found completely overgrown after just a few years of neglect. Nature reclaims its own quickly in this place, and abandoned facilities and homes as as common to see as ones that are occupied.



On the big-wheeled, multi-axeled armored vehicle (the less charitable among you might call it a bus), an attractive, tall black woman with an impressive afro stands, talking to the four other occupants, using handy grab-bars to keep her balance. Samantha Fox is the so-called Media Specialist for the team, a woman hired to make sure they don't say the wrong thing to the press, to make sure they look good as they try to fill boots that are about twenty sizes too big.



The woman has a tablet she's reading from as the ATAP noisily and jerkily gears down to climb a steeper slope.

"Alright y'all, we're almost there, ten more minutes," Sam says. It's difficult to tell where she's from. Her accent isn't thick, but she's definitely got southern roots in the U.S.

"You all know, this isn't a test to see if you make the team -- we're past that stage, you're good. Today the brass wants to see how you all do as a team. You know -- because you haven't... well, you haven't been a team until now. So I suggest you figure that shit out quickly, and watch out for Baker. That woman might seem like she's on your side, but, well -- trust me. Jane Baker is on Jane Baker's side. Don't cross her. Don't fuck with her. Don't look at her funny. Just do what she says."

Clapping her hands, she raises the energy level and points at each member of the team in turn. "Alright! Psion, Arachknight, Blue Ray, Nocturne, Atrophy! You all ready?!"

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Editor's Note: *ATAP stands for All-Terrain All-Purpose vehicle

[ +- ] ATAP

Psion is a frail old man slouched in a wheelchair that must have been muscled into the ATAP as there is no ramp. His body appears almost skeletal, his limbs thin and bony, and his long fingers twitch for no discernable reason. When Sam speaks, he looks up at her and licks his chapped, dry lips, his eyes filled with an unexpected intensity that belies his appearance.

When he speaks, his voice is thin and reedy, and he punctuates his words with little laughs, as if everything he says is some kind of inside joke that no one else is in on. "Yes, yes, Miss Fox. Heh heh... Ready and willing. Heh. Ready and able. Heh heh... Yes..."

He doesn't seem to notice the rest of the team around him, instead staring off into the distance as if taken by some memory from long ago, but he nods incessantly, like a bobble head that someone won't stop touching, his head moving up and down and from side to side as his lips curl upward and pull thin across his discolored teeth in an exaggerated, cartoonish smile.

Sable rolls her eyes dramatically, as the old coot repeats himself over and over in that thin way that he did. She sits, arms folded, with her heavy black boot pressed against the seat in front of her. Her face would have a very unhappy meeting with her knee, were the machine to come to a sudden and unexpected stop.

She had spent the drive stock still, as if pretending to be a statue would stop the others from trying to talk to her. She’s a little too hot in her leather jacket, but too committed to the look to take it off! Beneath that are her black tights under her black shorts. When the woman starts to speak about Baker, Sable handles her laser sword absent-mindedly, still looking out the small, rectangular window of the large vehicle.

Feigning disinterest, she looks at the holo-watch on her wrist to see if the Old Bum had been in contact today.

Nada…

With a dramatic and heaving sigh, she breathes the word:

"Ready!"

Nocturne's eyes are moving around the vehicle taking in the new 'team; she had no choice but to be a part of. When it had first been offered to her she had imagines something more akin to her old scout squad. Trained soldiers, who had everything together, were disciplined knew what they were doing. Right now she was sorely disappointed. One of them looked like a victim of prolonged feeding even.

The mask she wore hid her detailed study of the others. She had been informed that the black and red full body suit she wore wouldn't stand out, and it was standard for 'heroes' on this world to wear such things. In fact the person who had designed it had insisted on the hood saying it 'looked cool'. Yet one of the others was just in a jacket and what she understood to be normal clothes for these people. One was in a contraption he seemed to need to move, that she had had the joy of helping lift into the bac with her better strength than these 'humans'.

Maybe she shouldn't have had so high expectations. After all the humans had been desperate enough to ask an alien they knew nothing about to join this team. Nott hat her true nature had been revealed to the others, it being on a 'need to know basis'. Apparently if asked about how she had powers she was to say she fell in a 'vat of toxic goo or something'.

She takes in the warning about this Baker. Just follow orders. She nods. She can do that. 'I am ready'

The fully spandex suited champion sat in the ATAP with the rest as a show of team spirit, his suit almost old-fashioned in the light of how the rest were more present-day accoutred, harking back to a more silver age sentiment, especially with the hood over his head and the domino mask around his eyes. Muscled, yet lanky, almost 7 feet tall, he appeared slightly too big for the confines of the vehicle. The colour scheme denoted that he was no champion though, with its deathly hues of grey, off white and black highlights. Neither did his appellation, perhaps that was something Atrophy ought to get around to reconsider if he was going to bat for the good guys. For times were different now, that golden age had passed. Even the ones in shadow had to step up and into the light.

And that was how Atrophy found himself in present company, ready to be some other kind of ubermensch.

The voice was low, with an unnerving vibrato rasp. "Always."

Sable is about to bring her second boot up and place it onto the back of the seat in front of her. She’s about to mouth off something about her taxes paying for this thing too, and so she could do what she wanted. Except, well, Sable wasn’t exactly sure she’d ever paid taxes. Sure, she’d had a gig at an old movie rental place but that had closed down. Not to mention it had all been under the table money.

She sees the Arachknight shoot back the finger guns and snorts air out of her nostrils in mild amusement.

Would they know about that?…

Best not to bring any of that up.

"Wow! Lookin’ cool!" she says, and then rolls her eyes as the spider-girl looks uninterested in taking the bait answering.

Psion nods when Max addresses him, but it's unclear if he's responding to her or just moving his head around in that odd manner he has. He looks around at the others, licking his dry lips as they move soundlessly, almost as if he's mouthing the words of his inner dialog. Occasionally he grins and lets out a tiny laugh. He appears completely disconnected from reality, and as he thinks back, his eyes almost roll back into his head in an off-putting manner to anyone who looks his way.

He remembers being "recruited" for this team. His nest egg had been stolen. Over a hundred years of halfway decent investments pilfered by some dirty investment banker, supposedly "reinvested" and lost, but Psion was no fool. He knew when someone was lying. He had dug into that thieving bastard's thoughts and had not liked what he'd found. The man had bilked hundreds of millions from investors. Psion had forced him to sign over all his personal wealth and assets before putting him in a coma.

"Sleepy time..." he said aloud and laughed to himself.

Of course the government was suspicious; there was no legitimate reason for the investment banker to sign everything over to Psion. There had been obvious coercement. But every agent they sent to interview Psion came back unaware that they'd been sent to meet with him, forgetting he even existed. It had worked for most of the last fifty years. Make them forget. People didn't want to remember. But then they did. They came in force, with more than questions. They sent others, not ones meant to enforce the laws, ones who broke the laws to uphold them. They had equipment that told them when he tried to make them forget. They knew. He couldn't fight them all.

"Can't fight city hall," he said aloud as he glanced at Sable.

So he finally told his secret. He had nothing to hide. He was superior. Let them know his power. But they had talked and talked and talked and somehow made him remember. He had been the hero once, a long, long time ago. He had been a paragon of duty and justice. He had lost his way, grown old and jaded. He could be that again. The one who did most of the talking had been pretty, his weakness, a pretty girl asking him for help. Always his weakness, a pretty face, a smile, nice eyes.

"Always the eyes," he said aloud as his eyes moved to Nocturne, then another laugh when he saw her mask. No eyes he could see.

So he had agreed to help. What else was he to do? He didn't die, that seemed apparent. He just kept going. He'd tried being king, he'd tried being a hermit, why not complete the circle, go back to being a hero. He laughed to himself at the thought of John Oldman, the hero. He should have asked for spandex, which made him laugh out loud again. Nobody wanted to see this frail old body wrapped in spandex.

He was laughing as he looked at Atrophy and said, "nobody wants to see that..."

At heart Atrophy agreed with Samantha Fox. This is no team. The Terror Titanics would wipe us in a flash, much less the Squadron. Magnetron alone would have cleared the youngsters easily, said one internal voice.

Hey you said you'd give the next generation a chance. We're better. We'll be better. You'll see, was the other voice of optimism.

But what came out was a murmuring assent at Psion's observation. "Indeed," replied the rasp. Atrophy was sure he recognised the psionic, but that would have been decades ago, a wholly different man in his prime, "yet here we are. Saving the day for JANUS." They had powersets that the global defense initiative didn't. That made them necessary, relevant.

Atrophy stepped out of the vehicle as soon as it came to a stop, not prepared to be cooped up inside for much longer than he had to. His cape billowed more dramatically than expected when he exited, and by force of habit his feet didn't actually touch the running board nor the ground right in front of that when he did so.

Nocturns gaze is fixed on Fox, and it may appear she is being stern... whereas she's actually just trying to make sense of what she is saying she was using a lot of words she had not been taught. Some she caught as things Sonja, of those teaching her had defined as 'slang'. This language was confusing. Perhaps she would ask for more lessons in this slang when back. It would also extend their lessons and at the moment they were some if the little contact she had that was always with same person. Other than those that had caught her in the first place and the weird guys who said he was a scientist and kept asking her to do weird tests.

She had grown fond if the linguist through their attempts to understand each other. Though they had used a device Sonja had designed to help as well.

'I can breathe. The suit is fine' She tries to mimic the gesture with the hands they were doing. A human form of salute?

She was growing more concerned by the one in the mobility device. He did not seem all there. Or was he just using more of this 'slang' and she was the only one confused by him.

As they come to a stop she gets up to leave. She found she was taller than a lot of the humans, 6 foot 3 in their system, but she was still dwarfed by the one being referred to as Atrophy.

Atrophy's comment brought Psion out of his reverie. "Saving the day." He nods and grins at Atrophy. "Not quite like old times, eh?" He laughs then, a longer, louder laugh than he's let out before. He remembers. He may look like he's lost his marbles, may even act the part, but he remembers. He remembers it all.

"Aright, cool cool, let’s shake on outa this bus, everyone," Fox says from the front as that door and a wider side door hiss open. The latter will allow Psion and his chair an easier exit.

If the guy even knows what planet he’s on! This old fart passed his psych exam?!

"Watch your step dream team, don’t wanna turn an ankle now, right? It’s just about show time…"

Outside the vehicle, when the group has lined up (if you can call it that), four people approach, escorted by a bevy of JANUS troops. Two of the four are soldiers, likely attached to whatever weird quasi-military ORG structure JANUS was using, but the other two looked… different. One of them, a handsome and well-dressed Asian man, perhaps of Chinese heritage, comes forward.


"Hello everyone, I’m John Lung," he says, shaking each and every hand that’s offered. He and Samantha share a nod — they must already know one another.

"I’m going to be your liaison, your aide during this process. Good to meet you all. Right here we have some more people wanting to meet you all. General McKenzie — he heads up this whole project. Answers only to the Special Security Council and the President. General?"



"At ease, everyone," the bearded man of about sixty says with a warm rasp, "and thank you for coming, and for offering your service. Welcome to Project Reignite. I look forward to seeing what you can all do."

John Lung nods and smiles slightly.

"Thank you General. Captain?"


"Thank you General, Mr. Lung. I’m Captain James Barnette, and I’ll be planning and commanding your missions. I look forward to working with each and every one of you. You all have some big shoes to fill, but we’re going to give you the damned biggest boots you every saw, team."

"Oorah," the blonde next to Captain Barnett says without a hint of emotion or energy, her arms clasped behind her back. She’s tall and shapely and fit. Wears a close-fitting tac suit. Carries a lot of presence.

"And this—" Lung begins.

"Hi. I’m Jane. I run Tactical and I’ll be training you."

No hand is extended, but her eyes, steel-gray, bore holes into each of you. "Good luck."

Sable looks blankly at the old man as he talks about not being able to fight City Hall. The last year, if anything, proved that you could. Sable just hoped that hero-killing didn’t become a common occurrence.

As the others file out of the bus, she taps at her holo-watch again. Her brow furrows and her eyes roll when she sees nothing new on the small wrist-device.

Why hadn’t she checked in? She knew how big today was…

Usually, Aqee was up Sable’s ass about this or that or this again. Not today. At least mom had checked in, but Sable hadn’t bothered to reply just yet. Mom would know that this was super top-secret stuff and so she’d know to wait and not call.

Wouldn’t she?…

Sable offers a weak, perfunctory hand shake to the top brass, save for the Captain. Sable takes an extra moment to take that man in.

Whew…

A far cry for the stale smelling old guy in the truck, and Captain Spandex in all white! She stays quiet as all this is being said, though feels tempted to make some smart remark at the idea of filling big boots. Weren’t hers big enough?

No, Aqee and mom would both give her shit for trying to be funny right out the gate…

"Big boots," mutters Psion as he looks past the gathered suits and military personnel. "Fill them indeed, Captain."

His gaze stops on Jane Baker, as does his nodding head and muttering. Something about her seems to affect him. Perhaps he sees inner strength and resolve, perhaps he's just checking her out, but she seems to have his full attention.

He resists the urge to probe her mind. If anyone here holds secrets, surely it's her or the general. Secrets were always worth having, especially if he was going to be stuck in this little team of almost-heroes. But he'd promised to be good, to not use his powers on those in charge. They'd proven that they had some kind of device to put his power in check, and as much as he wanted to probe and test that restriction, find a way around it, there would be time. Now was not that time.

"Oorah," he says automatically when Jane does, a little more firmly than anything else he's said so far. He remembers the greeting, repeats it back without thinking, his back a little straighter, eyes a little brighter. He remembers the sound on the submarine where it all started, 1953 off the shore of Korea, the dive klaxon, the men adopting the sound as their own, inspiring each other, finally shortening it to "oorah". He'd been an old man already then, but he'd worn the uniform, commanded. It had been a lifetime ago. Before his legs had failed him.

He lets the past slip away and meets Jane's measuring gaze for a moment, steel in his eyes. Then it slips away and the doddering old fool is back, head bobbing, a grin on his face as his gaze wanders off into the distance.

"The brass." Atrophy muttered in an even lower voice than possible for him, for he instinctively wanted to flinch from this meeting with the military complex that the JANUS hierarchy was structured on. He had to remind himself he wanted to do this, despite his aversion to the likely need for regimentation and following orders.

But they were polite enough, and grateful, and positive, and it seemed churlish to behave even the slightest bit entitled. "Difficult times. Desperate measures."

Atrophy did like the project codename though, which he uttered out loud in a warmer voice, deeper in timbre than anyone had heard him speak thus far, "Reignite."