The Guardian #2 (of 8): "Death of a Newsboy"

[HoM]

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Anthony ‘Big Words’ Rodriguez was a true citizen of Metropolis in every sense of the word. A resident since birth, he pioneered for a better way of living, and brought happiness to the lives of men, women and children everywhere with his work. The author of the series of semi-biographical novels based around the life and times of the adventurer ‘The Guardian’, for whom ‘Big Words’ acted as part of the sidekick group ‘The Newsboy Legion’ when he was a youth in the Forties, reached critical acclaim for work outside of the genre, and received numerous awards and worldwide recognition for his novel ‘The Light Never Goes Out’…

“Our first operation was a success. We united under pressure, the Japanese government accepted our offer of help. This goes to show the ways we have come since before the Apokolips invasion. I’m not sure it can last… this idea of ‘global unity’, and to be fair, I think it’s fading already, but if we can hold fast to it, then we have a chance.” Chloe Sullivan looked across her desk at where James Harper was sat, and smiled. “You did good, Jim. I’m glad you’re on board.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” replied James Harper. “So you can understand it’s difficult for me to ask for this time away so soon. But I wouldn’t do so if it wasn’t important.”

“I saw the obituary. My cousin’s not a big fan of writing them, but I think she did your friend proud,” Chloe said slowly, “you do what you have to do. We’ll survive without you, James. For a week, at least.”

James managed a terse laugh, and then excused himself from his chair. She nodded in gratitude, and he left her office. It was Maggie who had sent him the email with the attached obituary. Lois Lane wrote of the last of the Newsboys with a reverence and admiration that James had thought long gone from the world. Anthony 'Big Words' Rodriguez had died of a massive heart attack. He was too young, James had thought, but then again, his perception of time and ageing was a bit skewed due to personal experience. He was too old to be living, but here he was, chugging away. He smiled and remembered Anthony when he was smaller. He was seventy-five when he died. Seventy-five felt like nothing. It felt like… well, it felt like too soon, thought James.

He headed down to the teleport grid, carrying his satchel over his shoulder. His shield clung tight to his back. His was not a secret identity. He was a soldier, a police officer, he didn’t need to hide his identity. Heck, the helmet was to protect him from head wounds. In this business, for a semi-regular fellow like him, keeping one’s head is damn important.

“We’re ready for you, Colonel,” said the teleport technician.

Harper placed his satchel on the platform, and jogged on the spot for a moment, readying himself. He’d been told that he should get his blood pumping before he was shunted from here to there, that it would ease the transition. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

“Thanks Chief,” he replied. “You know where you’re dropping me?”

“Homeward bound,” answered the man. “Hob’s Bay.”

“Thank you. Again.” Harper tingled as reality was convinced, by sheer mathematical engineering, that he wasn’t in the Global Peace Agency’s secret main base, but actually in Metropolis. And, due to that conviction, he reappeared, thin trails of smoke whispering off his body, but whole and complete. He was back in Metropolis. He had never fully intended to come back. Not after last time. But when a friend died, as important a friend as Big Words, then you break all the promises you make to yourself.

“Welcome home, Guardian,” he said, imagining Metropolis welcoming him back with open arms. “You were gone a week, but we still missed you.” He sighed, and heaved his satchel back over his shoulder. “Yeah, right.”

The Guardian
Issue Two (of Eight): "Death of a Newsboy"
Written by House Of Mystery
Cover by Ramon Villalobos
Edited by Don Walsh

…the Guardian, that ever-vigilant protector of the weak and helpless, leaped from one rooftop to the other, his footfalls echoing out across the moonlit sky-- he was on the prowl, on the hunt for a ne’er-do-well who had committed a most heinous crime on the city streets…

James Harper shook his head, and closed the book he had picked up. He stood in Big Words’ house, perusing the shelves of his study. He’d made a living off telling tales of Jim. Not selling his story, as such, but making the man an icon in literature. Back in the '50s, the stories had been pulp adventures, but every decade Anthony had done something different. He was a veritable press agent for Harper, and people still purchased the books with regularity. Harper wondered what would happen to the books now. If some stranger would pick up the premise and run with it. His premise. He laughed at the thought, and then continued to shake his head.

“He was a popular man,” said Lois Lane, her finger traced across the dozen titles on his shelves. “A revered author, with a massive fan base. I’d be tempted to call it ‘cult’ but his work was always in the mainstream. And even then, almost biographical.” He had gone to visit her first, before working up the courage to come here. He wanted to thank her for her kind words in regards to Anthony, and then she had offered to go with him to the author’s empty house.

“Almost,” said Harper. “There are, were, of course, certain artistic liberties taken.”

Lois’ curiosity was piqued. “Oh? Do you mind me asking what?”

“Ha,” laughed Harper, “well, the love interests for one. I’m not James Bond, am I?” he shrugged. “No, I never did ‘play the field’. I have loved over my life, but not with such frequency as Tony would suggest.”

“Intriguing,” said Lois. “What now?”

Harper didn’t reply. He had picked up another novel, and began to lose himself in the words that were so familiar, yet so foreign to him.

…He was back. The one man who had haunted him since before his career had begun. These two men, caught in what felt like an eternal struggle between what was right, and what was wrong. They believed so fervently in their ways of life, that when confronted with one another the sick feeling in their guts drove them to war-- a spiritual, as well as physical battle. The End, dark, twisted and sadisticl Moriarty to The Guardian’s Holmes, an uncompromising evil from the depths of the Third Reich. Good versus Evil didn’t do them justice-- polar opposites, polar positions that refused to budge, refused to compromise…

“To tell you the truth,” Harper finally said, breaking the silence, “he always was a bit too purple for my liking.”

“Heh,” said Lois. “You didn’t answer my question though… what now? I’m not asking as a journalist, I’m just curious. I know you left Metropolis ”

“I’m going to see if his wife wants help with the funeral. She’s living with their daughter right now, until everything settles. She… Lydia Rodriquez… I called her on the way to the Daily Planet, and she can’t be in the house right now. She said I could sleep in the spare room like the ‘good old days’… she said the ‘good old days’ and it put a lump in my throat…” His sentence trailed, and he turned back round to Lois Lane. “Not that the Guardian ever gets lumps in his throat. I think he’s immune to such things.”

…She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her warmth was almost palatable. Harper thought, with all his visual enhancements, that he could see it radiate off her soft, chocolate brown skin like golden rays of sunshine. The Guardian watched her move, graceful, so smooth like every punch and kick delivered was some enigmatic dance that only she knew the moves of. Soon enough, with all the villainous men and women-- clad in mechanical suits of armour that made them more dangerous than anything he’d ever seen before-- dispatched, she moved a strand of hair from her eye, and looked up to where the Guardian stood, watching.

“So hotshot, you just gonna’ watch? Or do you want to join in?”

The funny thing was, Harper thought, sat in the motel room he’d rented out for the night, that was the first thing she’d ever said to him. But it wasn’t after the fact of battle, it was during, and he’d descended, shield raised, ready to unleash his fury like a coiled serpent. Then, when the steam-powered electro-bastards were dispatched, and their chests were heaving with exertion, and sweat matted their skin and hair, instead of the usual quippery, they kissed with the passion that suggested to anyone around, and there was nobody to see, nobody conscious, anyway, that they were old lovers, passionate and vicious with their love, even though this was the first time they’d met.

Belle Jackson. She didn’t have a superhero name back then. The papers labelled her ‘MICROWAVEBELLE!’ when they found out her real name. She didn’t care about secret identities back when she operated. She believed in trust and faith, and she didn’t want the men and women she protected to think her some faceless marauder. She was human to them. And she was human to him, as well.

On that first night, when they laid in each other’s arms on that rooftop, their bodies open to the cool night chill; not that it affected either of them, her, with her innate control of electricity, and him, with the implants that were nestled beneath his flesh, they made silent promises to one another, that they’d be together forever. But she grew old, and he was only ever loyal to two things: those he loved, and the country he loved. But when the government came calling he had to say his goodbyes, and leave her behind.

And then Mindeater had killed her and he lost her forever. That was one of the few mistakes in his life that stayed with him. He tended not to let things cling to him, because he knew that for some, guilt clung to you like a second skin, one that refused to come off, no matter how hard you clawed or scratched.

… “We meet again, Guardian,,” snarled the End, black claws tapping against his obsidian gauntlets. His arms were crossed, and as ever, Harper couldn’t see the face of the man-- if it was a man, that is-- beneath the mask. James had heard of mystical golems created by Hitler’s Thule Society, capable of animating clay and straw like the Jewish protectors of old. Trust the villainous dictator to corrupt the magic and ideals of the people he sought to exterminate. Could the End be one of those monsters? “I do enjoy our frequent meetings, Guardian. I assume there will come a day when one of us lies dead at the other’s feet, old friend.” The End’s posture shifted, and the Guardian readied himself for an attack. “… I think I can call you ‘old friend’, after all we’ve been through.”

“Been through?” asked the Guardian, his golden shield held tight in his hand, “you’re a murderer, Ratzi! ‘Old friend’? You’ve killed my friends time and again, and you’ve shown no remorse. No, ‘End’, you’re no friend of mine. Now make your move, before I make it for you.”…

James opened his eyes as the morning light sprang through the slats in the blinds at his window. That was a weird one. He tried not to sleep much anymore. He could get more done like that. He climbed out of bed, and ran the shower. He liked the feeling of warm water running down his skin. Today he’d run through the city, perhaps over the lower rooftops, just to get a feel for the city again. He blinked as the water ran down his face. He didn’t need to refresh his memory. This was Metropolis. He knew this city like the back of his hand. He smiled, and climbed out of the shower, and began to dry himself off.

James wondered what he could do now. He needed to call Lydia, and perhaps see her before he did anything else. He knew where she was, and so dressed quickly, and headed down and out of the motel.

…He loved this city and everything it stood for. This was a bastion of hope that stood shining like a beacon to the rest of the world. This was a place built to say, above all else, that the American Dream worked, and it worked well enough to make this city a nigh utopia. The greatest minds from across the world flocked here, and so, every now and then, science and wonder sometimes ran amok, but when he wasn’t abroad, fighting the good fight for the people he loved, he destroyed clockwork monsters and tripod walkers, the steam-powered mecha-mavens of Hob’s Bay… all the things that would threaten Metropolis’ way of life…

Men and women looked at James as he made his way through the crowds. Some stopped him and asked him for his autograph, and he nodded and did as they wished. A couple of dozen photographs later, he was where he wanted to be, and he knocked carefully on the front door of the large building he had reached.

Julie Rodriguez answered the door. Her face was covered in lines, the mark of someone mourning. When she saw James the lines pulled back, and she managed a smile. “Uncle Jim!” He embraced the young woman, just reaching the end of her thirties and not looking a day over twenty, and swung her around. After she ceased laughing, she ushered him inside quickly, and closed the door after them. "I heard you were back, but I didn't expect to see you so soon... there were photos of you in Tokyo, I just thought... well, it's a surprise."

"I came as soon as I heard," said James. He removed his jacket, and held it over his arm. Lydia Rodriguez saw the visitor, and she awkwardly wiped her eyes with corners of her fists. "Lyd... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Lydia pulled herself up from her seat and embraced the giant of a man, who cradled her softly. "Thank you, Jim," she said, "you always were a brother to him. Thank you so much for coming." She motioned for him to sit, and then Julie carried two mugs of hot coffee into the front room of the house. From that point on, for hours, the three of them exchanged stories of Anthony, from the Forties to the present, and then, when it came to be dark, James excused himself and left, promising to visit again soon.

He walked two blocks down toward Centennial Park, before taking out his cellphone and dialling a number. "Jones? I need a favor. I need to see the autopsy report on Anthony Rodriguez."

..."Until I see a body, I can't believe he's dead," the Guardian said, looking down at the burning compound that he and the others had, mere moments ago, escaped from. "There are rules to this kind of thing."

"You really think he could have survived that?" asked Belle, her hands crackling blue static as she rubbed them to keep warm. She looked up at the sky, and saw the clouds push and pull at each other, until finally they began to pour cold showers down upon the both of them. The fires began to drown, and black smoke rose up toward them.

"I think he can survive anything," replied the Guardian, holstering his shield at his back. "The End always comes back."...

The Guardian entered the new Metropolis Police Department building, and surveyed the scene. He was part of the MPD twice in his lifetime; once, back when he was a young man, and the second time when he was avoiding the watchful eye of Cadmus (a corrupt institution with eyes everywhere? Where better place to hide than in plain sight? Safety 101), but that was a story better left to the past.

The desk sergeant recognized him immediately and awkwardly half-waved and half-saluted, before slumping back down in his seat and sighing. "Mr Harper... sir... what brings you back to Metropolis?"

"A death in the family," replied the Guardian ruefully, as he walked past the desk sergeant and toward the main offices of the police. "Good to see you again, McGinty."

The sergeant blushed at his name, and then smiled. "Thanking you, sir."

Nemo Jones was waiting for Harper when he arrived. The other members of the Special Crimes Unit looked at him as he was led to Jones' office, and when inside, the Captain closed the door behind him. "Surprised to see you back here so soon, James."

"It wasn't my intention, but life is full of surprises," shrugged Harper. "The files?"

Nemo handed him a dossier, and Harper instantly began to comb through the pages. "There's nothing suspicious about his death, James."

"I want to be sure. I need to be sure." Harper looked up, a morose expression fixed to his face. "He's the last of them, Nemo. The last of my old friends. They all died, over the years, one was murdered, one just vanished, the others... simply lived their lives to the end. And now there's no one from that day and age that I have a connection with, and, well, it doesn't help. I can adapt to any circumstance, any opposition, but this... hurts." He shook his head. "And I don't know how to adapt to that."

Nemo placed his hand on Harper's shoulder, and James nodded slowly. "I'm sorry, James."

"Yes. Me too." Harper laughed, and scratched the back of his neck. "I best be on my way."

"Interesting thing though," said Nemo, "two months before his death, the publishing company reprinted all his works. All the old Guardian serials, new illustrations, new introductions by fans, all that kind of thing. Made big money from them. Millions of copies sold. Two months later, he dies. Not a coincidence, I think, but something I considered from the beginning of the investigation."

Harper's interest was piqued instantly. "'Investigation'? So you thought there could have been some foul play involved?"

"He was a known associate of The Guardian. Basically your biographer. Of course I went into the case with my eyes wide open, fully knowing that something ugly could have gone down. The autopsy proved wrong." Nemo shrugged awkwardly. "Again, I'm sorry."

"If it was his time, it was his time. I've only seen the first editions of the books," said Harper, "he sent me them wherever I was posted, whenever a new one was published. I might have to take a look at these new editions."

Nemo's face lit up, and he began to rummage through his desk. "Now, don't go around telling people about this," he said, searching through papers and notes, "but I do have..." His hand emerged from the desk draw, grasping a thick hardback copy of The Guardian Versus The World. "...It's a personal favorite."

"You utter bastard," laughed James, flicking through the pages, "I can't believe you read these."

"Have done since I was in diapers, my friend. You could say you're a hero of mine. Up there with Harry Callahan and, I don't know, Kennedy."

...They levelled their weapons at him, the golden Guardian of all that was good in the world, and barked their orders. "You're under arrest, Harper! For crimes against humanity!" Their weapons were shaking in their hands. They were nervous. James Harper merely stared at them, his shield raised in front of his face, ready for action. "Put your shield down, and put your hands on your head!"

"You're mad," whispered the Guardian, "it's impossible, I would never betray this country."

"You were the one who hijacked the nuclear submarine! You were the one who sent the coded message to your allies in Pokolistan! We have it all on tape! How could you betray us like this?"

"I don't know where you got that information, I don't care what you've got on tape-- this is a lie, and I'll prove it--!"...

"What the...?" Harper traced his finger along the ink of the print, and then looked at Nemo. "This isn't right."

Nemo laughed. "Did he take artistic license?"

"This isn't ink. I can feel it... shifting on a minute level, against my skin... this isn't ink, it's something else entirely." James flicked through the pages, Nemo cringing as he spread the pages wide and caused the spine to bend. Every other page, Harper moved his fingertips down, and whispered things beneath his breath. "Every page. Every sentence. I need to borrow this."

"What could it be? I could talk to the Mayor, see if he has something that can read it. How are you able to tell?"

Harper shook his head. "I adapt. I can feel subtle changes, wind, rain, the major and the minor... and there's something going on in the microscopic level here. Minor to the Nth. I'm going to take this to the GPA. I'll keep you updated, of course, this isn't right..."

Nemo developed a puzzled expression across his face. "...GPA? And they are?"

"Global Peace Agency," stated the Guardian, "I'll speak to you soon, Nemo."

He leaped out of the open window without saying another word, and grabbed hold of the ledge opposite, thrust himself feet over head to land on top of the building. He began to sprint, running over the buildings, a dozen questions filling his head. He took a small, compact device from his jacket pocket, and put it to his mouth. "Chief, I need a pick-up."

<Gotcha, Colonel--> James leaped across a void between buildings, and felt his body shift... he landed in the Global Peace Agency base-of-operations, and rolled to a stop in front of the teleport technician's control desk. "What's the problem?"

"I need forensic specialists analysing every page of this book," he said, "I need to talk to Director Sullivan, and I need... I need..." He shook his head. "I need to know what's going on."

Hours Later...

"... They're microscopic nano-transmitters. I have no idea what this means," said Chloe Sullivan, the book dissected into parts on her desk, sealed up in numerous see-through bags, "for all I know, the publishing company your friend was contracted to could be trying out some kind of new market research technique." She held up a black sheet of plastic, and on it, an x-ray of whatever it was that had been mixed in with the ink. "These babies could beam physical information to a receiver on whoever touched them. Sweat produced page to page, the biological reaction the reader has to the words they're reading. That's one application. And not at all sinister." She leaned forward, toward Harper. "But here's thinking that whoever set this up isn't that amiable."

"I want to know what this means," said Harper, "where do you suggest we go from here?"

"I've dispatched our troubleshooters to the publishing company to get their take on what this means. I'm expecting their report within the hour. Clevenger will deliver the intel we need. I've also sent the Metropolis regional office staff to the factory where the books are published, to get additional information."

Harper nodded slowly. "Good. Good. What do you want me to do?"

Chloe looked at her watch, and then tilted her head to the side. "It's time, James. You best get changed."

"What?" murmured Harper, confused.

"Anthony Rodriguz's funeral will be taking place in an hour," said Chloe, standing up from behind her desk, "go. We'll handle the investigation from here."

"I..." James searched for the words, but instead, nodded in thanks. "I'll be back tomorrow morning."

Chloe patted James on the back, and lead him out of her office. "Take however long you need."

Metropolis:

The clouds threatened to burst during the funeral service. All the men and women whom Anthony had touched throughout his life and were present during the service, watched as the priest spoke about ashes and dust, and as the casket was lowered into the ground. James Harper stood next to Lydia and Julie Rodriguez, and the young woman who called James uncle clung to his arm as she wept. He watched as another friend was delivered six feet under, and then as the crowd dispersed. "He was a good man, your father," he finally said, walking toward the black car that awaited the Rodriguez family. "He saved my life countless times, and I saved his. People seem to forget the help that we had back in the day, back when superheroics wasn't all... Justice League and Society. Those guys... they don't rely on anyone but themselves when they're fighting outside their organisations... I... and others... had whole networks of support to help us through the day. Help getting information to us, help untying us when our archenemy has strapped us to a nuclear bomb. Oh, those times were the worst..." Julie laughed, and he opened the door for her. "He did good by the world, Julie. And he did his best by raising you. I know that."

"Thank you, Uncle Jim." Julie Rodriguez embraced him tightly, and then entered the car.

"You're too kind, James," said Lydia. "You always did know what to say."

Harper laughed quietly. "I can't agree with that sentiment. It was Anthony that always had the way with words. But I'll thank you none the less."

Lydia climbed onto his tip-toes and kissed Harper on the cheek as he bent down to meet her. He watched them slip away in the black car, and then was stood alone in the cemetery. This had been his life for the past decade or so. Old friends dying. Old friends needing burying. He had hoped to die before his adopted-family of Newsboys. He had hoped for that much. But instead, he'd stood silently over their graves, and watched their families weep. Now it was just him. No Newsboys to shoulder the weight, to help him when he was faced with impossible odds. He could deal with that. His friends wouldn't want him to wallow in self-pity, not after all the amazing experiences they'd shared.

James Harper smiled as a curious shiver whispered through his body. He shrugged, and pulled the lapels of his coat up around his face. Homeward bound, he thought, taking his communication device from his pocket, and not a moment too soon.

..."The only reason you exist is to spite me, you bastard," whispered the Guardian, bloodied and bruised, but still standing, still ready for a fight to the finish. "When will you realise that I don't care about our petty squabbles? You live for our private war, but it's only a bump in the road for me."

The End's posture shifted. Harper could never see his expression beneath that obsidian mask of his, but he had been able to discern how the freak-of-nature reacted to his comments by his body language. For a moment-- a split second-- The Guardian thought he saw the End's shoulders slump inward, saw him visibly collapse in on himself at that statement.

"You'll live to regret that, James. I'll hunt you to the ends of centuries, I'll find you no matter where you hide, and I will make you suffer for your life. We are two sides of the same coin, as you are wont to say. And I'll show you that time and time again."

"You can try--!"...

Elsewhere:

"I was never a fan of the Guardian's adventures," the cloaked woman mused, long, red hair whispering out from the edges of the black cowl that obscured her features. "Too full of it's own sense of grandeur. The Guardian would never lose. I couldn't give myself in to the stories once I found out he was still running around saving lives. Lost the verisimilitude that I so obviously needed."

An unmasked man smiled, stroking his thin beard as he pushed a book into the centre of the table. "Such a shame. He always had the most wonderful of adventures. And the cast of characters that he was surrounded by! Well-rounded individuals. Great villains. Rodriguez was able to go past the obvious 'Nazi' characterisation of some of the guys that Harper faced, and went into such depth with their motivations and the like."

"Not all the time. What about the Guardian's greatest enemy?" The crimson-haired mystery woman picked up the book her comrade had present her with, and tapped the cover. It read The Guardian: To The Very End, and on the cover was an ornate illustration of the onyx armoured immortal enemy of the gold-clad avenger: The End. "Isn't he why we're doing this? And wasn't he so very... ill-defined?"

The man laughed, and nodded excitedly. "The reason we purchased a publishing house. The reason we infused ink with a billion dollar's worth of self-sustaining nano-transmitters keyed toward a very specific purpose." He punched the air excitedly. "To the very end, indeed."

"Then let us begin," said the woman, pulling down her hood, "let us begin the harvest."

"I thought you'd never ask," replied the man, grabbing his mask and peeling it back onto his face to hide his thin, weaselly features.

[HoM]

The End?

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