Final Crisis (1/4)

Only a couple of years previous, on an earth eerily similar to all the others, Deadringer was still alive. But could you call it living?

“Get moving, Richardson.” A rough, gloved hand pushed him into the yard. His feet squelched against the muddy ground as he stumbled from the ****.

What greeted Jonah from his brief respite from his narrow jail cell was not much better than what he was leaving behind. A rapid downpour of rain was striking a prison yard. The perfect square was bordered by thick concrete walls, and beyond those, past the haze, were the tall peaks of the rocky mountains.

The thick mud of the vegetation-free yard stuck to Jonah’s cheap boots like cement. He carefully eyed the walls, seeing how the movement of the guards coincided with his own. They watched him from underneath metal awnings or plastic ponchos. Their long barrels itched to point at his exposed body. They sneered at his struggling footsteps, as if he were some pathetic animal at the zoo.

Jonah wasn’t told why he was here or for how long he had to wait, but he could guess. It didn’t take long for any warmth to leave his system, and it took even less time for all his clothes to become soaked. They could have let him wait inside, but where was the fun in that? They wanted to humiliate him; they wanted to feel like they were in control. Jonah **** himself to think about something other than the puddle forming under his toes. What would he do if he were in their shoes? If he was in control? What would he make them do?

A dull thumping sound ended Jonah’s daydreaming. The sound was as unmistakable to Jonah as the hand in front of his face. That sound haunted him awake or asleep. It was the sound of a helicopter, the sound of his condemnation.

The thumping of the helicopter’s blades grew louder as it approached. The sound was only silent when it had landed on the adjoining helipad, but even then, the sound of the blades still beat in Jonah’s head.

The door to the vehicle opened, and out strode a tall man vested in the finest military equipment the Pentagon could afford. He wore a dark mask which was equipped with everything a special operative might need in the field, and a little extra just for fun.

“Rise and shine, Richardson. I hope you’ve been a good boy since I last saw you.” The man said with a menacing drawl.

“He’s been a right bitch sir. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t bark, and always sits on command.” The guard behind Jonah shoved him down to the ground so that he was on his hands and knees.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

This man was here to collect Jonah for another of the US government’s highly classified missions. So secret and so crucial that the suits couldn’t afford to spend U.S. military personnel on it. Only incarcerated meta-humans. This man was not the program's leader. He was the tactical leader. He was their taskmaster. The real leader was the bureaucrat who stayed on the helicopter. He never got his hands dirty.

"You’ve been selected to fight for your country, Dead-Ringer. Do you accept?” Taskmaster said while fingering the tip of a large knife.

Jonah glared at him. He could tell he was grinning under his mask. Jonah had never seen his face, but he knew that he hated it. It was the face of every man and rotten institution that had **** him down this path. Jonah ignored the pounding in his chest and let an overwhelming dullness envelop him.

“What’s that? I’m not hearing a yes yet.” Taskmaster placed a mocking hand to his ear. Before Jonah could respond, he was in the mud. Taskmaster rammed his heavy booted foot into Jonah’s stomach. He splashed into the mud and crumpled in pain. It was all he could feel in the dullness. The pain was the only thing that told him he was still alive. All he could manage was a gagging exhale. “That’s what I thought.”

Jonah struggled to get back on his feet again. He was allowed to stand, but the attack was a reminder that standing was currently a privilege.

“Let me introduce your newest friend,” Taskmaster said, referring to a handcuffed individual in an orange jumpsuit. “This is Guru Jensen Tran. They are a Buddhist monk of some sort and a meta-individual. A whole lot of power, but unfortunately, it's of no use to me since they're pretty serious about their whole vow of pacifism. I would give them your name, Dead-Ringer, but at this point, it seems like a waste of time.

Jonah noted the serenity on Tran’s face. It was unlike the all-consuming dullness that he had allowed to reside in his heart. Instead, the monk seemed genuinely calm. The events transpiring seemed not to faze him. More so, even the rain passed them by. The rain evaporated before it touched his skin. Part of their meta power, probably.

“Now, Tran here was arrested for protesting the demolition of the oldest American Buddhist temple and resisting arrest. Which, usually, isn’t a **** sentence, but you know how the courts can be."

“What?” Jonah responded, his voice hoarse.

“Any last words, Guru?” Taskmaster asked almost rhetorically.

“I am at peace with my ****.”

“How touching.” Taskmaster quipped before driving his blade into the monk’s stomach. They instantly collapsed onto the mud like a puppet with its strings cut.

“No!” Jonah went to lunge at the body but was stopped by a guard. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did. I was ordered to.” Taskmaster carefully cleaned his blade with a cloth before sheathing it. "Now, do what you do best, criminal. Take what isn’t rightfully yours.”

“What will you do if I don’t?” Jonah asked, already knowing the answer.

“You’ll share the same fate as them, and I’ll find somebody else to fill your seat.”

Jonah did as he was told and approached the body slowly. He folded down the monk’s eyelids, but not before staring into them. The glassy eyes were oddly calm; they seemed at peace with their demise. Jonah focused on his powers. He relinquished the power he had previously stolen and focused on the latent abilities within the deteriorating body. The monk’s skin was surprisingly hot to the touch.

Feeling a frantic itch under his skin, Jonah could sense the power as soon as it entered his body. He soon regretted it. The same heat that was on the monk’s skin was now within his own. It felt like his very blood was ready to boil. He felt so powerful, but he couldn’t control it.

“What’s happening to me!” Jonah said, jutting his hands out as red sparks glittered from his skin.

“Did I not mention? Old Jensen had the power of a nuclear bomb in their chest. Apparently, it was connected to their emotions, but with being a monk and all that wasn’t really a problem.” Taskmaster explained while pacing around Jonah carefully.

Feeling a panic rise in his chest, Jonah understood what was about to happen to him. As his heart beat faster, the molten energy would spread through his veins. They would rise and expand. He could expel the heat and energy, but not fast enough. As the fear of **** would overtake him, he would explode. Plain and simple. He couldn’t control it. He didn’t want to die. There was so much more to live for. He was too angry at the system, at his lack of control. He needed out. He needed-

Before Jonah could harm anybody, a sharp needle was stuck into his arm. A fast-acting chemical cocktail was inserted into his bloodstream. Almost instantly, the burning sensation subsided, and his body slumped.

“With that energy, you could power a small city by yourself. But I don’t need you to power a city.” Taskmaster grabbed hold of Jonah’s arm and twisted him around so he could point him in any direction. “You’re my new gun. All I need you to do is destroy whatever my little heart desires.”

Jonah gazed up at the sky before he lost consciousness. On top of a tree the size of a skyscraper, he watched a hawk take flight from a tree to escape the storm.

By the time Jonah regained consciousness, he was far away from his jail cell. He was on an alien planet. An alien planet in an alien universe. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t have time to understand it. He was fighting someone else’s war. He was thrown into battle and told to shoot.

It was all a haze. Jonah gathered all the rage inside of him and fired. He didn’t know what he was firing or who he was firing at, but he didn’t care. The fire had to continue, or it would consume him. By the time he realized he had no control over a raging fire, it was already too late.

The burning heat was overtaking him. Jonah felt his eyes bulge and his veins expand. He was going to blow, and he was going to take this whole blasted heap with him. That was the plan all along, wasn’t it? Jonah wasn’t Taskmaster’s new tool. He was his ace in the hole—the final gambit before admitting defeat.

Before he could allow that, however, Jonah steeled himself and unleashed all his power towards his own side. With that last mote of will, he hoped that the unleashed energy would melt his Taskmaster into a pile of ash. Jonah attempted to close his eyes and accept his fate. The final blast would surely take him along with everyone else.

But the final blast never came. A wave diffused through the planet, and his powers dissipated.

He had been here before.

There was a dead boy.

A great blaring of horns.

A dull thumping of golden wings.

A hawk.

Deliverance.

Jonah woke up with a start. He was covered in a cold sweat, and he was afraid. It was just a nightmare. A terrible memory.

His bedroom was safe and silent. Instead of the sounds of battle, all he could hear was the gentle rain pattering against his window and the quiet breathing of his love. For a moment, he thought he was back in his apartment. But he had moved into a house weeks ago. His downtown apartment didn’t have enough room for two, and another was on the way.

Jonah leaned over to stroke Kendra’s hair as she slept. Everything was going to be alright. Things were better now. Jonah carefully got out of bed so that he wouldn’t interrupt her rest. She was firmly lodged in a pregnancy pillow, which allowed her to rest her baby bump comfortably.

Jonah threw on a robe and entered his living room. He stared out the window and watched fat raindrops collide with one another and run down the clear surface. His empty ruminations were interrupted by a phone call. It was the Watchtower.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry for the early call, kid.” Jonah recognized the voice of his friend and mentor, Oliver Queen. “Did I wake you?”

“No, I was already awake.” Jonah rubbed his restless eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

“Bad dream. I was somewhere else.”

“I understand,” Oliver said with a grave tone. He had told Jonah only a little about his time on the island. Enough for both of them to understand and connect.

“What needs to be done?” Jonah asked.

“There’s a problem in Nicaragua. Non-state actors are breaching a UN ceasefire. They requested that you specifically investigate. I’m sorry, but it looks like it’ll be a long day.”

“No, I understand.”

“The burdens of being trusted, I’m afraid,” Oliver said, referencing Jonah’s growing relationship with various UN organizations.

“Give me the intel on the way. Who could possibly be in Nicaragua that Porter himself needs to investigate?”