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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 6, 2022 8:38:13 GMT
Prologue: The Broken Man
by Doc Quantum “In the trembling evil of the world A place is set aside, So that souls in bitter torment May lick their wounds and hide. Rama holds a court in care, Tho’ cold and stygian gloom enfolds, The blossom that is Nanda Parbat. There the balance that is life is told.”
An unknown English poet had once written down those fanciful words, and for decades after they remained as such — mere words. Anyone fortunate enough to have read them thought of Nanda Parbat as a poetic lost land similar to Shangri-La or Xanadu.
A small handful of people in the outer world, however, knew different. They knew Nanda Parbat was not a mere legend. It was real.
In a small, hidden valley in the Himalayas, a shining city nestled in a green-pastured paradise was home to a population of world-weary travelers who had grown sick of the corruption of the world and the corruption that had taken hold of their own black hearts. In the fabled land of Nanda Parbat, under the watchful eye of Rama Kushna, they were able to live new lives in tranquility that they had never known in the outside world.
Most chose to remain there forever, remaining youthful and unchanging even as the world outside continued its wars, suffering under crime and poverty, as well as materialistic pursuits that left the soul wanting for something better. Yet a small number, having tasted of the blossom that was Nanda Parbat, chose to steel themselves to return to the outside world after a sojourn there and apply what they had learned to build new lives.
One such visitor, accompanied by a former resident, had now come in order to seek his roots, to learn of his father’s own journey many years earlier, and to find respite from the darkness in his own young soul.
This young man had been troubled for many years by visions of horror, seemingly attacked by nameless beings he could not understand but who sought his destruction. Born into a wealthy family, his worldly life should have been free of trouble, but instead he had fought a war within himself every day for much of his life against forces that he knew would destroy him if he let them. If not for his Japanese mentor, who had taken him to this land when his father could not, he would have long ago fully given in to his innate vices by engaging in violence, allowing drug use to take over his life, or becoming a lecherous womanizer. He had turned to writing horror fiction under a pseudonym, allowing him to release his demons through the medium of the novel, and had already amassed a cult following.
But it was only in Nanda Parbat that the young man had ever found true peace. He had also found new teachers, those who could teach him methods to channel the darkness within in order to accomplish better goals. Instead of turning to drugs and alcohol as he often had in the past, he would find someone in dire straits to rescue. Instead of starting fights for the sake of battle, he would battle those who attacked the innocent. And instead of seeking women to conquest he would use all his investigative skills to research connections in criminal organizations and track down those who deserved to be brought to justice.
On this day, however, it was time to leave.
“You look just like your father did the last time he left this land,” said his mentor, a middle-aged Japanese man with short, graying black hair. “It was so difficult for him to leave Nanda Parbat that he knew if he ever came back to this city he would never want to leave again.”
“Is that why he decided not to make the trip with us?” asked the young man.
“Partly,” said the older man. “But I know the true reason. Your father’s devotion to your mother is sacred to him. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to weigh the choice between staying here and basking in the holiness and beauty of Rama Kushna if it meant he might forget even for one moment the beauty of your mother’s face.”
“I… never knew he felt that way about her,” replied the young man, running his hand through his long, dark hair. “Dad and Mom aren’t all that affectionate with each other.”
“In fact they are, but they consider their feelings for each other a private matter. All others need to know is that they love each other as man and wife.”
“Huh. And here I’d always assumed they had a cold, lifeless relationship like every other marriage I’ve seen.”
“There is much you do not know about your father, young Lincoln Travis,” said the older man.
“I know he was the Crimson Avenger in the ’60s, and that you were his partner-in-crime-fighting, Master Wing,” replied Link. “And that he spent some time here before that. What else is there to know?”
“Your father is much older than he seems, and so am I,” said Wing. “In fact, your father’s first sojourn to Nanda Parbat was a few short years after the Great War.”
“You mean World War One?” Link said in disbelief. “That doesn’t sound right. He’d have to be pushing ninety years old by now if that were the case.”
“In fact, Mr. Travis has recently celebrated his eighty-sixth birthday, though all legal papers state that he is merely fifty-three.”
“Okay, now I’m confused. Why didn’t Dad ever tell me any of this? And how much else has he kept from me?” A note of anger began to creep into Link’s voice.
“It was not yet time for you to know it,” said Wing, who appeared to be in his mid-fifties as well. “Your father, Lee Travis, was born in 1901 to your grandparents Walter and Brittany Travis. He was only sixteen years old when America joined the Great War, so he lied about his age in order to fight for his country, and his height and muscular frame helped him pull off that feat with ease. Nothing, however, had prepared him for the horrors that he would witness when he was in the trenches. He saw his fellow soldiers buried up to their necks in mud and was unable to save them when the mustard gas floated across No Man’s Land to suffocate and kill them. All he could do was save himself.”
“That’s horrible,” said Link. “I knew Dad had some kind of military background, but he never talks about it.”
“Few soldiers do,” said Wing darkly. “Your father told me some stories, but kept much more to himself. At war’s end he was a broken man, unable to reconcile the evil that man does to man with his idyllic upbringing as a newspaper publisher’s son in America. Instead of returning home, he began to wander, roaming all over the world in search of meaning, and finding none. Years passed as he spent his fortune seeing many lands and seeking wise men to tell him what it all means, but to no avail. Finally, as he scaled some of the tallest mountains in the world, he chose to simply die rather than go on in a world that lacked all meaning. But fate had other plans.”
“Let me guess: he found Nanda Parbat.”
“No. Rather, Nanda Parbat found him. As with many who came before him and after, he did not merely stumble into the blossom of Nanda Parbat, but was chosen as its disciple. He had been found nearly dead in the snow and brought into this fair city. But the years had not been kind to him. Despite being saved from certain death, Lee was not at all grateful to have been given his life back to him… at least at first. It took time for his body to heal, and much more time for his mind. But as he put it, he was still sick at heart, sick to his soul.”
“Did you know him then, Master Wing?”
“I did. In fact, I was one of the two men sent to retrieve him.”
“So you must’ve been there for a while already.”
“Indeed. It was a lifetime ago for me. I came there under circumstances different than Lee, but we found a kinship in our world-weariness, a weariness that meant we could never be eternally happy here in Nanda Parbat like most others are. And it was not for lack of trying, either. Lee spent weeks in meditation and prayer, reading ancient tomes of knowledge in our vast library, and working hard at manual labor like a commoner. As I watched, I saw that while he had found a certain measure of happiness, he had a drive that could never be satisfied except by returning to the outer world. And I knew that I had to accompany him, despite the risks.”
“What risks?” asked Link.
“Those who come here with darkness and evil in their hearts, yet a respite soul, will find peace when they are here. But when they leave this land, the evil within them that they had fled from will return. And if they are not prepared, the evil that dwells in man’s heart may return tenfold. I was one such man.”
“You, Master Wing? I don’t believe it!”
“You did not know me then, but I was a man of great evil in my homeland of Japan. I hurt so many people, and even killed a few with my bare hands. Finally, the weight of all the evil that I had done was too much for me, and I sought to turn from my wicked ways, only to find that all paths led me astray. Finally, I was chosen by Rama Kushna to come to this city, and was brought here by none other than my countryman Taj-Ze, the greatest of samurais in his own age who has long served as Nanda Parbat’s caretaker and temple guard. (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See "All This Has Gone Before But I Still Exist," Strange Adventures #216 (February, 1969).]
“It was Taj-Ze who told me a parable about an injured bird with one good wing and another broken, who would never again be able to fly, until a spirit came along and gave him a second good wing, letting him soar free. With that he gave me the name Wing, assuring me that I would understand the parable one day, when I met the broken man to whom I would pledge my lifelong service. And then he and I would join our one good wings together and fly out into the world again. Your father was that man.”
Link Travis was amazed by the story, but one thing now puzzled him. “What is your real name, Master Wing?”
“It had been so long that I’d nearly forgotten it, but eventually I reclaimed it as my own. I was born Hideo Watanabe. But it pleases me to be called Wing.”
End Prologue
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Post by lawrenceliberty on Sept 6, 2022 15:36:31 GMT
You've clearly taken a lot of pains with this story and it shows. It reads very much like a pulp story and does a nice job of combining aspects of the Shadow with the Green Hornet.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 6, 2022 16:31:23 GMT
Thanks! I should mention that the Crimson Avenger’s Nanda Parbat origin is from the Post-Crisis Golden Age Secret Files, which inspired this origin story. Wing’s origin is completely original, but partly inspired by The Shadow movie which fits with the lore of Nanda Parbat from the Deadman stories. The Lee Travis and Wing of Earth-1 are distinctive and yes, meant to more closely resemble the Green Hornet and Kato than their Earth-2 counterparts.
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Post by starskyhutch76 on Sept 6, 2022 16:52:57 GMT
Very cool. I look forward to seeing what you have in store for Link.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 6, 2022 21:52:14 GMT
Thanks, Hutch. To give credit where credit is due, most of this story was written by Chrissie several years ago and is one of her best ones. I've tried to keep as much of her original story intact while incorporating some new chapters and some parts rewritten to introduce some Pulp Heroes as per the pulp heroes discussion in another thread. I've learned my lesson from posting unfinished stories and made sure to COMPLETE this initial story before posting anything, too! Trying for one post a day until it's all posted here. There is more origin story to be told as well, but it will have to wait for the Epilogue.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 6, 2022 21:58:38 GMT
Chapter 1: The Avenger's Legacy
by Christine Nightstar, with Doc Quantum
A young man with long black hair crouched on the edge of a brownstone's roof, clad in a black leather jacket with the upper right sleeve wrapped in a slim chain, black denim jeans, and black leather boots. He watched the traffic as the cars and trucks below passed by. A sound on the sidewalk caught his attention; it was a woman's scream as several punks surrounded her.
Behind him a deep voice said, "You want to help her, don't you?" The young man nodded once, not trusting his voice to convey his wishes.
"I've taught you all I know, and Wing has taught you even more. I knew the day would come when you would choose to put yourself in harm's way the way I did once for this city," the older man said behind him as he peered over the roof, his face shadowed by a blood-red fedora. "But I still wasn't ready for this day, or I would have prepared a more fitting outfit for you."
The older man placed one hand on the young man's shoulder. "She has about a minute left before they stop using words and start getting physical. When you go to her, remember everything I taught you. These punks should offer no challenge to you, but I'll be here if you need me... son." With that, he took the fedora and placed it on the young man's head.
The younger man rose to his full height, pulled and tightened a red scarf over the lower half of his face, and stepped off the edge. A moment later he alighted behind one of the thugs almost soundlessly, and before the punk could even tell he was there, the punk was thrown into the wall, immediately knocked out.
With a start, the rest of the gang noticed his presence, and soon pulled their weapons: butterfly knives, locked-blade pocket knives, and a nine-millimeter pistol. The masked man didn't say a word, but gave the punks a disappointed look, since he'd been taught to go easier on unarmed opponents.
The punk with the pistol grabbed the woman and said to his three comrades, "Teach this poser a lesson about disrespecting the Purple Dragons on their own turf!" The woman panicked as the punk with the gun held her tight while the young hero dealt with the others.
The young man just shrugged as the punk with the butterfly knives slashed wide at him, then parried the slash and responded with a spinning back-fist. If they were going to claim territory in this city, these punks should at least have been able to hold it. The punk's head spun sideways right into a light pole, knocking him out. The other two decided to rush him from both sides.
Leapfrogging the one coming at him from the front, the young man used the punk's shoulder to push off and send the second punk flying into the third. Then, spinning around fast as they pushed off of each other, he caught the two punks with the heel of his boot. They fell unconscious next to their friends, leaving only their leader carrying the pistol three yards away.
"Who do you think you are -- Batman?" demanded the scared punk. Pointing the pistol at the young man, the punk squeezed off a shot, only to see that the hero had already shifted out of the way. The punk fired again, and the hero repeated the bullet-dodging feat. A third, fourth, and fifth shot fired, and the hero dodged the bullet's trajectory, each time getting closer. Grabbing the gun from the punk, he took the magazine out of the gun and emptied three bullets separately from the magazine with his thumb, cocked the last round out of the chamber, and threw the gun to the ground and the magazine in opposite directions. The scared punk tried to punch the hero after flinging the girl to the ground, only to catch a jab into the solar plexus.
"Who are you?" the punk cried as the hero looked down at him.
"The Crimson," said the man wearing the red scarf in a deep, commanding voice different than his own, "and this is my turf now."
At that, he kicked the final punk into unconsciousness. Sirens could already be heard; the police were on their way. The Crimson looked up at his father, who nodded and ran into the alley. Seconds later, a black sedan picked up the youth and disappeared into the night. The Crimson was soon a mile away.
The young woman looked at the punks who had terrorized her, and as she retold the tale to the police, she wasn't sure what to make of the guy calling himself the Crimson. The paramedic took her to the hospital for observation, as she had only suffered a few bumps and bruises for her ordeal. The Crimson had left her attackers in much worse shape, though, and were purposely avoiding her gaze.
Who was the Crimson, and why had he saved her? Was he a hero or another criminal? The young woman didn't know, but she was going to try to find out.
*** "You took too long to defeat them," said his father.
"Sorry, Dad, but I wasn't sure I could risk the woman's safety."
"At least you remembered to wear your gloves when you disarmed the gunman."
"Yes, Dad," the young man said.
"We have to get you back to the party before anyone notices the hosts are nowhere to be found."
"I really hate those social functions, though. Can't we skip the 'bored playboy' routine?"
"It's the perfect cover, just as I had to develop my own all those years ago," replied his father. "Lincoln Travis, son of Lee Travis and the youthful heir to the Travis publishing empire, can't come to mind whenever the Crimson is mentioned."
"But playing dumb in front of so many people -- even Geoff thinks I'm an idiot, and he's known me the longest."
"Geoff is an unobservant boob, as is his sister Jessica. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"But Uncle Benjamin is one of the richest men in America."
"Ben Pierce is only as rich as he is because your grandfather left the largest share of the Pierce Mining fortune to him instead of your mother. Your grandfather, Daniel Pierce, was a sexist bastard who thought that women didn't belong in the world of business, even though your mother was one of the sharpest executives I've ever known."
"Yes, Dad."
The black sedan arrived at the secret entrance of the Travis Building and entered the hidden garage. Moments later, Lee Travis and his son Lincoln were changing back into formal attire and heading to the hidden elevator. By the time the elevator opened in the panel behind the false wall in the pantry, both father and son were back in the outfits that they'd last been seen in at the party. Lee dashed a bit of gin on himself and then chugged back a bit as he peered out through the hidden hole to make sure that the false wall wouldn't be observed opening.
After reentering the pantry, Lee made a loud drunken-sounding announcement of his return and staggered out into the main room. Lincoln made a derogatory remark and tried to catch his father as he swayed from guest to guest in a drunken haze.
"I don't see why Link is so concerned about that old lush anyway, even if he is his father," remarked Geoff Pierce. "His manners are horrible."
"You know that Link tried to get Uncle Lee to go to Betty Ford last year?" replied Jessica Pierce. "I heard his old man threatened to disown him if he ever mentioned it again."
It took about five minutes and three loud complaints for Lee to establish that he had locked himself in the pantry, requiring Link to spend almost the entire last hour hunting down the pantry keys to get him out. Rebecca Pierce-Travis admonished her husband for putting Link through the ordeal, and told him either he would apologize profusely to their guests, or she would be going home with her niece and nephew. Lee's long-suffering valet Wing played along as well when he heard the threat, remarking that her suite in the New York Trenton Arms still held a large portion of her wardrobe.
Lee begged for his wife's forgiveness and apologized repeatedly to the guests before she finally considered the matter settled. The party ended around two o'clock in the morning when the last of the guests left.
*** "You should have seen our boy tonight, Becky," the elder Travis said, stepping out of the closet after changing into his pyjamas. "He was quite a sight to behold."
"I can imagine. With Wing's training him in Ninjutsu and your training him with guns and other weapons, I can imagine he was quite dashing."
"That's an understatement," said Lee. "He landed on his feet from a three-story drop and took out five armed punks without breaking a sweat. One of them even had a 9mm, not that Link gave him a chance to use it."
"You sound rather proud of him."
"I am, I am -- and for more than how he handled the punks. When asked who he was, he called himself the Crimson. He's carrying on my name, Becky."
"You're still worried about him, too, aren't you, hon?"
"I don't like the thought of him being an outlaw like I had to be for so many years."
"So call your friend the police commissioner and tell him what's happened. Pave the way for him with the police."
"It's been so many years, I don't know if he'd even do it."
"Well, I do know that Link went to bed early tonight and is worn out."
"We'll work more on his stamina as time goes on," said Lee. "But just think of how much he's changed since he came back from Nanda Parbat with Wing last summer."
"He's no longer our wild child, is he?" said Rebecca with a smile.
"No, or at least not in the same way. We'd been worried about his future for so many years now, watching helplessly as he slowly self-destructed, doing nothing with his life except writing those horror novels and going to endless parties. For a while there I was honestly dreading a call from the police or worse -- the morgue. But that's all changed. Nanda Parbat has given him a new future, a new mission, much as it did me."
Smiling tearfully at her husband, Rebecca reached over and gave him a long hug that spoke volumes, then said, "Good night, Lee."
"Good night, Becky." Lee Travis kissed his wife good night and turned off the lights. Wing and the staff would be up late cleaning up. In his own room, Link just stared up at the ceiling for a long time before falling asleep.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 7, 2022 16:00:29 GMT
As usual, Lincoln Travis began working on his exercises early the next morning. Master Wing demanded an hour of practice for each set of skills: physical skills, then mental skills, then chi skills and weapon skills, all before Lincoln could touch breakfast. Nearly twenty years of such practice had made Link quite proficient and meticulous about perfecting his skills, especially over the last few months. The twenty-three-year-old had thus become as fine a practitioner of mystical Ninjutsu arts as any martial artist out there.
By the time Lincoln was eating breakfast, Lee was heading out to his office. "This evening I have something for you, son -- a sort of graduation present."
"Thanks, Dad, but... I should let you know that I don't think I want to wear the same business suit and heavy cloak with a domino mask that you wore back in the old days, though I think I'll keep the hat."
"I suspected as much when I saw how well what you wore last night fit your style. You're a different crime-fighter than I was. I have to respect that, though it's hard. I do think you should cut your hair a bit shorter, even with the fedora."
"Something more practical to fight in?"
"Yes, exactly. I can have Wing do it for you."
Link chuckled. "Last time I let Master Wing cut my hair, he put a pot on my head, and I ended up looking like one of the Three Stooges."
"His name was Moe Howard, and you weren't that bad off."
"I was made fun of at school until Mom stepped in and took me to her stylist."
"Fine, go to your stylist. Just meet me in the Ops Center after dinner."
"I'll stop by for lunch, okay?"
"Can't do that today. Have a meeting with the WayneTech rep. We need some new printers and computers."
"When are you going to let me take some responsibility at the office?"
"When you show more aptitude for journalism than you do for writing those horror novels."
"You have less writing talent than I have, and you're saying I need more?"
"I'm a businessman, not a novelist."
"Whatever, Dad. I'll see you tonight."
*** Lincoln Travis was sitting on a chair in the Operations Center performing a standard police file search when Wing, Lee, and Rebecca came in bearing gifts. His mother was holding a large box, his father a smaller one, while Wing held a long thin box.
"For the new Crimson Avenger," said Lee. "Gear that will fit his style, represent the legacy that he carries on, and make his own."
"It's just the Crimson, Dad," replied Link. "But thank you anyway."
In the box his mother carried was a leather outfit almost identical to the one he had worn the night before, except for its color. It was a black leather jacket with red stripes along the arms, with a black vest and pants, two lengths of chain, black leather boots, a red Ninja-style hood/mask, and his father's fedora. In the box that his father gave him were the two .45 caliber pistols that Lee had used as the Crimson Avenger during his time. Wing's gift was the ninjato sword Wing had received when he became a ninja.
Lincoln went into the back room to change, and when he came out the pistols were strapped to his legs, the chains wrapped around the arms like the night before, and the sword was slung over his shoulder. Black leather gloves completed the outfit.
Link pulled the mask up to cover the lower half of his face, tipped the fedora down to obscure his face in shadow, and said, "Just call me the Crimson."
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 8, 2022 15:14:53 GMT
Chapter 2: The Dark Racer by Christine Nightstar, with Doc Quantum
"We have a new adversary, Master... or perhaps the return of an old one. The Crimson Avenger has reappeared," said a small oriental man to a grandly dressed taller man sitting in a meditation position before a shrine.
"When? And where?" asked the taller man as he stood up, sounding unimpressed.
"The Purple Dragons that were sent to acquire Miss Lacroix in the Village are now in the hospital's secure wing awaiting transport to central lock-up," replied the smaller man as he helped his boss remove his coat, vest, and shirt, revealing an Adonis-like physique.
"Oh? This could be just what we need to convince Miss Lacroix that joining the committee would be best for her," the taller man said, walking over to the weight machine.
"I don't follow you, boss. She knows the Purple Dragons work for you, and if she talks, the whole neighborhood development plan could go down the drain."
"Put Tiger on finding out who it was that informed her of the Purple Dragons' employment," the taller man said before grunting as he pulled the bar down behind his shoulders, lifting the weight. The smaller man scribbled the notes on the pad, then looked up.
"Anything else, Master?"
"Yes. We need to discover the identity of this new Crimson Avenger," the taller man said, grunting as he repeated lifting the weights. "Send Rooster on that errand, and put a bounty on his head through our usual sources."
"Right away, Master. Who would you like to work out with today?"
"One of our prisoners should be sufficient, as long as you give him a weapon of some sort -- something deadly."
"Chainsaw Murphy it is, Master."
"Dismissed, Dog."
Lord Dragon continued his workout as he looked out over the city. Dog was seated at his desk making the required phone calls for Dragon.
"I thought I had defeated you twenty years ago, Crimson Avenger. Twenty years, and I have become complacent in my position as leader of the Council of Immortals. So which immortal might you be? And what are you avenging this time?"
*** Link Travis was examining the old case files of the Crimson Avenger in the computer when he found an encrypted file.
"Let's see how this new decryption program works," Link said as he typed a few keys and hit the enter button.
"Lincoln, what are you doing in the archives?" It was his father.
"Just examining a few of your old case files. If I'm going to make them believe I'm the same Crimson as the one from the 1960s, I should be up on your exploits."
"You haven't tried to enter the encrypted files, have you?" Lee asked as he walked down the stairs to the archive area.
"I'm decrypting them now. Why?"
"Cease immediately, before we get visitors from the government," Lee said, running to the computer, only to arrive too late. The decryption program had opened the file.
"What's the matter?" Link asked as he got up from the computer terminal.
Lee sighed. "Some of the Crimson Avenger's exploits are considered matters of national security."
"Meaning you were a spy? I remember Master Wing mentioning something about that."
"More of a secret agent. Before you were born, Wing and I performed missions for an organization that was only answerable to the president of the United States. Cold War warriors, we were. Though we only had a few cases throughout the '60s before I was injured badly enough to force me to stop being the Avenger for good. It was 1968, and I was starting to feel my age. It was time."
"If I'm your successor, shouldn't I be up to speed on your exploits?"
"Officially they never happened, and if asked about them, you can get by with the response, 'If I told you, I'd have to kill you,' which, if they figure out it was you and not me that opened this file, I'd be obliged to do." Lee chuckled.
"Tell them that you were testing your decryption program, which I was," Link said.
"That could work, but I need you to get out of here now. We'll talk more about this when I can clear you with my superiors in the government."
"The presidents you worked for before I was born are now dead, as are the few that preceded them."
"But the organization I worked for is still in existence."
"I have to go out on patrol, anyway. Going to test out the Dark Racer."
"I'll contact you via the helmet when I know anything. Until then, stay out of trouble," Lee said sternly.
"You're being a mother hen, Dad."
"And you're being a cocky punk, Lincoln."
The two faced off against each other, Lincoln standing a few inches taller. The tension was building until Link spoke again. "Your zipper's down, Dad."
"What?" Lee Travis looked down at his slacks to see that his zipper was fully up, and turned back to see that Link had already disappeared. "Smart ass kid."
Lincoln had changed into his Crimson outfit and was walking toward the Dark Racer's hidden access. The gauntlet he wore under his jacket would allow him to call it if needed and make any commands he might need. The Dark Racer was the culmination of several years' hard work, balancing all the aspects that Link wanted for the bike and all the aspects he needed as well. It wasn't as fast as he would have liked, but it was as fast as he needed it to be. Plus, the weapons weren't as powerful as the ones in one of the sedans, nor were there as many, but the Dark Racer could stop an armored transport if needed. With this high-tech motorcycle, which was painted a dull black to keep it from reflecting any light, the Crimson didn't need a driver of his own like his father had needed Wing.
Mounting the motorcycle, Link donned his helmet, flipped the switch causing the hidden doorway to open, and took off. He drove underground for about a mile with occasional lights blurring past him; this access opened up into an abandoned subway tunnel. The Dark Racer burst through the opening and was on the tracks in moments.
He exited the tunnels in an area near Queens. The Dark Racer's on-board computer helped Link navigate the tunnels and keep track of the subways as well. He jumped the turnstiles and made his way up onto the street with a minimum of people noticing, the engine roaring as he did so.
With the tap of a button, he switched the computer to scan for alarms being set off, and to map the fastest routes there if they were found. So far nothing was happening as he made his patrol, avoiding notice by any police cars.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 9, 2022 18:55:05 GMT
As he had predicted, Lee Travis received a call in the Operations Center just after shutting down the computer in the archives.
"It's been a long time, Travis."
"I figured you would call first to make sure of the situation before sending an agent."
"You know what's behind the breach of security, then?"
"We were testing a decryption program... for the Crimson Avenger."
"I thought you gave up the mask and cloak twenty years ago, Lee."
"I did. There's a new Crimson now, one that's even more capable than I was."
"Does he know of the Avenger's covert activities?"
"Only that there were covert activities. No details as yet."
"Your son... Lincoln?"
"Yes, and how is your current agent coming along?"
"Our Korean friend has him coming along, but the training is going slow."
"Well, he was always good at weeding out the knuckleheads."
"Will we be able to use the Crimson as an asset like we did two decades ago?"
"I'm not so sure about that. I want the Crimson to have a life beyond the covert activities that I knew."
"I can force it, you know."
"It's not your style. We need to talk in person. Get your fat ass out of that chair and come here in person, Harold."
"Always the charmer, eh, Lee? Well, since there's no active operations at this time, I don't see the harm."
"Wing will prepare something special as well."
"Why I let him retire along with you, I'll never know. Place hasn't been the same since you left."
"Even I don't know the answer to that one. See you when you get here. Travis out."
*** The city was quiet as far as the Crimson could tell from the rooftop he was standing upon. Raising the tinted visor of his red-striped black motorcycle helmet, he looked down from his vantage-point ten stories up. It was the same street where he had saved the girl the night before, but two blocks south. Pulling out binoculars from his utility belt, the Crimson began to scan the streets when he noticed something out of the ordinary. A larger group of Purple Dragons than he had encountered before were moving north. In fact, there were several cars full of them and what looked to be their girlfriends.
Deciding to watch them more closely, he flipped the helmet's visor closed and started to run along the rooftops, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, never taking his eyes off them as they drove down the street.
"Dark Racer, follow my signal and stay close enough for emergency mounting," Lincoln said into the gauntlet. The Dark Racer's computer beeped an affirmative, and down below the motorcycle started up and began to follow his position from below in camouflage mode. The Crimson moved quietly as he watched the Purple Dragons exit their vehicles at a nightclub.
Dropping down from the rooftops, he approached the Purple Dragons' cars. Crouching next to them, he slid his hand beneath the bumper to the undercarriage and withdrew it a moment later, then quietly repeated the process at the next car. He decided to stir them up a bit. Street-level punks didn't drive Cadillacs without being connected in some way to someone smarter and better connected. They didn't look like they were smart enough to run gambling, drugs, or even prostitution rackets, but just the standard protection rackets. They were the muscle for someone big and were probably considered expendable. But in a game of chess, a good player always noticed when any piece, especially a pawn, was taken.
The nightclub was more of a dive bar with a dance floor. The steel grates on the windows as well the broken windows were evidence of that, as was the name of the Drunken Monkey. Link shook his head as he looked up at the neon sign depicting a monkey holding a bottle that repeatedly swung in an arc to mimic drinking booze. A tasteless sign for a tasteless dive.
Placing a small device above the door frame on the outside, he placed others on the window to the left and the right, connecting them with the Dark Racer's gauntlet. He decided he was ready to meet the Purple Dragons.
Walking through the door without saying a word, he passed through the group of Purple Dragons and approached the bar, then turned and leaned on a stool.
"Hey, Red, this ain't Blood territory, this is Purple Dragon territory, and you're cruisin' for a bruisin'."
"I'm not with that gang, but if you think you're capable, you're certainly welcome to try," Link said, his voice muffled behind the helmet. He continued to sit casually against the stool as he waited for the first move, which soon came. The tall gang member walked up to Lincoln; his shoulders were about four inches wider than Link's, with a bodybuilder's physique, and he stood a few inches taller.
"Bust up this cocky bastard, Ripper!" shouted one of the girls in the back, who was obviously drunk.
"Yes, bust me up, Ripper, if you're able," Lincoln taunted.
Ripper smashed a bottle against the bar and started to swing it at Lincoln, who simply sidestepped each swipe, leaning back to avoid a jabbing motion.
"You're drunk, Ripper -- drunk and slow," taunted Link, who finally caught Ripper's arm and with his free hand pulled on Ripper's thumb, forcing him to let go of the broken bottle before pushing the punk into the other gang members.
"I don't have ta be fast to fill you full'a holes," Ripper said, pulling out an automatic pistol.
"Don't you punks ever learn?" Link muttered, and lifted his helmet's visor. Standing still, he exhaled a sigh as his intense-looking eyes met Ripper's. Mesmerism was a dirty trick to pull, but it could yield some interesting results.
"What's he doing to me? Make him stop!" Ripper started firing the gun wildly at Link who, despite making no effort to dodge the gunfire, remained completely unhurt.
"I want information, Ripper," Link said in a soft, menacing voice. "And if I don't get the information I want, you're going to envy those Purple Dragons I encountered on my turf last night."
"That was you? You're the Crimson?" Ripper asked, his voice on the edge of panic.
"I'm also your worst nightmare, Ripper, because you'll never know when I show up. It's best to let me know who you're working for now," Link continued in the same tone, slowly wrapping a slender chain from one of his arms around Ripper's wrists, then tossing it over the support beams.
The other Purple Dragons didn't know what to do. Ripper was the biggest and strongest of them, and the Crimson was beating him. They backed away from Ripper as he rose toward the ceiling. Link unsheathed his sword, then made two vertical and two diagonal slashes, none of which appeared to touch Ripper at all.
The Purple Dragons began to nervously laugh until Link walked over to Ripper and touched the jacket Ripper was wearing, causing it to fall apart along the lines the sword had slashed. Link sheathed his sword, dropped Ripper back to the floor, retrieved his chain, and started walking out of the Drunken Monkey, when Ripper shouted.
"Stop 'im! Don't let 'im get away!"
The Crimson was already through the door and mounting the awaiting Dark Racer. Looking at the door, he touched the button on his gauntlet, and small charges shattered the glass in the windows. By the time the Purple Dragons had collected their wits, Link was already on his way back to the Dark Racer's hidden garage.
"Let's see where these punks go when they get their butts kicked," Link said as he watched the homing beacons that he'd placed on their cars leave the bar.
"Base, this is Dark Racer. I got two tracers active outside the bike's ability to track. Please advise as to location."
"Dark Racer this is Base," Wing's voice said over the speaker in the helmet. "Will do. Your presence is required back at base ASAP. Please respond."
"This is Dark Racer on my way." Link wondered what could have happened in the few hours that he'd been gone for his presence to be required at base. Gunning the bike, he headed to the subways and the nearest access to the Dark Racer's hidden port.
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Post by jonclark on Sept 10, 2022 5:53:00 GMT
So are we going to actually incorporate Remo and Chiun, keep them vague or use versions with the serial numbers filed off?
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Post by lawrenceliberty on Sept 10, 2022 16:31:25 GMT
Nemesis could make a good pulp hero in some ways.
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Post by reichsmark on Sept 10, 2022 17:58:15 GMT
Dans is already doing a version of Olga Mesmer on Earth Four so how about we go whole hog on the Spicy/Culture pulp characters DC owned at one time. Cult favorite Jim Anthony, Nick Turner: Hollywood Detective, Sally, the Sleuth being the best known. Actually he's not a DC character but appeared in pulps by D.C. Thompson. .He sounds like a fun character: Six-Gun Gorilla. And yes, like the name sounds he was a gorilla gunfighter in the old west.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 10, 2022 19:14:27 GMT
So are we going to actually incorporate Remo and Chiun, keep them vague or use versions with the serial numbers filed off? I loved that movie. Pretty good books, I understand, too. I’d say they could be good as inspirations at least.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 10, 2022 19:15:27 GMT
Nemesis could make a good pulp hero in some ways. Well, then you will like Pulp Heroes, Part 3.
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Post by DocQuantum on Sept 11, 2022 4:08:32 GMT
Chapter 3: Costumed Crazies by Christine Nightstar, with Doc Quantum
In the Operations Center sat Lee Travis in a dark business suit with the old red cloak, wide-brimmed hat, and domino mask he'd worn as the Crimson Avenger many years ago. Alongside him was Wing wearing his formal limo driver outfit with a domino mask of his own. There were two other men present who looked unfamiliar. Lincoln Travis kept his Crimson mask on and sat down opposite his father at the operations table.
"Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to the new Crimson," said the elder Travis. Turning to his son, he said, "Lincoln, these men are Harold M. Jones of G.E.O.R.G.E., the agency I worked for before you were born, and John MacIntyre, District Attorney for the State of New York. They know our identities. It was Mr. Jones who convinced the Crimson Avenger in 1962 to begin performing top secret missions for the U.S. government after my brother Jim was murdered by communist spies."
"Are you going to force me to relinquish the identity?" Link asked.
"The specific project that employed your father, Wing, and several others whose identities I am not able to disclose folded before you were born, son," said Jones, a short, hefty-sized man with a white moustache, who fiddled with a pipe. "G.E.O.R.G.E. hasn't officially existed since 1968 when a madman destroyed our central operations center, killing everyone within. (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See "My Brother, My Enemy," Blackhawk #242 (August-September, 1968).]
"In truth, several agents and some of us in the command structure were away from the facility at the time and continued operations elsewhere. With the president's permission we went underground and regrouped, though you'll be hard pressed to find any information about us in any public government reports or news archives. Only the president and a handful of people outside of the group are even aware of our existence. Our current organization has no formal ties to the name of the Crimson Avenger. Your father says that you are hoping to make it seem that you are the same person as the notorious crime lord known as the Crimson who operated in the '30s and '40s, and then again in the '60s. We have no problem with that, as long as you keep me advised to any of your cases that may relate to your father's old covert missions."
"The Department of Justice is looking for a way to handle certain organizations here in New York without too much interference from the local police," added MacIntyre. "We think that if you do certain favors for us, we'd be happy to help you out as well."
"You want an agent that you can make sure hasn't been corrupted by said organizations," Link said.
"Exactly."
"I don't want to be anybody's attack dog, but if in the course of my investigations I find something that may help you, I'll be certain to pass it along," Link said.
"So you are going to turn us down?" queried MacIntyre.
"I want to choose the cases I take on, instead of letting you or your superiors decide for me."
"It's a reasonable request, John," Lee said in a firm, supporting tone. Jones had lit his pipe and had started puffing away at it while listening to the conversation.
"Yes it is," said MacIntyre, "but I don't know how long I will be able to look the other way concerning the Crimson Avenger, if this young man intends to play the role of a criminal mastermind like his father did in order to fight crime. The Department of Justice and the police commissioner won't be able to protect the Crimson from criminal prosecution if he's ever apprehended."
"That was always a risk," sighed Lee. "But while 'eliminating the competition' in gangland, we still managed to make a difference, temporary though it was."
"Let the young man find out for himself how hard it is to make a difference, let alone a lasting difference," Wing said, then glared at Jones for smoking in the Operations Center. Noticing Wing's disapproving look, Jones put out his pipe and pocketed it.
"It's decided, then," Lee said, unconsciously scratching his side. It had been too long since he had worn his old outfit, and it was still itchy. "Harold, I'll need you to clear him for access to my old files for reference purposes."
"We'll see about that," Jones replied. "But I can grant preliminary access to them until I can arrange a formal interview with G.E.O.R.G.E."
"This way, gentlemen, to the observatory, where you can freely smoke if you still wish to," Wing said, standing up. Link looked at his father in his Crimson Avenger outfit and wondered if he would one day look just as uncomfortable in his own.
*** Ripper was being manhandled again, but this time by a much larger man. He had been thrown against the wall of the Purple Dragon's place of business and was starting to pick himself up when the larger, musclebound man with a mop of red hair on his head kicked him in the solar plexus.
"You're pathetic, Ripper. You couldn't even get a description of the Crimson."
"But, Lord Rooster, we didn't even know that that red-and-black-dressed freak was the Crimson until he introduced himself," Ripper said before Rooster slapped him again. "We thought he was just a Blood looking to prove how tough he was."
"Crimson is a shade of red, you moron. What part of 'be on the lookout for the Crimson' did you not understand?"
"But he was dressed like a biker -- red-striped black jacket, chains, leather pants, black boots an' gloves, dark helmet over his face..."
"A biker, you say... very informative. Not the usual outfit for one of those costumed interlopers. You have started to redeem yourself, Ripper. Anything else?"
"He was ridin' a motorcycle like somethin' out of a sci-fi, and used a sword shorter than a katana but longer than the ones Lord Dragon likes."
"Anything else?"
"He had guns, but didn't use 'em. He used the swords an' the chains wrapped around his arms instead. He dodged my attacks an' said I was drunk 'n' slow."
"He was correct. You are slow, and still drunk. What style did he use?"
"Never saw a style like it before. Couldn't tell ya."
"Idiot. We put all that time into training you in karate and kickboxing, and you still can't recognize another fighter's style," Lord Rooster said, pouring himself a drink from the Purple Dragons' refrigerator. "The Twelve Immortals did not raise you from the gutter trash you were to simply waste our time."
"Ripper is an idiot who cares more about brawling and drinking than his services to the Twelve, Lord Rooster," a female voice remarked.
"And you are?" replied Rooster, annoyed by the interruption.
"I am called Scorpion, Lord Rooster, and I can provide an artist with an accurate description of the Crimson," she said. Rooster turned to look and saw an ordinary-looking teenage girl in a purple tube top, leather bolero coat and miniskirt, and knee-high boots. Pointing to her temple, she smiled and added, "Photographic memory."
Lord Rooster grinned approvingly. "Come with me then, Scorpion, and when we return... the Purple Dragons may have a new leader."
"I would be honored, Lord Rooster."
"Ripper will be coming with me as well, Purple Dragons. He will be visiting Lord Dragon for judgment of his abilities and actions. If he is deemed worthy, he may be returned back to you. Consider what you have known to be over," Lord Rooster said, taking Scorpion's arm like a gentleman and letting Ripper crawl in front of them to his limousine.
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