Post by HoM on Jul 18, 2018 13:56:09 GMT -5
Previously, in Secret Six..
One night in Gotham City, a sextet of criminals were abducted by the mysterious crime lord known only as 'the Voice' and blackmailed into acting as his agents in the field!
Given the task of liberating career criminal Kostas Agrios from Blackgate Penitentiary, the male members of the Six were sent inside the prison itself and given one week to find Agrios before their liberation. However, soon after their arrival, Mister Toad split off from the group to find his friend and ally, the twisted surgeon Professor Pyg.
To make matters worse, the Six have no idea that the Penguin is, even now, putting together a plan to destroy them once and for all, involving the release of Aaron Helzinger, aka Amygdala, from secure lock-up!
With Copperhead and the Mist breaking into Blackgate to ensure their teammates escape, and a riot breaking out all around them, the Six make their move, completely unaware that they're walking straight into the Penguin's trap!
Mister Toad-- Amphibious member of the Circus of the Strange. Drives cars. Eats flies. Croaks.
Double Down (Jeremy Tell)-- Rogue gambler from Central City. Can turn his skin into razor-sharp playing cards. Still needs to grow a spine.
Mist III (Nash Nimbus)-- Opal City criminal. Able to become a cloud of living vapor. Knows how to hold a grudge.
Sickle (Timur Abramovichi)-- Hulking Siberian ex-pat. Criminal enforcer. Southpaw.
Copperhead (Larissa Diaz)-- Assassin for the Penitente Cartel. Master contortionist Expert in poisons. The only real professional here.
The Voice-- Mysterious crime lord. Enigmatic extortionist. The one in charge.
Dale-- Caretaker of the House of Strangers. Right hand to the Voice. Doesn’t suffer fools.
When Laurence Veidt finished his last tour of duty in Kahndaq, his expectation was to come home and continue to serve the people. He planned to find the most dangerous city his beloved country had to offer and take care of whatever criminal scum infested it.
And so, he became an officer with the Gotham City Police Department.
For four fulfilling months he was a cop, until a confrontation with a suspected drug dealer that started with a few choice curse words and a select number of racial slurs and ended with Officer Veidt being on the receiving end of a lawsuit citing ‘excessive force’ and ‘police brutality’.
Veidt was thoroughly convinced that the skell had it coming.
He was initially suspended without pay, told by his sergeant that this would blow over eventually, but when it was found that the dealer in question was a relation of the Thorne family, Veidt was promptly fired to protect the department-- many of whom were on the Thornes’ payroll themselves.
Veidt was, understandably, distraught, but found a new purpose working in corrections, becoming a guard at Blackgate Penitentiary. There, his more ‘intense’ approach to handling suspects was welcomed.
He made his mark through shutting down smuggling rings and supply routes, through turning over guards who were on the take, through training new recruits on how to handle violent inmates. He might’ve even made lieutenant-- if not for one significant oversight on his record.
Unlike the old Arkham Asylum-- which had been more of a revolving door than an actual long-term care medical facility-- Blackgate suffered few breakouts.
Most of its inmates weren’t ‘supervillains’ or ‘performance criminals’-- basically, the type who would try insane escape plans and had the power to pull them off. Breakouts were almost unheard of, so the sudden disappearance of one of its inmates-- the freakish Michael Tobin, aka Mister Toad-- reflected poorly on the staff. Someone had to take the hit for it, and since Veidt was the senior officer on duty the night of Tobin’s escape, he was singled out as the one responsible.
From then on, Veidt was committed to repairing his damaged reputation, to earning back the good graces of the higher-ups at Blackgate.
When he awoke in the guard’s barracks in the middle of the night, hearing the deafening sound of the emergency siren, he knew in the back of his mind that this was his opportunity.
After dressing quickly and learning the basics of the situation-- all the cell doors in Block F were opened and the inmates were rioting-- Veidt made his way to the armory. Most of the other on-site CO’s were there and were on the verge of panicking. They’d never been in a hostile situation like this and didn’t know what they’d be facing.
Veidt walked past them and donned his body armor, picking up a riot shield and a baton before saying, “Listen up, everyone!” The other guards quieted down and looked to him. “Whatever’s in there is nothing we haven’t handled before. They’re not an army, they’re not a militia, they’re just animals that need to be put back in their cages.”
His address, though brief, seemed to at least motivate the CO’s to focus on gearing up, if not necessarily assuage their fears. Veidt wasn’t one for speeches. He took one last look at the rest of them and noticed something off about the group.
“Where’re Mulligan, Davis and Kirk?”
Officer Walt Mulligan had peeled off from the rest of the CO’s as soon as the riot began.
He was under orders from the Penguin to ensure the deaths of the four new arrivals-- Brown, Tell, Abramovichi and Tobin-- and to utilize the super-criminal Aaron ‘Amygdala’ Helzinger to make sure it happened.
Unfortunately, Amygdala was locked up in solitary, and getting to him without arousing suspicion or exposing his corruption would be difficult.
Luckily for him, the four arrivals had headed that way themselves, alongside Rex Foster and two women that apparently had broken in just to find them. Who this motley crew were and why they were here, Mulligan didn’t know. He just figured he'd get Amygdala to kill them too, and with the aid of his fellow CO’s Davis and Kirk-- both of whom were willing to get their hands dirty for a payday-- Mulligan suited up in full riot gear and went to intercept the targets.
Of course, the criminals ran as soon as they realized they were outmatched. Davis and Kirk went in pursuit, while Mulligan stayed behind to get the help he needed.
Nervously, he said, “Rise and shine, Helzinger. Time to go to work.”
Amygdala rose from his bed, stretched, and rubbed the tired from his eyes. “Where are they?” he asked in a lumbering, sleepy voice.
“Down that way. There’s nine of them, but they’re collared. They won’t have powers.”
Amygdala nodded. “Bird better come through,” he said. He walked past Mulligan out of his cell and ran towards where the CO had pointed.
He rounded the corner and saw the nine inmates trying to make their way back towards Cell Block F. The group was stuck in front of the steel grate that separated the two wings.
The door in the grate was locked. Cluemaster was trying to open the door, but his nervousness and shaking hands turned the relatively simple task of inserting a key into a lock into a herculean effort.
The source of his nervousness was the fighting going on around him. Officer Davis was only barely holding his own against Copperhead. She was skilled enough to handle him, but the combination of his riot gear and trying to navigate successfully in the chaos of the cramped space gave Davis the edge he needed to survive.
Officer Kirk, meanwhile, was losing to the Mist. She had expended ever bullet in her Colt. 45 trying to put the CO’s down before they got too close, but their riot shields protected them well enough. She then resorted to her other means of attack: to shift into her gaseous form and suffocate her victim.
The difficulty there lay in the polycarbonate visor across his face, which limited how well Mist could access it, but she was managing. Kirk was struggling for breath and would be out soon, it would just take a little longer than usual-- and time wasn’t something they had on their side.
The remaining six simply did their best to stay out of the way of the fighting-- Sickle and Kostas Agrios were trying to batter down the barrier through brute force alone, but even with their combined strength, it wouldn’t give.
Mister Toad and Phosphorous Rex were supporting the not-yet-entirely cognizant Professor Pyg, while Tell was simply too afraid to fight without his powers.
Amygdala stomping down the hallway caught everyone’s attention.
The Six and their cohorts looked confused, while the guards seemed terrified by his presence. The distraction was just the thing they needed-- Copperhead found a patch of bare skin on Davis and scratched it with a poisoned claw. Davis swung wildly at her, but couldn’t land a hit with his baton, instead striking uselessly against the wall, the floor, and then thin air. He coughed, and blood splattered the inside of his visor, but still he kept fighting, fueled by a mixture of rage, terror, and pure survival instinct.
Kirk, meanwhile, was struggling to get away from Mist, who was all around him as a green cloud. His fighting was wearing him out, and every time he breathed in, he inhaled more of the Mist, until he couldn’t get any oxygen himself. He struggled more, fought more, but it was clear that he had already lost.
Amygdala ran towards the inmates-- slowly at first, but then picking up speed until it became a full charge. Sickle set aside his attack on the barrier and instead ran to meet the dull-witted criminal. The two collided in the hallway like oncoming cars, the sheer force of the impact knocking both of them back. They recovered quickly enough, however, and the melee began in earnest.
The two were evenly matched in terms of strength-- Timur Abramovichi and Aaron Helzinger were both freakishly powerful for otherwise non-enhanced humans.
Sickle had a distinct disadvantage, lacking as he did his right arm, but made up for it in skill. Sickle had spent years learning how to take people on with only his left, knowing full well that the Gotham criminal scene was known for throwing freaks like this at him.
Amygdala, comparatively, suffered from mental impairments that reduced his intellect and temperament to that of a child. He was strong, but wild and uncoordinated.
It was easy for Sickle to absorb the attacks on his right side-- the side that was mostly calloused scar tissue-- but Amygdala had a high tolerance for pain himself, and so the fight had no clear winner between the two goliaths.
The tide began to shift in Amygdala’s favor. Sickle was getting angrier, making mistakes, losing control. He was missing more than he landed and getting hit more than he was deflecting or dodging.
A wild haymaker from Sickle missed Amygdala, brushing past his hair as Helzinger came in close, grabbed Sickle around the waist with both arms, lifted him up, and slammed him on the floor. The linoleum tiles cracked beneath the impact and a tremor passed up and down the hallway.
Sickle saw stars bursting on the ceiling above him. His head felt as light as a cloud, and he could’ve sworn he heard a crackling sound, as if he was back in Ivanov’s Circus, surrounded by the enthusiastic flashbulbs of gawking tourists.
Then he felt himself move and-- snapping out of his delirium—he realized that Amygdala had grabbed him by the leg and dragged him up as far as his considerable bulk would go.
Amygdala swung the hulking Siberian back and, with a mighty grunt, threw him across the hall at his compatriots. They dove to get out of the way as Sickle collided with the wall and flopped down on the ground again.
Amygdala let out a hearty, deep bellow of a laugh, accompanied by him banging on his chest like he was a gorilla. Sickle tried to get up, but his senses had not yet returned to him. The entire hallway was shifting in and out of focus and the whole world seemed to tilt on his axis.
Sickle only managed to get one foot beneath him before he collapsed in a heap, still conscious but worn out and beaten.
He felt a rough hand touch his shoulder, and saw that, to his surprise, it was Phosphorous Rex who seemed to be offering him comfort. “There now, Mister Sickle,” he said in a soft voice. “Your fight’s done. No need for all that struggle.”
Sickle tried to get up again. “I can take him,” he grunted as he again lost his footing and stumbled onto the floor.
“Of that I have no doubt, my sinister strongman,” said Rex, his politeness unflinching. “However, time for a boxing match with a simpleton is time we don’t have…or at least, you don’t.”
Mister Toad looked crestfallen. “What’re ya sayin’, Rex?”
“I’m saying,” said Rex as he stood up straight and began to delicately strip off his prison uniform. “That I wouldn’t dream of letting a ragtag band of blaggards such as yourselves be broken up, nor of allowing my precious Professor Pyg to waste away in prison.” He was down to a pair of briefs now, his burned and scarred skin on display for all to see. “I’ll hold off this Neanderthal while the rest of you make good your escape.”
“But…but…” Toad stammered, tears welling in his bulbous eyes.
“Hush now, Toad,” Rex said gently. “Your place is outside with Pyg. Mine is in here, with that ogre. Besides…” he reached a hand down his underwear and fished out a single, unused wooden match. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to use this.”
Toad was nearly reduced to a blubbering mess. He said nothing but wrapped his arms around Rex and said something in between the sobs and sniffles.
“I know, my friend, I know. Now take your prisoner and your professor and get. The fuck. Out of here.”
With that, Phosphorous Rex turned his attention to Amygdala, who had been recovering from his fight with Sickle. Rex flicked his thumb on the head of the match. It lit and set his thumb ablaze. The fire spread across his hand and up his arm. He rubbed his hands together, spreading the fire to both sides of his body and inhaled it deeply. The crackling flesh and acrid smoke smelled of ambrosia to him. He spread his flaming arms wide and approached Amygdala.
“Come!” he announced, his voice loud and clear. “Thou beast! Thou brute! Thou overgrown blister!” By now his entire body was aflame; a living, luminous torch. “Come, and meet thy Apollo, lord of the blazing sun!”
Rex broke out into a run, charging at Amygdala. He moved like a streak of red and orange light, hitting and dodging around the savage’s blows. Rex’s attacks weren’t near enough to hurt Amygdala to any degree, but the fire was clearly causing him pain and agitating him further.
The group heard a clicking sound and a “Got it!” as Cluemaster unlocked the door in the barrier and pushed it open. He ran through, followed by Agrios and the rest of the Six, with Toad pausing to take one last look at Rex before he and Professor Pyg followed after.
Michael Tobin was being adopted, and not even he could believe it.
Professor Lazlo Valentin’s background check came back spotless, and despite the unconventional nature of his personal life, the adoption was approved by Mrs Henry. What’s more, the whole process was fast-tracked, taking only a few weeks before Michael was allowed to go home with the professor.
He would later reflect that a large sum of money more than likely changed hands during the process, to say nothing of the officials at Saint John’s not caring too much about their least adorable charge.
Now however, he was simply overjoyed to have a home for himself, surrounded by people who cared for him, and away from the cruelty of Rudy Kelvin and his gang.
For his part, Rudy spent the past few weeks leaving Michael alone, glaring at him every so often but rarely directly interacting with him. It made Michael nervous, wondering when the time bomb that was his bully’s temper would go off.
On the day Michael left the orphanage, it seemed to. His meager belongings were packed into a suitcase and he was on his way out, with Professor Valentin waiting for him at the front door.
Michael was almost skipping down the stairs as he took one final look at Saint John’s. Now that he was about to leave this place for good, he was almost going to miss it.
And then Rudy was there, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
Michael’s joy evaporated as he stopped at the first step, still half a head shorter than Rudy. The boy glared at Michael, any trace of mirth or even his usual sadism gone, instead replaced with pure scorn and ire.
“You’ll be back, Mister Toad,” he spat. “Nobody wants a freak fer a kid.”
With that, he walked away, unaware or unconcerned by Professor Valentin eyeing him as he left. However, the professor’s attention turned back to Michael, and he nodded sternly. “Come along, Michael. Let’s go home.”
When the Six and their charges arrived back at the cell block, the scene had escalated far beyond what they had left behind. The CO’s had arrived with their tactical gear and fired a generous slew of smoke grenades, flooding the area with a thick white fog that made it impossible to see through.
What the group heard was utter bedlam: a blend of screams and shouts from inside the smoke, the barking of orders and the colliding of batons with bodies, all of it broiling beneath the sound of the still blaring alarm.
“Once more unto the breach,” Cluemaster muttered. “Sickle, get in front and lead the way. Everyone else, stick together, watch each other’s backs. We can do this.”
Sickle, visibly bruised and utterly exhausted from his fight with Amygdala, took his place in the front and, after a ragged breath, walked into the smoke cloud with the rest of them following close after.
They made their way forward, trying to match quickness with carefulness. Every so often an inmate or a CO would wander into their path, but Sickle would easily push them aside and keep leading the group on, even in his worn-down state.
After what seemed like days of wandering through fog and violence, Sickle said something in Russian that sounded excited. He had discovered a triangle-shaped hole in the side of one of the walls-- the same entry point Mist and Copperhead had created with their teleporters.
He ducked his head and stepped out, followed quickly by Cluemaster, Agrios, Copperhead, Double Down, and Mist. Last were Mister Toad and Professor Pyg, and as they approached the breach, the body of an inmate came rushing at them and knocked the pair to the side.
Toad would have recovered from such a tussle, but his foot landed awkwardly on a discarded nightstick. He immediately lost his balance and toppled to the ground, losing physical contact with Pyg and landing hard on the linoleum floor.
Toad might have blacked out for a moment on the ground-- he wasn’t sure. He just knew that when he opened his eyes, he saw a blur of spinning stars and flashing lights-- and no Pyg.
“Professor!” he shouted, doing his best to push away his dizziness and reoriented himself. “Professor, where are you?”
“You!”
The voice was loud and harsh and immediately grabbed Toad’s attention.
Before he could react, another body hit him-- this one a tackle that pinned him to the ground, rather than a random shuffle and accidental shove. Toad looked up to see someone wearing full tactical gear, complete with a helmet with the visor down, flecked with blood—not the wearer’s own.
Beneath the plexiglass was the rage-filled face of Officer Veidt, his eyes bursting with a fury that Toad had never seen before and that terrified him.
“This is your doing, isn’t it? You and your freaks? Well, you’re not getting away this time, Tobin! You ain’t going nowhere!”
His hands shot to Toad’s throat and squeezed as hard as they could. Toad tried to make a sound, any kind of sound, but all that came out was a barely perceptible wheeze, his mouth desperate to form words or a handy, billowing, debilitating croak.
He could feel Veidt’s hands trembling with the strain but staying firmly in place. His vision was blurring, and the world was beginning to dim.
“This is what you get, inmate,” Veidt grunted. “This is what happens when skells like you piss--”
Without warning, a baton collided with Veidt’s head and knocked him off Toad. He released his grip, and Toad felt air rush mercifully into his lungs. He gasped as he saw Professor Pyg standing over him, a nightstick firmly in his grip, his expression unreadable.
He tilted his head at Veidt, who was recovering quickly, the helmet having absorbed a good deal of the impact.
“Y-you want some too, fat man?” Veidt asked. He was about to get up when Pyg sat on his chest, his considerable girth pinning the CO to the ground. He struggled against it but couldn’t even lift his arms against the professor’s weight.
Pyg regarded Veidt with curiosity more than anything else. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curled up and a wicked smile broke across his face.
And then he began to sing.
“Have you seen the bigger piggies, in their starched white shirts?” he sang in an unsettling, off-key voice.
He tossed his baton aside and his hands darted towards the strap of Veidt’s helmet, finding the clasp and undoing it. His fingers were thick as sausages, but they moved with the grace and dexterity of a surgeon.
“You will find the bigger piggies, stirring up the dirt.”
Pyg pulled off the helmet and threw it carelessly over his shoulder. Now there was nothing between Veidt’s scornful glare and the professor’s manic grin. He put his hands on the sides of Veidt’s head and placed his girthy thumbs over the CO’s eyes.
“Always have clean shirts, to play around in!”
Pyg jammed his thumbs down and Veidt screamed; a scream full of all of his rage, his fear, his excruciating pain; a scream that would give any sane person nightmares.
Pyg just continued to smile and hum to himself, even as spurts of blood decorated his shirt.
When Veidt couldn’t scream anymore, only pant in exhaustion and attempt to cry, Pyg stood up. He offered a meaty, bloody hand to Toad, who accepted it gratefully. His gaze was full of wide-eyed amazement and wonder.
Professor Pyg helped him get to his feet and, without saying a word, led him through the fog, away from the stunned, groaning Veidt, and towards their way out.
After Michael and Professor Valentin had gotten a meal from the local fish and chip shop-- Professor Valentin greedily eating three large portions of well vinegar’d chips on his own-- Michael and his new guardian went to the impressive-sized tent outside of the city.
The professor explained that, outside of his studies into abnormal medical conditions, he ran a traveling circus, designed to showcase, promote, and destigmatize such extraordinary people, and that Michael could be part of the show if he so wished.
Michael sheepishly told Professor Valentin that he didn’t; his experiences at the orphanage made the idea of making a spectacle of himself terrifying. He was, however, eager to help the circus in any other way, especially if it meant driving one of their motor cars.
The professor understood and spent the rest of the day teaching Michael the ins and outs of being a roustabout, all before their London debut that night.
By the time the sun had gone down, Michael was exhausted. Setting up the show in the summer heat was more work than he was used to. Still, he was satisfied, almost proud, to have a purpose, surrounded by likeminded people. When he was finished, Professor Valentin went into his trailer to change for the show, with Michael waiting outside for him.
“Who was that boy?” the professor called out from inside.
“Who?” Michael asked.
“That boy at the orphanage. The one who called you ‘Mister Toad,’” said the professor. “Who was he?”
“Oh,” said Michael, the very thought of it bringing his demeanor down. “That was just Rudy.”
“I see,” the professor said, his voice giving no indication of what he thought of that. “And did he always talk to you like that?”
Michael shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Michael began. He knew how to finish that sentence, he’d already said it a million times in his head. However, he’d never spoken it aloud before-- Mrs Henry didn’t approve of that kind of language, and worse, Rudy or one of his goons, might overhear and punish him for it.
But then he remembered that Mrs Henry and Rudy and all of that were far, far away by now, and he was free to speak his mind. “Because ‘e’s an arse!” The words felt good coming out of his mouth-- strangely empowering, somehow, like some sort of seal had been broken and he was finally free.
Professor Valentin’s voice came back from inside. “Exactly.” He said it with a dripping, eager darkness that Michael was unfamiliar with. Before he could wonder about it more, the door to the trailer swung open and Professor Valentin was there. He was now dressed in a white button-up shirt with a red bowtie. His sleeves were rolled up and at the end of his bare arms were blue latex surgical gloves. He had on a white apron, stained red in some places, and completed the ensemble with a pink pig mask with pointed ears, rounded cheeks, and a space in between where his mouth was visible.
And he was smiling.
Michael had seen a smile from Professor Valentin before, but not like this. This was different-- a twisted facsimile of what happiness was supposed to look like, a monstrous visage that was all teeth and gums and no mercy or kindness.
Then he said, “People like him, little Michael, they are monsters. The real monsters of this world. They will look at someone like you, someone extraordinary, and shun you, cast you out, call you a grotesquery, an aberration, a freak.”
His speech was beginning to hasten, and spittle seemed to burst from his mouth with every word.
“You can be what they say you are, take their insults and their heckles, and let yourself become the meager nothing they think of you-- or you can embrace it. Live it. Let it give you power.”
He knelt in front of Michael and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are a freak, Mister Toad, and because of that, you are more exceptional and more marvelous than he can ever hope to be.”
Before Michael could give any sort of response, they heard the honking of a car horn. Driving up to them was a rickety old four-door that Michael recognized as Mister Foster’s car. However, when it switched off and the driver stepped it out, he didn’t look like Mister Foster. He was the same build, certainly, but whereas Foster’s skin appeared to be normal, this man was covered in hideous burn scars that nearly made Michael gag to look upon him.
As the burned man went to the boot of the car, Professor Valentin turned Michael to face him.
“I’m going to ask you a question, my friend, and I need you to be honest: do you want to stay with the Circus of the Strange?”
Michael was confused by a lot of things that had just happened, but he was certain about his answer to the professor’s question. “More’n anyfing.”
“Then let this night be your baptism. For as your new life is born, the old must die.”
The burned man stepped out from behind the car, bringing with him a bruised, bound, and terrified Rudy Kelvin. He had a visible, bloodied lump on the side of his forehead, ropes tying his wrists together, and a gag in his mouth. He also appeared to have wet himself.
Stumbling and confused, he perked up when he saw Michael, and started talking hurriedly but incoherently through his gag.
Professor Valentin shoved a something into Michael’s arms-- a tire iron. “This is your time, Mister Toad. Be done with him, and your place among the Circus will be assured.”
The burned man pushed Rudy to his knees. The boy was sobbing by this point, still trying to communicate through the gag as tears streaked his face.
Michael stepped forward, his knees knocking and his palms sweating around the cool metal of the iron, until his in front of Rudy. Nervously, he reached a hand behind Rudy’s head. He undid the knot of the gag and let Rudy spit it out.
“Thank god!” he said, hoarsely. Apparently, he had done a lot of screaming in the boot and it had taken its toll on his voice. “Ya gotta ‘elp me out ‘ere, mate! Tell these freaks ta let me go!”
Michael took a nervous glance back at the professor. His smile was even wider, burning with sadistic glee, and he was practically drooling at the sight of his new ward.
“Wha… what’re ya waitin’ fer?” Rudy said. “Tell ‘em ta let me go, Michael!”
Michael looked back at Rudy and said in a firm, assured tone, “My name is Mister Toad.”
He swung the tire iron down so hard that he actually was knocked off-balance. The attack struck true, colliding with Rudy’s head and knocking him into the dirt. Michael ignored the shock running up his arm and, with a loud, guttural scream, began to hit Rudy’s prone body with as much force and as much fury as he could muster, over and over and over and over again.
The rest was a blur of noise and rage and blood. He didn’t know if minutes or hours or days passed in the haze. All he knew was that by the time he stopped, he couldn’t feel his hands. The end of the tire iron was drenched in blood, and what was once Rudy Kelvin was now an indescribable mess of old clothes, bruised flesh, and blood. And it wasn’t moving.
As Michael panted for breath and let the iron fall from his green fingers, Professor Valentin placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come, Mister Toad. We have a show to do.”
He nodded and said in a hoarse voice, “‘Kay.”
With that, Mister Toad and Professor Pyg went into the tent to make their final preparations for that night’s performance.
After the Six and their companions made their way out of Blackgate Penitentiary, the rest of their escape plan went off without a hitch. They piled into the speedboat that remained unmolested during their operation, started it up, and drove away.
Surprisingly, Mister Toad made no attempts to insist that he drive-- he was too exhausted by the night and refused to leave Professor Pyg’s side the entire time.
After a brief scare in which the boat passed under a bat-shaped jet zooming across the night sky towards Blackgate Island, they dropped anchor in Gotham Harbor, exactly as planned, with no one the wiser.
When the eight of them stepped off the docks and onto the street, there were two cars waiting for them-- one the limousine that they’d taken before, the other a more inconspicuous car that they knew was for Kostas Agrios.
“Well,” said the escapee. “That looks like my ride. Ladies, gentlemen, my sincere thanks for getting me out of there. Even if you did have to start a riot to do it. Pyg,” he turned to the professor. “You’re disgusting, and I hope to never be around you again.”
Pyg nodded his head and gave him a snort of approval. With that, Agrios went to his car and opened the back door. Then he paused and looked to the Six. “Bit of advice, kiddies: I don’t know why you’re part of this outfit, but whatever the reason, it’s not worth it. Get out while you can, if you can, or you’ll all end up an urn on the mantle.”
As he climbed into the car, shut the door behind him, and sped off into the night, Mist asked aloud, “Why do people keep telling us that?”
“Because it’s true,” said Sickle, his arm still clutching the welts and bruises on his side that Amygdala had given him.
Mister Toad ignored them and turned his attention back to Pyg. “You best be goin’ to, Professor. I don’t fink the Voice’d accept anover house guest.”
Pyg didn’t say anything but nodded in understanding. Toad felt tears welling up in his eyes for the second time that night and he wrapped his arms as best he could around Pyg’s rotund figure.
Gently, the professor placed a hand on Toad’s head and Toad looked up at him. Pyg’s face was as imperceptible as it ever was when he wasn’t wearing his mask. “No more tears, Mister Toad. The show must go on.”
Toad nodded, let go, and wiped the wetness from his eyes. The rest of the Six were mystified by the scene but said nothing.
“Goodbye Mister Toad,” said Professor Pyg, and he walked away from his heartbroken former ward.
Then he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Come home soon.”
After that, when Pyg was gone from sight and the Secret Six piled into the limousine, with Toad in the driver’s seat and the rest of them in the back. Toad rolled up the partition as they made their way back to the House of Strangers, but in the silence of the drive, they could still hear him stifling his sobs.
When they finally arrived back at the House, Dale was there in the foyer, waiting for them. “The Voice wants to see you,” she said in a terse tone.
“Can’t it wait ’til tomorrow?” asked Mist. “It’s been a long night.”
“It can’t,” said Dale. Had her words been any colder, the Six might’ve felt the room temperature drop. So, without further argument, they made their way through the House of Strangers to its massive library that served as the meeting room, where the Six took their places at the giant conference table in the center. The television screen facing them lit up with static, and soon the white silhouette of a man’s head stared down at them with black eyes.
<My Six,> the Voice said, the distorted tone as booming and neutral as it always ways. <Congratulations on completing your mission. Despite your unconventional tactics, you managed to extract the target in the allotted time. Good work.>
It was the first time they had heard the Voice give any of them a complement. It felt strange and unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
<Mister Toad,> the Voice continued. <You split off from the group and jeopardized the mission in order to satisfy your own petty needs.>
Toad shrugged, unconcerned. “And if I hadn’t, we woulda never found Agrestic. You’re welcome.”
The Voice didn’t answer at first. All of them except for Toad were expectant as to what their boss would do next. Then finally, the Voice said, <I told you at the start what would happen if you disobeyed me.>
The screen then switched to what looked like security footage from an overhead camera. It was in black and white and grainy, but they could make out what looked like an infirmary, with lines of hospital beds inhabited by various men in jumpsuits. One of them was wrapped in bandages and was breathing softly. He was approached by three men: two in prison guard uniforms, the third in a cheap suit and tie. The bandaged man sat up as they surrounded his bed, with the guards on either side and the man in the suit at the foot.
The man in the suit held up a clipboard and read from it. “Prisoner number 18F-618: Rex Foster, you are hereby transferred to Belle Reve Supermax Prison to serve out the remainder of your sentence, with an additional six years for assaulting a fellow inmate through means of metahuman abilities, effective immediately.”
The guards grabbed him by both of his arms, hauled him to his feet and dragged him away as he struggled against captors to no avail.
As he left the view of the security camera, the screen switched back to the Voice’s silhouette.
<I’m a man of my word.>
The anger burst out of Toad like a geiser. “Let ‘im go! You can’t do that ta him!”
<I already have. And if you step out of line again, similar fates with befall your other Circus of the Strange cohorts, including your precious Professor Pyg.>
Then the Voice suddenly became sharper, more direct, more hostile. <Do not test me, Mister Toad, or I will incinerate everything and everyone you love before I kill you.>
And then, amid Toad’s stream of angry, incoherent curses, the screen went black and the Voice vanished. Toad went quiet, save for his attempts to catch his breath. None of the others knew what to say or what to do. This meeting wasn’t just an opportunity for the Voice to chew out one of their own: it was a message, a reminder that the Voice wasn’t lying about the extent of his reach, and that any of the Six could be crushed under his thumb just as easily.
And then they heard someone laughing. And they realized it was Toad, giving a weak, exhausted, hazy laugh at the whole situation.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Copperhead.
Toad’s laughter subsided. “‘E’s alive,” he said as he took a breath. “The big fella didn’t kill ‘im. Rexy’s alive.”
“And he’s going to Belle Reve,” Mist added. “That place is like the tenth ring of Hell. Nobody makes it out of there.”
“Ah he’ll be awright,” said Toad. “Rex’s smarter’n everyone in that place put togever. I ain’t worried about ‘im none.”
This was a blatant lie, but nobody had the interest or the energy to call him on it. “‘Sides,” Toad continued. “I got somefin’ else ta occupy my attentions.”
“What’s that?” Cluemaster asked.
Toad looked at him and said, straightforward and honest, “I’m gonna find out where the Voice is and I’m gonna kill ‘im.”
It was more than a full day before Walt Mulligan could leave Blackgate Island, end his longest shift, and go home.
He had been interviewed and examined by so many prison staff and federal agents that he had lost count, all of them asking him and his fellow CO’s the same series of questions about the riot and at the escapes-- at least ten inmates were unaccounted for, and no one had any answers as to how they got away or where they might’ve gone.
Mulligan thought that Rex Foster might’ve known more than he let on, but he had been transferred out within hours of the dust settling and getting an interview with a Belle Reve inmate was a time-consuming effort that would have to wait.
But none of that mattered right now.
Right now, what mattered was that Mulligan was home. He was grateful for his one-bedroom apartment in Burnley and everything in it: the roaches that scattered when he switched on the lights, the pervading stench of unwashed dishes, the sound of the monorail as it zoomed by the window, shaking the whole room.
All of it was a welcome relief from the chaos and the stress of Blackgate.
And then the phone rang.
Mulligan sighed. Whoever was calling could wait. Right now, the only things he needed were a hot shower, a cold beer, and to sleep for about a week. Everything else was secondary.
The phone stopped ringing and the answering machine began recording a message. The voice that came out of it was harsh and irritated. “Mulligan, you absolute failure!”
Mulligan stiffened. It was Penguin.
“You’ve really shit the bed on this one. Call me back as soon as you get this message or else.”
He heard the phone slam on the other end of the line as the message stopped recording. Mulligan groaned and uttered some curses; this was going to be unpleasant, he knew it.
“He sounded mad.”
Mulligan jumped at the sudden sound of the voice. Then he saw the source of it, and a chill ran up his spine. In the darkness, there was an exceptionally fat man, wearing Mulligan’s dirty barbecue apron and a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. A small kitchen knife was gripped in his right hand.
“Hello, Officer Mulligan,” said Professor Pyg. “We need to finish our work, you and I.”
One night in Gotham City, a sextet of criminals were abducted by the mysterious crime lord known only as 'the Voice' and blackmailed into acting as his agents in the field!
Given the task of liberating career criminal Kostas Agrios from Blackgate Penitentiary, the male members of the Six were sent inside the prison itself and given one week to find Agrios before their liberation. However, soon after their arrival, Mister Toad split off from the group to find his friend and ally, the twisted surgeon Professor Pyg.
To make matters worse, the Six have no idea that the Penguin is, even now, putting together a plan to destroy them once and for all, involving the release of Aaron Helzinger, aka Amygdala, from secure lock-up!
With Copperhead and the Mist breaking into Blackgate to ensure their teammates escape, and a riot breaking out all around them, the Six make their move, completely unaware that they're walking straight into the Penguin's trap!
WHO ARE THE...
? ? ? ? ? ?
Cluemaster (Arthur Brown)-- Genius inventor. Expert at subterfuge. Not as smart as he thinks. ? ? ? ? ? ?
Mister Toad-- Amphibious member of the Circus of the Strange. Drives cars. Eats flies. Croaks.
Double Down (Jeremy Tell)-- Rogue gambler from Central City. Can turn his skin into razor-sharp playing cards. Still needs to grow a spine.
Mist III (Nash Nimbus)-- Opal City criminal. Able to become a cloud of living vapor. Knows how to hold a grudge.
Sickle (Timur Abramovichi)-- Hulking Siberian ex-pat. Criminal enforcer. Southpaw.
Copperhead (Larissa Diaz)-- Assassin for the Penitente Cartel. Master contortionist Expert in poisons. The only real professional here.
Also featuring…
The Voice-- Mysterious crime lord. Enigmatic extortionist. The one in charge.
Dale-- Caretaker of the House of Strangers. Right hand to the Voice. Doesn’t suffer fools.
? ? ? ? ? ?
DC2 Presents...
SECRET SIX #9
“How to Be Productive While Incarcerated", Part 3
Written by UltimateDC
Cover by Christian Dave Gonzales
Edited by House Of Mystery
BLACKGATE PENITENTIARY - BARRACKS
EXTRACTION NIGHT
NOW:
When Laurence Veidt finished his last tour of duty in Kahndaq, his expectation was to come home and continue to serve the people. He planned to find the most dangerous city his beloved country had to offer and take care of whatever criminal scum infested it.
And so, he became an officer with the Gotham City Police Department.
For four fulfilling months he was a cop, until a confrontation with a suspected drug dealer that started with a few choice curse words and a select number of racial slurs and ended with Officer Veidt being on the receiving end of a lawsuit citing ‘excessive force’ and ‘police brutality’.
Veidt was thoroughly convinced that the skell had it coming.
He was initially suspended without pay, told by his sergeant that this would blow over eventually, but when it was found that the dealer in question was a relation of the Thorne family, Veidt was promptly fired to protect the department-- many of whom were on the Thornes’ payroll themselves.
Veidt was, understandably, distraught, but found a new purpose working in corrections, becoming a guard at Blackgate Penitentiary. There, his more ‘intense’ approach to handling suspects was welcomed.
He made his mark through shutting down smuggling rings and supply routes, through turning over guards who were on the take, through training new recruits on how to handle violent inmates. He might’ve even made lieutenant-- if not for one significant oversight on his record.
Unlike the old Arkham Asylum-- which had been more of a revolving door than an actual long-term care medical facility-- Blackgate suffered few breakouts.
Most of its inmates weren’t ‘supervillains’ or ‘performance criminals’-- basically, the type who would try insane escape plans and had the power to pull them off. Breakouts were almost unheard of, so the sudden disappearance of one of its inmates-- the freakish Michael Tobin, aka Mister Toad-- reflected poorly on the staff. Someone had to take the hit for it, and since Veidt was the senior officer on duty the night of Tobin’s escape, he was singled out as the one responsible.
From then on, Veidt was committed to repairing his damaged reputation, to earning back the good graces of the higher-ups at Blackgate.
When he awoke in the guard’s barracks in the middle of the night, hearing the deafening sound of the emergency siren, he knew in the back of his mind that this was his opportunity.
After dressing quickly and learning the basics of the situation-- all the cell doors in Block F were opened and the inmates were rioting-- Veidt made his way to the armory. Most of the other on-site CO’s were there and were on the verge of panicking. They’d never been in a hostile situation like this and didn’t know what they’d be facing.
Veidt walked past them and donned his body armor, picking up a riot shield and a baton before saying, “Listen up, everyone!” The other guards quieted down and looked to him. “Whatever’s in there is nothing we haven’t handled before. They’re not an army, they’re not a militia, they’re just animals that need to be put back in their cages.”
His address, though brief, seemed to at least motivate the CO’s to focus on gearing up, if not necessarily assuage their fears. Veidt wasn’t one for speeches. He took one last look at the rest of them and noticed something off about the group.
“Where’re Mulligan, Davis and Kirk?”
BLACKGATE PENITENTIARY - SECURE HOUSING UNIT:
Officer Walt Mulligan had peeled off from the rest of the CO’s as soon as the riot began.
He was under orders from the Penguin to ensure the deaths of the four new arrivals-- Brown, Tell, Abramovichi and Tobin-- and to utilize the super-criminal Aaron ‘Amygdala’ Helzinger to make sure it happened.
Unfortunately, Amygdala was locked up in solitary, and getting to him without arousing suspicion or exposing his corruption would be difficult.
Luckily for him, the four arrivals had headed that way themselves, alongside Rex Foster and two women that apparently had broken in just to find them. Who this motley crew were and why they were here, Mulligan didn’t know. He just figured he'd get Amygdala to kill them too, and with the aid of his fellow CO’s Davis and Kirk-- both of whom were willing to get their hands dirty for a payday-- Mulligan suited up in full riot gear and went to intercept the targets.
Of course, the criminals ran as soon as they realized they were outmatched. Davis and Kirk went in pursuit, while Mulligan stayed behind to get the help he needed.
Nervously, he said, “Rise and shine, Helzinger. Time to go to work.”
Amygdala rose from his bed, stretched, and rubbed the tired from his eyes. “Where are they?” he asked in a lumbering, sleepy voice.
“Down that way. There’s nine of them, but they’re collared. They won’t have powers.”
Amygdala nodded. “Bird better come through,” he said. He walked past Mulligan out of his cell and ran towards where the CO had pointed.
He rounded the corner and saw the nine inmates trying to make their way back towards Cell Block F. The group was stuck in front of the steel grate that separated the two wings.
The door in the grate was locked. Cluemaster was trying to open the door, but his nervousness and shaking hands turned the relatively simple task of inserting a key into a lock into a herculean effort.
The source of his nervousness was the fighting going on around him. Officer Davis was only barely holding his own against Copperhead. She was skilled enough to handle him, but the combination of his riot gear and trying to navigate successfully in the chaos of the cramped space gave Davis the edge he needed to survive.
Officer Kirk, meanwhile, was losing to the Mist. She had expended ever bullet in her Colt. 45 trying to put the CO’s down before they got too close, but their riot shields protected them well enough. She then resorted to her other means of attack: to shift into her gaseous form and suffocate her victim.
The difficulty there lay in the polycarbonate visor across his face, which limited how well Mist could access it, but she was managing. Kirk was struggling for breath and would be out soon, it would just take a little longer than usual-- and time wasn’t something they had on their side.
The remaining six simply did their best to stay out of the way of the fighting-- Sickle and Kostas Agrios were trying to batter down the barrier through brute force alone, but even with their combined strength, it wouldn’t give.
Mister Toad and Phosphorous Rex were supporting the not-yet-entirely cognizant Professor Pyg, while Tell was simply too afraid to fight without his powers.
Amygdala stomping down the hallway caught everyone’s attention.
The Six and their cohorts looked confused, while the guards seemed terrified by his presence. The distraction was just the thing they needed-- Copperhead found a patch of bare skin on Davis and scratched it with a poisoned claw. Davis swung wildly at her, but couldn’t land a hit with his baton, instead striking uselessly against the wall, the floor, and then thin air. He coughed, and blood splattered the inside of his visor, but still he kept fighting, fueled by a mixture of rage, terror, and pure survival instinct.
Kirk, meanwhile, was struggling to get away from Mist, who was all around him as a green cloud. His fighting was wearing him out, and every time he breathed in, he inhaled more of the Mist, until he couldn’t get any oxygen himself. He struggled more, fought more, but it was clear that he had already lost.
Amygdala ran towards the inmates-- slowly at first, but then picking up speed until it became a full charge. Sickle set aside his attack on the barrier and instead ran to meet the dull-witted criminal. The two collided in the hallway like oncoming cars, the sheer force of the impact knocking both of them back. They recovered quickly enough, however, and the melee began in earnest.
The two were evenly matched in terms of strength-- Timur Abramovichi and Aaron Helzinger were both freakishly powerful for otherwise non-enhanced humans.
Sickle had a distinct disadvantage, lacking as he did his right arm, but made up for it in skill. Sickle had spent years learning how to take people on with only his left, knowing full well that the Gotham criminal scene was known for throwing freaks like this at him.
Amygdala, comparatively, suffered from mental impairments that reduced his intellect and temperament to that of a child. He was strong, but wild and uncoordinated.
It was easy for Sickle to absorb the attacks on his right side-- the side that was mostly calloused scar tissue-- but Amygdala had a high tolerance for pain himself, and so the fight had no clear winner between the two goliaths.
The tide began to shift in Amygdala’s favor. Sickle was getting angrier, making mistakes, losing control. He was missing more than he landed and getting hit more than he was deflecting or dodging.
A wild haymaker from Sickle missed Amygdala, brushing past his hair as Helzinger came in close, grabbed Sickle around the waist with both arms, lifted him up, and slammed him on the floor. The linoleum tiles cracked beneath the impact and a tremor passed up and down the hallway.
Sickle saw stars bursting on the ceiling above him. His head felt as light as a cloud, and he could’ve sworn he heard a crackling sound, as if he was back in Ivanov’s Circus, surrounded by the enthusiastic flashbulbs of gawking tourists.
Then he felt himself move and-- snapping out of his delirium—he realized that Amygdala had grabbed him by the leg and dragged him up as far as his considerable bulk would go.
Amygdala swung the hulking Siberian back and, with a mighty grunt, threw him across the hall at his compatriots. They dove to get out of the way as Sickle collided with the wall and flopped down on the ground again.
Amygdala let out a hearty, deep bellow of a laugh, accompanied by him banging on his chest like he was a gorilla. Sickle tried to get up, but his senses had not yet returned to him. The entire hallway was shifting in and out of focus and the whole world seemed to tilt on his axis.
Sickle only managed to get one foot beneath him before he collapsed in a heap, still conscious but worn out and beaten.
He felt a rough hand touch his shoulder, and saw that, to his surprise, it was Phosphorous Rex who seemed to be offering him comfort. “There now, Mister Sickle,” he said in a soft voice. “Your fight’s done. No need for all that struggle.”
Sickle tried to get up again. “I can take him,” he grunted as he again lost his footing and stumbled onto the floor.
“Of that I have no doubt, my sinister strongman,” said Rex, his politeness unflinching. “However, time for a boxing match with a simpleton is time we don’t have…or at least, you don’t.”
Mister Toad looked crestfallen. “What’re ya sayin’, Rex?”
“I’m saying,” said Rex as he stood up straight and began to delicately strip off his prison uniform. “That I wouldn’t dream of letting a ragtag band of blaggards such as yourselves be broken up, nor of allowing my precious Professor Pyg to waste away in prison.” He was down to a pair of briefs now, his burned and scarred skin on display for all to see. “I’ll hold off this Neanderthal while the rest of you make good your escape.”
“But…but…” Toad stammered, tears welling in his bulbous eyes.
“Hush now, Toad,” Rex said gently. “Your place is outside with Pyg. Mine is in here, with that ogre. Besides…” he reached a hand down his underwear and fished out a single, unused wooden match. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to use this.”
Toad was nearly reduced to a blubbering mess. He said nothing but wrapped his arms around Rex and said something in between the sobs and sniffles.
“I know, my friend, I know. Now take your prisoner and your professor and get. The fuck. Out of here.”
With that, Phosphorous Rex turned his attention to Amygdala, who had been recovering from his fight with Sickle. Rex flicked his thumb on the head of the match. It lit and set his thumb ablaze. The fire spread across his hand and up his arm. He rubbed his hands together, spreading the fire to both sides of his body and inhaled it deeply. The crackling flesh and acrid smoke smelled of ambrosia to him. He spread his flaming arms wide and approached Amygdala.
“Come!” he announced, his voice loud and clear. “Thou beast! Thou brute! Thou overgrown blister!” By now his entire body was aflame; a living, luminous torch. “Come, and meet thy Apollo, lord of the blazing sun!”
Rex broke out into a run, charging at Amygdala. He moved like a streak of red and orange light, hitting and dodging around the savage’s blows. Rex’s attacks weren’t near enough to hurt Amygdala to any degree, but the fire was clearly causing him pain and agitating him further.
The group heard a clicking sound and a “Got it!” as Cluemaster unlocked the door in the barrier and pushed it open. He ran through, followed by Agrios and the rest of the Six, with Toad pausing to take one last look at Rex before he and Professor Pyg followed after.
THE PAST - LONDON, ENGLAND:
Michael Tobin was being adopted, and not even he could believe it.
Professor Lazlo Valentin’s background check came back spotless, and despite the unconventional nature of his personal life, the adoption was approved by Mrs Henry. What’s more, the whole process was fast-tracked, taking only a few weeks before Michael was allowed to go home with the professor.
He would later reflect that a large sum of money more than likely changed hands during the process, to say nothing of the officials at Saint John’s not caring too much about their least adorable charge.
Now however, he was simply overjoyed to have a home for himself, surrounded by people who cared for him, and away from the cruelty of Rudy Kelvin and his gang.
For his part, Rudy spent the past few weeks leaving Michael alone, glaring at him every so often but rarely directly interacting with him. It made Michael nervous, wondering when the time bomb that was his bully’s temper would go off.
On the day Michael left the orphanage, it seemed to. His meager belongings were packed into a suitcase and he was on his way out, with Professor Valentin waiting for him at the front door.
Michael was almost skipping down the stairs as he took one final look at Saint John’s. Now that he was about to leave this place for good, he was almost going to miss it.
And then Rudy was there, waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
Michael’s joy evaporated as he stopped at the first step, still half a head shorter than Rudy. The boy glared at Michael, any trace of mirth or even his usual sadism gone, instead replaced with pure scorn and ire.
“You’ll be back, Mister Toad,” he spat. “Nobody wants a freak fer a kid.”
With that, he walked away, unaware or unconcerned by Professor Valentin eyeing him as he left. However, the professor’s attention turned back to Michael, and he nodded sternly. “Come along, Michael. Let’s go home.”
BLACKGATE PENITENTIARY - CELL BLOCK F:
When the Six and their charges arrived back at the cell block, the scene had escalated far beyond what they had left behind. The CO’s had arrived with their tactical gear and fired a generous slew of smoke grenades, flooding the area with a thick white fog that made it impossible to see through.
What the group heard was utter bedlam: a blend of screams and shouts from inside the smoke, the barking of orders and the colliding of batons with bodies, all of it broiling beneath the sound of the still blaring alarm.
“Once more unto the breach,” Cluemaster muttered. “Sickle, get in front and lead the way. Everyone else, stick together, watch each other’s backs. We can do this.”
Sickle, visibly bruised and utterly exhausted from his fight with Amygdala, took his place in the front and, after a ragged breath, walked into the smoke cloud with the rest of them following close after.
They made their way forward, trying to match quickness with carefulness. Every so often an inmate or a CO would wander into their path, but Sickle would easily push them aside and keep leading the group on, even in his worn-down state.
After what seemed like days of wandering through fog and violence, Sickle said something in Russian that sounded excited. He had discovered a triangle-shaped hole in the side of one of the walls-- the same entry point Mist and Copperhead had created with their teleporters.
He ducked his head and stepped out, followed quickly by Cluemaster, Agrios, Copperhead, Double Down, and Mist. Last were Mister Toad and Professor Pyg, and as they approached the breach, the body of an inmate came rushing at them and knocked the pair to the side.
Toad would have recovered from such a tussle, but his foot landed awkwardly on a discarded nightstick. He immediately lost his balance and toppled to the ground, losing physical contact with Pyg and landing hard on the linoleum floor.
Toad might have blacked out for a moment on the ground-- he wasn’t sure. He just knew that when he opened his eyes, he saw a blur of spinning stars and flashing lights-- and no Pyg.
“Professor!” he shouted, doing his best to push away his dizziness and reoriented himself. “Professor, where are you?”
“You!”
The voice was loud and harsh and immediately grabbed Toad’s attention.
Before he could react, another body hit him-- this one a tackle that pinned him to the ground, rather than a random shuffle and accidental shove. Toad looked up to see someone wearing full tactical gear, complete with a helmet with the visor down, flecked with blood—not the wearer’s own.
Beneath the plexiglass was the rage-filled face of Officer Veidt, his eyes bursting with a fury that Toad had never seen before and that terrified him.
“This is your doing, isn’t it? You and your freaks? Well, you’re not getting away this time, Tobin! You ain’t going nowhere!”
His hands shot to Toad’s throat and squeezed as hard as they could. Toad tried to make a sound, any kind of sound, but all that came out was a barely perceptible wheeze, his mouth desperate to form words or a handy, billowing, debilitating croak.
He could feel Veidt’s hands trembling with the strain but staying firmly in place. His vision was blurring, and the world was beginning to dim.
“This is what you get, inmate,” Veidt grunted. “This is what happens when skells like you piss--”
Without warning, a baton collided with Veidt’s head and knocked him off Toad. He released his grip, and Toad felt air rush mercifully into his lungs. He gasped as he saw Professor Pyg standing over him, a nightstick firmly in his grip, his expression unreadable.
He tilted his head at Veidt, who was recovering quickly, the helmet having absorbed a good deal of the impact.
“Y-you want some too, fat man?” Veidt asked. He was about to get up when Pyg sat on his chest, his considerable girth pinning the CO to the ground. He struggled against it but couldn’t even lift his arms against the professor’s weight.
Pyg regarded Veidt with curiosity more than anything else. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth curled up and a wicked smile broke across his face.
And then he began to sing.
“Have you seen the bigger piggies, in their starched white shirts?” he sang in an unsettling, off-key voice.
He tossed his baton aside and his hands darted towards the strap of Veidt’s helmet, finding the clasp and undoing it. His fingers were thick as sausages, but they moved with the grace and dexterity of a surgeon.
“You will find the bigger piggies, stirring up the dirt.”
Pyg pulled off the helmet and threw it carelessly over his shoulder. Now there was nothing between Veidt’s scornful glare and the professor’s manic grin. He put his hands on the sides of Veidt’s head and placed his girthy thumbs over the CO’s eyes.
“Always have clean shirts, to play around in!”
Pyg jammed his thumbs down and Veidt screamed; a scream full of all of his rage, his fear, his excruciating pain; a scream that would give any sane person nightmares.
Pyg just continued to smile and hum to himself, even as spurts of blood decorated his shirt.
When Veidt couldn’t scream anymore, only pant in exhaustion and attempt to cry, Pyg stood up. He offered a meaty, bloody hand to Toad, who accepted it gratefully. His gaze was full of wide-eyed amazement and wonder.
Professor Pyg helped him get to his feet and, without saying a word, led him through the fog, away from the stunned, groaning Veidt, and towards their way out.
THE PAST - LONDON, ENGLAND:
After Michael and Professor Valentin had gotten a meal from the local fish and chip shop-- Professor Valentin greedily eating three large portions of well vinegar’d chips on his own-- Michael and his new guardian went to the impressive-sized tent outside of the city.
The professor explained that, outside of his studies into abnormal medical conditions, he ran a traveling circus, designed to showcase, promote, and destigmatize such extraordinary people, and that Michael could be part of the show if he so wished.
Michael sheepishly told Professor Valentin that he didn’t; his experiences at the orphanage made the idea of making a spectacle of himself terrifying. He was, however, eager to help the circus in any other way, especially if it meant driving one of their motor cars.
The professor understood and spent the rest of the day teaching Michael the ins and outs of being a roustabout, all before their London debut that night.
By the time the sun had gone down, Michael was exhausted. Setting up the show in the summer heat was more work than he was used to. Still, he was satisfied, almost proud, to have a purpose, surrounded by likeminded people. When he was finished, Professor Valentin went into his trailer to change for the show, with Michael waiting outside for him.
“Who was that boy?” the professor called out from inside.
“Who?” Michael asked.
“That boy at the orphanage. The one who called you ‘Mister Toad,’” said the professor. “Who was he?”
“Oh,” said Michael, the very thought of it bringing his demeanor down. “That was just Rudy.”
“I see,” the professor said, his voice giving no indication of what he thought of that. “And did he always talk to you like that?”
Michael shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Michael began. He knew how to finish that sentence, he’d already said it a million times in his head. However, he’d never spoken it aloud before-- Mrs Henry didn’t approve of that kind of language, and worse, Rudy or one of his goons, might overhear and punish him for it.
But then he remembered that Mrs Henry and Rudy and all of that were far, far away by now, and he was free to speak his mind. “Because ‘e’s an arse!” The words felt good coming out of his mouth-- strangely empowering, somehow, like some sort of seal had been broken and he was finally free.
Professor Valentin’s voice came back from inside. “Exactly.” He said it with a dripping, eager darkness that Michael was unfamiliar with. Before he could wonder about it more, the door to the trailer swung open and Professor Valentin was there. He was now dressed in a white button-up shirt with a red bowtie. His sleeves were rolled up and at the end of his bare arms were blue latex surgical gloves. He had on a white apron, stained red in some places, and completed the ensemble with a pink pig mask with pointed ears, rounded cheeks, and a space in between where his mouth was visible.
And he was smiling.
Michael had seen a smile from Professor Valentin before, but not like this. This was different-- a twisted facsimile of what happiness was supposed to look like, a monstrous visage that was all teeth and gums and no mercy or kindness.
Then he said, “People like him, little Michael, they are monsters. The real monsters of this world. They will look at someone like you, someone extraordinary, and shun you, cast you out, call you a grotesquery, an aberration, a freak.”
His speech was beginning to hasten, and spittle seemed to burst from his mouth with every word.
“You can be what they say you are, take their insults and their heckles, and let yourself become the meager nothing they think of you-- or you can embrace it. Live it. Let it give you power.”
He knelt in front of Michael and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You are a freak, Mister Toad, and because of that, you are more exceptional and more marvelous than he can ever hope to be.”
Before Michael could give any sort of response, they heard the honking of a car horn. Driving up to them was a rickety old four-door that Michael recognized as Mister Foster’s car. However, when it switched off and the driver stepped it out, he didn’t look like Mister Foster. He was the same build, certainly, but whereas Foster’s skin appeared to be normal, this man was covered in hideous burn scars that nearly made Michael gag to look upon him.
As the burned man went to the boot of the car, Professor Valentin turned Michael to face him.
“I’m going to ask you a question, my friend, and I need you to be honest: do you want to stay with the Circus of the Strange?”
Michael was confused by a lot of things that had just happened, but he was certain about his answer to the professor’s question. “More’n anyfing.”
“Then let this night be your baptism. For as your new life is born, the old must die.”
The burned man stepped out from behind the car, bringing with him a bruised, bound, and terrified Rudy Kelvin. He had a visible, bloodied lump on the side of his forehead, ropes tying his wrists together, and a gag in his mouth. He also appeared to have wet himself.
Stumbling and confused, he perked up when he saw Michael, and started talking hurriedly but incoherently through his gag.
Professor Valentin shoved a something into Michael’s arms-- a tire iron. “This is your time, Mister Toad. Be done with him, and your place among the Circus will be assured.”
The burned man pushed Rudy to his knees. The boy was sobbing by this point, still trying to communicate through the gag as tears streaked his face.
Michael stepped forward, his knees knocking and his palms sweating around the cool metal of the iron, until his in front of Rudy. Nervously, he reached a hand behind Rudy’s head. He undid the knot of the gag and let Rudy spit it out.
“Thank god!” he said, hoarsely. Apparently, he had done a lot of screaming in the boot and it had taken its toll on his voice. “Ya gotta ‘elp me out ‘ere, mate! Tell these freaks ta let me go!”
Michael took a nervous glance back at the professor. His smile was even wider, burning with sadistic glee, and he was practically drooling at the sight of his new ward.
“Wha… what’re ya waitin’ fer?” Rudy said. “Tell ‘em ta let me go, Michael!”
Michael looked back at Rudy and said in a firm, assured tone, “My name is Mister Toad.”
He swung the tire iron down so hard that he actually was knocked off-balance. The attack struck true, colliding with Rudy’s head and knocking him into the dirt. Michael ignored the shock running up his arm and, with a loud, guttural scream, began to hit Rudy’s prone body with as much force and as much fury as he could muster, over and over and over and over again.
The rest was a blur of noise and rage and blood. He didn’t know if minutes or hours or days passed in the haze. All he knew was that by the time he stopped, he couldn’t feel his hands. The end of the tire iron was drenched in blood, and what was once Rudy Kelvin was now an indescribable mess of old clothes, bruised flesh, and blood. And it wasn’t moving.
As Michael panted for breath and let the iron fall from his green fingers, Professor Valentin placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Come, Mister Toad. We have a show to do.”
He nodded and said in a hoarse voice, “‘Kay.”
With that, Mister Toad and Professor Pyg went into the tent to make their final preparations for that night’s performance.
NOW - GOTHAM CITY:
After the Six and their companions made their way out of Blackgate Penitentiary, the rest of their escape plan went off without a hitch. They piled into the speedboat that remained unmolested during their operation, started it up, and drove away.
Surprisingly, Mister Toad made no attempts to insist that he drive-- he was too exhausted by the night and refused to leave Professor Pyg’s side the entire time.
After a brief scare in which the boat passed under a bat-shaped jet zooming across the night sky towards Blackgate Island, they dropped anchor in Gotham Harbor, exactly as planned, with no one the wiser.
When the eight of them stepped off the docks and onto the street, there were two cars waiting for them-- one the limousine that they’d taken before, the other a more inconspicuous car that they knew was for Kostas Agrios.
“Well,” said the escapee. “That looks like my ride. Ladies, gentlemen, my sincere thanks for getting me out of there. Even if you did have to start a riot to do it. Pyg,” he turned to the professor. “You’re disgusting, and I hope to never be around you again.”
Pyg nodded his head and gave him a snort of approval. With that, Agrios went to his car and opened the back door. Then he paused and looked to the Six. “Bit of advice, kiddies: I don’t know why you’re part of this outfit, but whatever the reason, it’s not worth it. Get out while you can, if you can, or you’ll all end up an urn on the mantle.”
As he climbed into the car, shut the door behind him, and sped off into the night, Mist asked aloud, “Why do people keep telling us that?”
“Because it’s true,” said Sickle, his arm still clutching the welts and bruises on his side that Amygdala had given him.
Mister Toad ignored them and turned his attention back to Pyg. “You best be goin’ to, Professor. I don’t fink the Voice’d accept anover house guest.”
Pyg didn’t say anything but nodded in understanding. Toad felt tears welling up in his eyes for the second time that night and he wrapped his arms as best he could around Pyg’s rotund figure.
Gently, the professor placed a hand on Toad’s head and Toad looked up at him. Pyg’s face was as imperceptible as it ever was when he wasn’t wearing his mask. “No more tears, Mister Toad. The show must go on.”
Toad nodded, let go, and wiped the wetness from his eyes. The rest of the Six were mystified by the scene but said nothing.
“Goodbye Mister Toad,” said Professor Pyg, and he walked away from his heartbroken former ward.
Then he stopped, glanced over his shoulder, and said, “Come home soon.”
After that, when Pyg was gone from sight and the Secret Six piled into the limousine, with Toad in the driver’s seat and the rest of them in the back. Toad rolled up the partition as they made their way back to the House of Strangers, but in the silence of the drive, they could still hear him stifling his sobs.
When they finally arrived back at the House, Dale was there in the foyer, waiting for them. “The Voice wants to see you,” she said in a terse tone.
“Can’t it wait ’til tomorrow?” asked Mist. “It’s been a long night.”
“It can’t,” said Dale. Had her words been any colder, the Six might’ve felt the room temperature drop. So, without further argument, they made their way through the House of Strangers to its massive library that served as the meeting room, where the Six took their places at the giant conference table in the center. The television screen facing them lit up with static, and soon the white silhouette of a man’s head stared down at them with black eyes.
<My Six,> the Voice said, the distorted tone as booming and neutral as it always ways. <Congratulations on completing your mission. Despite your unconventional tactics, you managed to extract the target in the allotted time. Good work.>
It was the first time they had heard the Voice give any of them a complement. It felt strange and unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
<Mister Toad,> the Voice continued. <You split off from the group and jeopardized the mission in order to satisfy your own petty needs.>
Toad shrugged, unconcerned. “And if I hadn’t, we woulda never found Agrestic. You’re welcome.”
The Voice didn’t answer at first. All of them except for Toad were expectant as to what their boss would do next. Then finally, the Voice said, <I told you at the start what would happen if you disobeyed me.>
The screen then switched to what looked like security footage from an overhead camera. It was in black and white and grainy, but they could make out what looked like an infirmary, with lines of hospital beds inhabited by various men in jumpsuits. One of them was wrapped in bandages and was breathing softly. He was approached by three men: two in prison guard uniforms, the third in a cheap suit and tie. The bandaged man sat up as they surrounded his bed, with the guards on either side and the man in the suit at the foot.
The man in the suit held up a clipboard and read from it. “Prisoner number 18F-618: Rex Foster, you are hereby transferred to Belle Reve Supermax Prison to serve out the remainder of your sentence, with an additional six years for assaulting a fellow inmate through means of metahuman abilities, effective immediately.”
The guards grabbed him by both of his arms, hauled him to his feet and dragged him away as he struggled against captors to no avail.
As he left the view of the security camera, the screen switched back to the Voice’s silhouette.
<I’m a man of my word.>
The anger burst out of Toad like a geiser. “Let ‘im go! You can’t do that ta him!”
<I already have. And if you step out of line again, similar fates with befall your other Circus of the Strange cohorts, including your precious Professor Pyg.>
Then the Voice suddenly became sharper, more direct, more hostile. <Do not test me, Mister Toad, or I will incinerate everything and everyone you love before I kill you.>
And then, amid Toad’s stream of angry, incoherent curses, the screen went black and the Voice vanished. Toad went quiet, save for his attempts to catch his breath. None of the others knew what to say or what to do. This meeting wasn’t just an opportunity for the Voice to chew out one of their own: it was a message, a reminder that the Voice wasn’t lying about the extent of his reach, and that any of the Six could be crushed under his thumb just as easily.
And then they heard someone laughing. And they realized it was Toad, giving a weak, exhausted, hazy laugh at the whole situation.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” asked Copperhead.
Toad’s laughter subsided. “‘E’s alive,” he said as he took a breath. “The big fella didn’t kill ‘im. Rexy’s alive.”
“And he’s going to Belle Reve,” Mist added. “That place is like the tenth ring of Hell. Nobody makes it out of there.”
“Ah he’ll be awright,” said Toad. “Rex’s smarter’n everyone in that place put togever. I ain’t worried about ‘im none.”
This was a blatant lie, but nobody had the interest or the energy to call him on it. “‘Sides,” Toad continued. “I got somefin’ else ta occupy my attentions.”
“What’s that?” Cluemaster asked.
Toad looked at him and said, straightforward and honest, “I’m gonna find out where the Voice is and I’m gonna kill ‘im.”
EPILOGUE:
It was more than a full day before Walt Mulligan could leave Blackgate Island, end his longest shift, and go home.
He had been interviewed and examined by so many prison staff and federal agents that he had lost count, all of them asking him and his fellow CO’s the same series of questions about the riot and at the escapes-- at least ten inmates were unaccounted for, and no one had any answers as to how they got away or where they might’ve gone.
Mulligan thought that Rex Foster might’ve known more than he let on, but he had been transferred out within hours of the dust settling and getting an interview with a Belle Reve inmate was a time-consuming effort that would have to wait.
But none of that mattered right now.
Right now, what mattered was that Mulligan was home. He was grateful for his one-bedroom apartment in Burnley and everything in it: the roaches that scattered when he switched on the lights, the pervading stench of unwashed dishes, the sound of the monorail as it zoomed by the window, shaking the whole room.
All of it was a welcome relief from the chaos and the stress of Blackgate.
And then the phone rang.
Mulligan sighed. Whoever was calling could wait. Right now, the only things he needed were a hot shower, a cold beer, and to sleep for about a week. Everything else was secondary.
The phone stopped ringing and the answering machine began recording a message. The voice that came out of it was harsh and irritated. “Mulligan, you absolute failure!”
Mulligan stiffened. It was Penguin.
“You’ve really shit the bed on this one. Call me back as soon as you get this message or else.”
He heard the phone slam on the other end of the line as the message stopped recording. Mulligan groaned and uttered some curses; this was going to be unpleasant, he knew it.
“He sounded mad.”
Mulligan jumped at the sudden sound of the voice. Then he saw the source of it, and a chill ran up his spine. In the darkness, there was an exceptionally fat man, wearing Mulligan’s dirty barbecue apron and a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. A small kitchen knife was gripped in his right hand.
“Hello, Officer Mulligan,” said Professor Pyg. “We need to finish our work, you and I.”
THE END..?
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