Storm clouds blotted out the sky, and darkness filled the land of Egypt in a way not seen in generations. It was dark, but not quiet...
*Thra-koom!* *Ka-BLAM!* *BOOM!!!*
Lightning tore across the clouds, as if attempting to claw them open for the sunlight, even as thunder threatened to deafen everyone within miles. No rain fell, but winds lashed sand everywhere, whipping at the Colossi of Rameses' temple even as it knocked down anyone foolish enough to venture outside.
At the center of the tumult, a small temple stood even as winds whirled about, churning both the sand and the clouds into a funnel surrounding it. And inside, a scream of ultimate rage matched the thunder for ferocity...
"I am -- your -- MASTER!" bellowed the man. Unnaturally tall in this day and age, the Egyptian had towered among his people at six feet tall.
His raiment was equally unusual -- he wore a headdress reserved for royalty, like an unadorned hemhemet, made of red and white cloth held with golden bands. Also was a short red sarong around his waist, and wrappings like those for holding a cestus onto a hand covered his arms and legs, gleaming as if made of solid gold. Other than that, the only noteworthy item he wore was a large golden amulet shaped like a lightning bolt. What particularly drew the eye to it at the moment was that it glowed angrily with smoke spewing from tiny cracks appearing on its surface. The amulet flashed and smoked as it twisted in the wind, its owner twisting as well, though the wind was not responsible for his suspension in the air.
Mere feet away, sprawled on the floor was a bearded man, dressed in ceremonial robes that had seen better days. The man was of incredible age, his beard having turned almost entirely white, and probably would have touched the floor even if he were standing. What hair still grew from the top of his head was not far behind. Upon first view, it was obvious he was of advanced age and almost certainly thin and weak. Then the man looked up...
Even in his face, innumerable years were reflected, but still there was power and strength. The wrinkled flesh around his eyes did not steal away a sharp, piercing glare from eyes that had seen much and knew even more. White eyebrows arched sharply as the old man slowly, painfully reached out his hand towards the tall, powerfully built Egyptian with no fear.
A growl not unlike an angry lion's escaped the golden-garbed man's lips. "I am king of the world! Your power and all your secrets are mine, wizard! Release them to me, and your end will be quick!"
Surprisingly, in face of such maddened contempt, the old man's response was calm, and tinged with a little pity and sadness. "No, I will not release you, Mighty Atum... and your end will not come for ages."
His outstretched hand glowed, causing the lightning bolt amulet to shake faster, spurting even more smoke, until finally the old man's hand suddenly snapped shut. The amulet exploded, its fragments glowing and melting into nothingness as they sprayed away from their former owner.
Instantly, the funnel of wind rushed into the temple, barely stirring anything until it tightened around Atum, launching him up through the open roof, up through a hole in the clouds, up through the sky, up, up, up... into infinity.
Helplessly, Atum saw the city of Abu Simbal turn into a golden speck beneath him as he flashed past clouds. All he could do was to scream out a final message behind himself. "I AM YOUR SUCCESSOR!" echoed from the heavens, as the old wizard painfully brought himself to his feet and vainly attempted to brush sand and dust from his tattered blue robes. He barely glanced in the direction of the voice.
Despondently, he walked out of the temple as villagers peaked their heads out of their doors. He slowly shuffled towards the city gates, guilt weighing heavily upon his shoulders. The lightning and thunder had faded away, the storm clouds dissipated as quickly as they'd appeared, and sunlight returned. The winds fell still, and nothing could be heard. All was silent... almost.
"No, there will be another."
* * *
The World's Mightiest Mortals
Chapter 1: "It Was a Dark and Lonely Knight"
Billy Batson -- ????? (Alex Linz/ Eli Marienthal)
Captain Marvel -- Jerry Doyle/ John Schneider
Shazam -- David Warner/ David Kaye
Dr. Sivana -- Paul Williams
Slade -- Richard Moll
Uncle Dudley -- Kevin Murphy
Batman/ Bruce Wayne -- Kevin Conroy
Superman/ Clark Kent -- Tim Daly/ George Newbern
The Messenger -- Christopher MacDonald and Shelley Fabares
Ebenezer Batson -- Henry Polic II
Sterling Morris -- Bob Hastings/ Lloyd Bochner
Commissioner Jim Barr/ Bulletman -- Mike Farrell
Freddy Freeman -- ?????
* * *
Metropolis has been described as New York City during the day, and Gotham City as New York after dark...
"Fawcett must be in the afternoon, then," Sterling Morris chuckled to himself, looking out the window, his eyes cast down what seemed half a mile to a small red dot on the sidewalks below. Unable to distinguish more on the fellow so far away, he looked up to find his reflection staring back at him even as another dirigible floated by, the "flying bus" taking the night shift of far too many factories and such establishments to work. The communications mogul, "just an extremely lucky TV news manager" as he preferred to think of himself, sucked in his breath sharply, wondering if some of them were on work and construction crews, taking the increasingly dangerous task of keeping this city held together.
His reflection was suddenly joined by another, sharply contrasted against the translucent six foot (plus?) tall, clean-shaven man with jet black hair (sharply combed back), large pale blue eyes, and an athletic trim. Far from it, as Sterling remembered that the bespectacled, almost double-chinned face and the whitening (although not balding, thank goodness) hair with hints of gray and a moustache belonged to him. Where does the time go? he thought, even as he good-naturedly thought that he was six-foot-who-knows too, it's just that the other foot didn't wish to relocate from his waist.
"Enjoying the view, Mr. Morris?" asked the visiting image, even as Sterling turned to its owner, visiting millionaire philanthropist (and otherwise a shiftless playboy from all accounts), Bruce Wayne.
"Except for a brief time as a child, Fawcett City's skyline has always brought a smile to my face," he responded with well-faked cheer. "Even our recent earthquake plague haven't changed that yet. And it's Sterling among friends, Bruce."
Turning away from the windows, the young turk and the old pro returned to banquet, filled with the creme de la creme of the Fawcett social calendar. Old blood and nuevo riche, city hall's old guard and the up-and-coming politicos, all standing together, jockeying for position as much on the floor here tonight as in the city's hierarchy every other day. As they walked over to a young waitress with a platter of champagne flutes, a mild look of realization and sympathy washed over Bruce's face. "Ah, the so-called Atomic Blast of 1947? I had no idea you were around then."
"I wouldn't say ‘so-called' about that day. I was a very young child then, though old enough to have an idea of what was happening," a rare glum expression washing over Sterling's face. But the familiar smile, having well pinched the area around his eyes while still in his twenties, returned. "I am as old as I look, but thank you for the compliment. Flattery will get you everywhere..."
The glum look, along with almost naked contempt, suddenly returned. "An idea he should practice sometimes," Sterling fairly spat out as he shot-gunned the first then the second glass in rapid succession before Bruce could even hold his hand out for it. Swiveling his head to follow his friend's gaze, the Gothamite socialite immediately saw the source of Sterling's angst... Ebenezer Batson.
As usual, Ebenezer was enjoying himself in his own fashion, that is to say being miserable despite all that he had in life and making sure everyone around him was miserable, too. Sitting at a table in a remote corner of the hall, wearing a a rather ill-fitting, borderline thread-bare tuxedo, he was now haranguing one of the wait staff, as if he was personally responsible, for some flaw, real or imagined, in his food. With a quite audible exhausted sigh, one of the banquet's organizers, Nora Bromfield, quickly excused herself from a guest she'd been speaking with to see if she could do anything to settle matters before Batson gave himself a heart attack...
Though she secretly hoped she would be too late, as did many of the people in the hall did, not all of them on the wait staff.
"Hateful old buzzard," Mrs. Bromfield's guest muttered to himself as he walked over to Sterling and Bruce. He was somewhere in his golden years, his blonde hair having gone a stark white, only the lines around his eyes and a slight paunch to indicate his age, the layers of his dress uniform emphasizing his height and still well-exercised form.
Hoping to take their minds off the subject, Sterling immediately introduced them. "Bruce Wayne, allow you to meet my good friend, Police Commissioner and hopefully one day Mayor James Barr," Sterling said as the younger man reached out his hand.
Absent-mindedly reaching out to return the gesture, Commissioner Barr turned to face Bruce as his fingers gave Wayne's right hand a bear hug. "Of the Gotham City Waynes? Have you met James Gordon? I met him once a few years back... nice, honest cop. Does his job well from all accounts."
"We've met. Pretty good friends depending on where we meet," a secretive smile crossing Bruce's face. "So that's Ebenezer Batson over there?"
As Sterling's face fell, his plan to keep the elder Batson off-topic blown out of the water, Barr turned back his eyes, for all the world hoping that actual daggers might pop out of them, to the gnarled troll of a man. He was now unleashing his venom, albeit slightly -- slightly -- reduced for the Bromfield matriarch, whose gaze was beginning to match that of Barr. "Merrill and Jocelyn's elder son, but only by a few years if you believe it."
Indeed, Bruce thought, the social pictures do him no justice. If such a word can be applied to him.
Years of rage, self-pity, and good old-fashioned poor hygiene had done a number on Ebenezer Batson. In his mid-forties, he looked like he was in his late seventies at best, his worn tuxedo supported by his thin, feeble frame. Standing straight, he may have been of average height but, hunched over as he was, his height seemed to max out at less than five-and-a-half feet. His hair was reduced to a few gray and white wisps hanging nearly to his neck from around the sides of his head. Worst of all was his face... his beaky nose and jutting chin seemed to be trying to touch each other, making his head below his eyes look like a crooked crescent moon. And then there was his eyes...
Ebenezer wore a large pair of wire-rimmed glasses, which only seemed to emphasize the dark circles and bags around his eyes. The eyes themselves had two things wrong about them -- first, they were never entirely still. They seemed to be constantly shifting slightly, as if examining everyone and everything they fell on for their value. Monetary value, not intrinsic, of course. Secondly, there was the slightest glimmer to them, a gleam that suggested their owner was not entirely sane.
Barr's voice snapped Bruce out of his examination. "As if the Minerva mob and Judge Printwhistle weren't bad enough, now Fawcett has to deal with Ebenezer in control of the Batson fortune, and Carlton Clutch backing him up on every deal he aims for! And with these strange earthquakes lowering real estate values day after day, they'll probably own this city lock, stock, and barrel before long. Heaven help us all then..."
Bruce instantly filed those names away for another time, but he'd left Gotham in Dick, Barbara, and Tim's hands for only one reason. "I... met the Batsons many years ago on one of their digs. I met Charles, but I never even knew he had a brother until I heard of Ebenezer's recent windfall and business ventures here lately."
"Charles? Ah, you mean poor C.C.," Sterling lamented. "He had taken over the Batson family business, if you will, along with his bride, Marilyn. A natural enough succession, of course. He was with his parents as part of the Malcolm Expedition in Thailand..."
"That's the ‘Golden Scorpion' story I've heard so much about, right?"
"Precisely. Everything he knew about archaeology, excavating, artifact dating, dead languages, all that, he learned from his mother and father first hand, so it was only natural he take over Merrill's post in the historical museum. That's how he met Marilyn, you know?"
"No, I did not. I wish I'd been there for the wedding," Bruce responded, trying to keep any sorrow from seeping in. I was taking notes and testing myself right there next to Charles for months. I got the feeling near the end that he was afraid I was out to replace him as his father's apprentice. I can only hope now that my sudden disappearance in Tibet gave him some peace of mind...
He shook himself from his reminiscence. C.C., though he'd rather talk about him, was not the Batson heir he wanted to know more about.
"Yes, but about Ebene..."
"Ebenezer, on the other hand," said Barr, giving his two cents, "is a self-serving monster. I can't believe he's even from the same gene pool."
He briefly stole another glance at the crotchety old man, now apparently satiated as much as he could ever be, sitting alone, wolfing down his dinner as if someone was going to take it away. He wasn't sure, but Barr was almost certain the lighting had dimmed where Ebenezer sat.
"Selfish old miser from day one, as far as I know. When he popped up as Fawcett's latest robber baron, I checked for any files on him. They say it all -- embezzlement, tax fraud, even connections to some extortion business, though that was never proven. Even mentions some shady dealings in one of your groups, Wayne."
A sour look, complimenting Sterling's and Barr's, crossed Bruce's face. "Not just one of my groups, Commissioner. The Wayne Foundation. He took food out of hungry children's mouths for himself." Calm yourself... "Fortunately, glitches in the books quickly popped up. Not enough to prove anything, but he was wiley enough to know when to quit and skip town before long. Thanks to some... concerned parties... all the money was reacquired, but it irks me to see him still free and now filthy rich himself." He glanced again at the town's latest power broker. There was almost no similarity between him and his parents or his brother. I was so certain that the last name was a coincidence...
"If you want to press charges, I'll help," Barr said wryly, but then grief reappeared. "Ebenezer's recent wealth was acquired legally as far as I can tell, though I still can't say honestly. C.C. and Marilyn were in a traffic accident, and with no will it all went to Ebenezer. I like to think Ebenezer was responsible, but we've never found anything to suggest foul play. I even went through the evidence myself but found nothing." Sadly, he turned his face to his glass and silently finished off his drink.
"Jim here was a chemist in forensics when he started with the police," Sterling said with a small smile, hoping to break the tension with some trivia. Surrendering to the deluge of regrets, the smile quickly faded as he absently said, "At least little Billy lived..."
"Who?"
Sterling's eyes shot up. "William Joseph Batson, C.C. and Marilyn's son. He was in the crash but survived with hardly a scratch I'm told. As I recall, his parents used to take him along with them to their dig sites like C.C.'s parents did. Had a few adventures like they did too." His head tilted back as he looked to the ceiling, trying to pull some names into remembrance. "Let's see, there was the Pyramid of the Mad Mummy, the Pendulum... the Pachyderm... uh..."
"Pandora?" Commissioner Barr suggested, smirking.
A big smile broke out on Sterling's face. "Yes! The Pandora's Box Pirates! Never could forget that. I was there when it started you know..."
"Where is William now?" Bruce interjected.
"Boarding school in England I believe. Ebenezer couldn't be bothered to raise the boy. The more distance between them the better, I say," Sterling harrumphed.
Silently, Bruce turned towards Ebenezer. Quickly tracking him across the room, his eyes narrowed as Ebenezer fairly elbowed his way through the human traffic to the entrance, hardly even grumbling a reply as Nora Bromfield wished him good night. Whether he was going to the ground level to meet a limousine, or to the building's Skyway station just to save a few coins on gas was indeterminable.
Boarding school, eh? You're not fooling anyone, Batson...
Then the building shivered...
* * *
Another sunny day in Fawcett City and, despite a small tremor the night before, its citizens were as cheered up by the brisk final days of winter weather as they went about their ways. For a change, even Billy Batson found he could barely keep himself from skipping on his way to school.
It almost would have looked natural if he had. Billy had a face seemingly built for smiling. He had a just slightly turned-up nose, and his eyes were an inviting shade of brown, which unless up close seemed to form two black dots underneath arching eyebrows. Though slightly odd, the "dot" phenomena was good, for otherwise his eyes might have contrasted with his jet black hair, which formed a series of tiny forelocks that fell over his brow in the front.
Fawcett's Art Deco-esque skyscrapers gave way to gradually smaller and smaller buildings as he made his way to his middle school, only three months into it and already feeling like a second home. Home... Billy swiftly shook his head to keep away memories of the Batson family mansion, quickly jerking his gaze towards a bank of visophones at the street corner as he crossed over to the entrance.
As a bus dropped off some students, Billy couldn't help but notice some of them already wearing a new jacket or pair of shoes. Reshouldering his backpack, Billy stole a quick glance down at his own ensemble -- a red sweater with a yellow collar, a pair of blue jeans, only lightly faded, and a slightly scuffed pair of brown shoes, once bought initially for church attendance, now the only pair he had other than some thrift shop sneakers he kept in his gym locker. Fortunately, some friends from his last years at elementary had been transferred to his middle school, and they knew of Billy's preference for red shirts and the like. Thus, so far very few questioned that he constantly wore what looked like the same outfit day after day.
Briefly, Billy pondered his love of red sweaters and shirts himself, but shook his head as he headed through the entrance towards his home room. I guess I just like how it looks on me, he thought. He began to think how it was no more explainable than his penchant for exclaiming "holey moley" before suddenly taking his mind off the subject entirely, having not only to say aloud the phrase just then but also to concentrate on regaining his balance.
Spinning around, Billy firmly planted his other foot behind himself to stop his fall, as well as bringing into his line of sight the source of this morning's trouble. He wasn't surprised at all -- "Bull" Bronsky.
The shaggy-haired, red-headed sophomore was tall enough to be a high school student, and rumor had it that he would be if he paid attention in class and kept out of detention more often. Fat chance of either happening though...
"Watch where I'm goin', dirt boy," he croaked through a mirthless smirk. "If I see a spot on my shoes, I'll send you crying home as a mummy!" He actually started to tear up as he laughed at his "joke" in his usual guttural bray.
I know a few archaeology jokes, too. "I'd like to respond, 'Bull,' but you're the only one still using ‘What's that on your shirt' jokes," Billy retorted with a humored grin and raised eyebrow, miming the set up for such a joke by pointing a finger towards "Bull"'s shirt and wagging it up. "Besides, anything up your nose needs to be in a barrel with caution signs on it, not a museum."
Any signs of laughter instantly disappeared as "Bull" lifted Billy up by his collar and brought him to eye level with him. If jokes were aimed at "Bull," they weren't jokes at all, especially if he didn't get them. "I was just jokin' before, Brat-son, now I'm really gonna..."
Out of no where, a tall man pulled Billy away and, with but a mild shove, knocked "Bull" four feet back into his still-open locker. "Knock it off... both of you," the man said, the second statement obviously made soley to not make a distinction between the two boys. The man was tall, just over six feet, with black hair, nicely combed back into a thick wave. He wore a blue-grey suit with a dark red tie, and black-rimmed glasses whose lenses muted his eyes to a pleasant grey. His face looked friendly enough, but right now the expression was all business.
"You two break it up before one of you winds up in trouble," he said. Billy was glad to capitulate and, put back on the floor, picked up his backpack and began to walk away. "Bull," however, wasn't as agreeable...
Lurching out of his locker, the young thug began to harshly blurt out, "Who are you, a new teacher? You can't talk to me like that; I'm the only one keeping this school's baseball team from being a laughing stock!" (A half-truth, if there ever was one. He'd been kicked out after one game for poor sportsmanship towards his own teammates.) "Why you going so easy on the poor little rich boy? He don't matter no more! Oughta be locked up in some orphan warehouse instead of comin' here with us real kids with real folks!"
Billy immediately stopped dead in his tracks and spun around. Fortunately, another had heard "Bull's" last pronouncement before he did anything.
"‘Mr.' Bronsky, my office, yesterday!" bellowed Miss Wormwood. A rotund, rather grandmotherly-looking dane, Miss Wormwood looked everywhere to make sure her students learned in more ways than one in her school, both knowledge, as well as dignity and respect. Disrespect towards a classmate rankled her to no end, and such outright dismissal of another's tragedy she would not tolerate in the slightest.
"Aw, come on!" was all "Bull" could get out before Miss Wormwood's thumb and forefinger began to slowly meet each other through the rim of his ear. As "Bull" began twitch painfully while grumbling every obscenity his young mind knew, Miss Wormwood cheerfully spoke to the tall bespectacled man. "I hope this doesn't come across as a demonstration of our standard student body, Mr. Kent."
"Bad apples spoil the bunch, I know, ma'am," the newly identifid Mr. Kent responded. As if of one mind, he and Miss Wormwood turned to look towards Billy Batson, but saw he was long gone. Both wished to make sure he was all right, Miss Wormwood in particular to see if he wished to speak to a guidance counselor. She'd read of his parents dying shortly after he'd started school there, and he most assuredly needed someone to talk to if he wanted closure. Plus, she wondered why he always seemed to be wearing the same clothes.
Far down the hall, one of "Bull's" fellow sophomores and former teammates lead Billy in no particular direction away from the scene, a friendly arm around his shoulder. "You kept good control over yourself, kid," said the young man, his total lack of a Southern accent contrasting sharply with the Elvis-inspired style of his hair, which other than a bluish sheen when the light hit it right was equally as crow-colored as Billy's.
"Thanks. And my name's Billy... Billy Batson," the younger student responded with an engaging smile.
The older student couldn't help but reciprocate. "Anytime. Good luck out there, and if you need me, the name's Freddy Freeman," the sophomore replied, his smile swiftly changing into a good-natured smirk to better fit his ‘50s teen rebel look, as he walked.
It was just as Billy entered home room that the familiar set of three bells played on the mounted videoscope on the wall just before Miss Wormwood started speaking. Her face slowly came into focus on the screen, holding a cheerful expression that masked any hint of the earlier unpleasantness.
"Good morning, students," as if expecting to hear everyone say "Hello, Miss Wormwood" in unison back to her. "This week the entire student body is asked to take part in a daring school project. To get today's youth involved in daily events and their community, the Fawcett City School Board, in conjunction with the Amalgamated Broadcasting Company and many other news services," whose names mostly escape me for the moment, "is holding a contest for best news report on events in the city by area students. Runners-up will receive certificates of special achievement, and the grand prize winner will be the recipient of a part-time job on board Fawcett's very own WHIZ radio network!
"And to help judge this contest, one of this contest's benefactors," still can't remember the name, "has gracefully enlisted one of their top news reporters. From Metropolis, the City of Tomorrow," she said barely keeping a giggle back, "is the Daily Planet's Pulitzer-winning Clark Kent."
Having listened to Miss Wormwood as he settled into his desk, Billy's jaw nearly dropped as the videoscope's view moved over to the tall man with glasses from earlier.
"Good morning, everyone," Clark Kent happily replied to the unseen masses. "I can honestly say the news media have helped my city, keeping them informed of what happens around them, from the lowest to the highest, to the seemingly trivial to the obviously important. Even if I weren't a newspaper reporter, I wouldn't be half as effective in my life without it," a smile crossing his face at his private joke.
"An informed public is the backbone of your community. I want to help you to see that as well, and I am happy to..."
Suddenly, the room started shaking, both Billy's classroom and the A.V. room on the videoscope, which broke up into static snow as the entire building started to feel as if it were bouncing. The teacher was immediately at the door, waving students through as they quickly, but not hurriedly, made towards the exits. Past the door, Billy kept an eye out, and thankfully grabbed ahold of Cissie Summerly's collar in front of him, stopping her as a light fixture broke off from the ceiling and crashed in front of her. Giving Billy a quick smile, that did little to hide the fear on her face, in gratitude, Cissie hopped over the wreckage and sped up her way to the doors, Billy and many others just behind her.
Meanwhile, Clark Kent was doing similar work, albeit in his own fashion. Fortunately, Miss Wormwood and the A.V. students had their backs to him as they headed for the nearest exit, and held their arms over their heads to deflect any debris. That makes everything much easier, he thought as he swiftly knocked away plaster chunks or flaying electric cables from shattered fixtures as they rained down on them. Getting a safe distance outside, Miss Wormwood let out a relaxed breath. "My, that wasn't dangerous at all, was it?"
Lowering his glasses, Kent began an X-ray search of the campus parameter, quickly concluding everyone was outside and safe. Looking around herself, a sixth sense Miss Wormwood had on the number of students and personnel in the building had already come to the same conclusion. She then sadly turned her gaze to the school itself, as the tremors subsided, leaving only a slight vibration in the ground for a moment. Windows were cracked, of course, but the smoke and dust, rising from a new hole in the gym's roof, was nearly petrifying.
It was a frightening experience, but she soon found her voice. "Mr. Kent, I don't know what's causing these earthquakes, I just know they've been happening too long. If someone here finds out what's responsible, you'll have found your winner right there, if you ask me." Mutely, the Metropolitan reporter nodded his head.
A few feet away, Billy Batson had heard every word she'd said. He'd listened well when Mr. Kent had spoken on the morning announcement just a few minutes ago. He could easily see his father saying the same thing, and he took it to heart just as well. "Don't worry, I will," he silently promised.
* * *
"Another day, another fortune," he raspily chuckled to himself, all the while rubbing his hands together as if hearing of some fiendish plan coming together.
As always, Ebenezer Batson spent the better part of the day in his newly-acquired mansion, basking in his birthright, leaving the day-to-day operations to the diploma-carrying wage-slaves of his offices in Fawcett's financial district. Nevertheless, he spent most of his time basking in his father's, and later his brother's, old study, done up into a facsimile of his downtown office, complete with an antiquated tickertape machine. There were more modern devices there too, particularly a computer with link-up to his main office, and a radio and a videoscope both constantly spewing either business or news items.
This time, all three were reporting the same thing, another earthquake that morning, this time threatening one of the city's innumerable middle schools, but fortunately with no one being injured. Too bad, was all he'd thought at the time. Too many brats underfoot in my life as it is... Any failure to threaten lives was made up by yet another decrease in property values, which his realty brokerage was more than happy to take advantage of. It was almost worth having his heart nearly stop in the elevator at one of Widow Bromfield's get-togethers last night.
His smirk quickly changed to a gasp as on the videoscope, the news team's camera fell upon a crowd of children from the school earthquake, one of them he quickly recognized. Ebenezer had rarely truly looked at his nephew, but the all too familiar red sweater with a yellow collar opened a file in his mind. "He's still living?!" he bellowed out.
"It's been what, two months? Six? A year?" he sputtered as he opened desk drawers one after another in a desperate search. "A year on the streets and he's still alive, and going to school too! He's as stubborn as his infernal father ever was!"
Having looked through the last drawer, the old man suddenly stopped and, slapping himself on the forehead, got up and walked over to a nearby fireplace. "Why do I always forget it? That's how I got here in the first place," he muttered as he pushed at one of the bricks in the mantel. The brick entered slightly and, as it popped back out, the andirons and wall at the back of the hearth slid back, revealing a secret staircase.
"If I'd never found father's secret study, I'd probably be in prison, or a guest room living on handouts from my brother, ‘Mr. Terrific'," he derisively snorted on his way down the stone steps. At the bottom, he flipped on the lights, illuminating a series of bookshelves, holding numerous old books and scrolls. The shelves and their contents had been carelessly shoved back, some fallen and leaning against the walls or other bookshelves to keep from completely toppling over.
In the center of the room lay a medium-sized altar, with a single green candle standing on it, a small box of matches laying next to it. Donning a black robe from a nearby coat rack, Ebenezer covered his head with its hood as he approached the altar. Taking out a match, he impatiently struck it and lit the candle. The changes were instant...
The flame from the candle was green itself, but an unearthly color which rose and glowed with strange light. The walls and bookshelves reflected the glow, and seemed to melt away. In its place stood a circle of seven stone thrones, each with an etching of a grotesque semihumanoid figure on them. Turning his head to make sure one was behind him, Ebenezer then sat upon one throne, its etching of a figure with a long sour face, its eyes turned to its left, where its hands were raised as if in an attempt to obscure someone's view of something, as much as they seemed in preparation to reach out and snatch something.
The thrones were set around a large O-shaped stone table which encircled, in place of the altar and the candle, a large inglenook fireplace, ablaze with green fire. Suddenly, the fire seemed to flare up and, when the flames returned to their original height, a man stood between the thrones across from Ebenezer. The man was tall and blonde, rather handsome with a fine Roman nose, and he wore what amounted to a deep green toga. The man's face briefly scowled at the old miser, but he spoke with a measure of respect nevertheless. "You have summoned me, Ebenezer Batson?"
"The brat is still alive. After all this time, he's alive and well in... my... CITY!" Ebenezer fairly screamed out. "He's going to school, no doubt out to make himself into another 'book-larned' boot-licker at the museum and take what's rightfully mine, just like my despicable brother did!" Already, images popped into his mind of burly cops dragging him away to a paddy wagon, his face a mask of tears as his hands groped for a mountain of gold pieces, formed into a throne for his greedy nephew, perched upon it and laughing derisively down at him. "You were supposed to get rid of my brother and his whole family! We have a contract!"
Unnoticed, the blonde man rolled his eyes, one would think from Ebeenzer's aggrandizing image as much as his accusatory words. He then responded calmly and patiently, though most of it was obviously forced. "Our agreement was specifically for you to gain control over the family fortune. My obligation was fulfilled when I arranged the death of your brother and his wife. Thus, you were named the child's guardian and given control of his inheritance. That he still lives and may reach the age to take it back was a matter you had to handle yourself. You were the one who could not do what was necessary. It was your choice to merely abandon him."
As Ebenezer gritted his teeth, readying for another outburst, the blonde man suddenly closed his eyes and cocked his head, as if hearing something. His eyes reopened and he spoke, "However, young William's health is of importance to us as well."
Slowly, he walked around the table to join Ebenezer, gesturing at the empty thrones. "There are still empty seats to fill, and you will be glad to know that one who I have watched as a possible... applicant is even now making moves to settle the Batson factor..."
Ebenezer's frown slowly pulled up into a smile, but his expression turned worried with the blonde man's next words. "But he must act soon. The danger the Batson child poses to the Council grows increasingly great."
"Danger? To us? What danger, Oggar?" the miser asked, but the green flames suddenly flared again. When lights stopped flashing and his vision returned, Ebenezer was left alone in his father's secret study, the candle extinguished.
* * *
It was night time, and Billy had barely sold ten newspapers all night long. Surprising, as the spot he picked to hawk the Morning Herald at the corner of Slumm and Ninth was right at the entrance of the theater district. Unfortunately, he considered, it was also very near the closed subway stations, abandoned since the Fawcett Skyway project was completed.
Looking down the street at the mouth of the abandoned station he now called home, Billy turned his eyes back on the morning paper. It would be several hours before he got tomorrow's edition, reporting the trouble at his school, but doubtlessly they would mention that Batson Realty and Investment Brokerage Enterprises buying up even more buildings and businesses from frightened owners and stockholders cheap. From what some of the delivery men had said the last few days, the Herald might be announcing new owners itself soon. Trying to keep his mind off that dread possibility, Billy looked up high at one of the Skyway's tracks, examining it as it trailed off into the distance, going through one of Fawcett's many skyscrapers. The main offices of Amalgamated Broadcasting and WHIZ radio, judging from the radio tower on top of it.
Depending on who you asked, the Skyway was either the latest in maglev technology and urban transportation engineering, or just a glorified elevated train system. Either way, it was impressive, giving its passengers nearly a bird's eye of Fawcett City as it took them around the city, often directly to mini-stations within the city's greater buildings. More impressive still was the city landscape itself, which many credited for the Skyway's popularity.
After the Atomic Blast of ‘47, Fawcett was swiftly rebuilt under a forward-thinking plan to recreate it as the city of tomorrow. The future... today, it had proudly proclaimed. Although many argued that the plans were too based upon old sci-fi pulp magazine covers, the scientific minds enlisted had made them a reality. Skyscrapers became gleaming spires and mountains of steel and glass, even as the nascent television and telephone technology of the time was advanced to create the videoscopes and visophones still in operation today. Even computers, while still pre-electronic and requiring punch cards, were advanced and miniaturized to nearly desktop size. Thus, the names of Thomas Kilowatt, Professor Edgewise, Smott, and many others were praised as the city's second set of founders, even poor Charles Langley, though his spot in any museum was small to say the least, and the power companies were reluctant to link themselves to modern day Frankensteins...
Billy had ridden the Skyway a few times, even after Uncle Ebenezer had kicked him out. But what money he made from his newspaper job, which had started out as simple paper route from home and since devolved to hawking leftover papers while tomorrow's news was assembled, had to be saved for food and laundry. Don't have many of them, but I gotta keep my clothes together. I might wind up a ward of the state if anyone finds out. Worse still, they might try to stick me back with Uncle Ebenezer. He'll probably go for the "bag of kittens off a bridge" routine next time...
Suddenly, his erstwhile guardian became the least of his problems. It had begun to drizzle, but the figure approaching was all too familiar. Billy had been in for some gentle ribbing from classmates after a mid-afternoon announcement to thank students for keeping their heads during the earthquake had named a few names, his included. However, any talk of him and Cissie Summerly up in a tree was probably the furthest thing from "Bull" Bronsky's mind. "H-holey moley," he sputtered out as the lumbering form ahead fell into focus despite the downpour.
"Lookie, lookie. The big shot hero pushin' dead leaves," "Bull" growled to no one in particular. "No out-of-towner who don't know his own business to save you this time, Wonder Man. Miss Wormfood give you a medal today, or am I gonna have to beat you up and say I took one from ya anyway, huh?"
Bravery and knowledge that he was no match for Bronsky in a fight briefly warred inside of him, then Billy quickly turned and sprinted for the mouth of the subway. Bronsky started almost as quickly, but slipped and fell in a quickly formed puddle of water between him and his target.
As he closed the gap between himself and the mouth of the subway, Billy suddenly realized that the gate leading into the station and the tunnel would be locked tight, leaving a dead end for Bronsky to get his hands on him. As he decided to go past the entrance, a tall figure, dressed all in a dark green trenchcoat and fedora, suddenly walked out of the subway, and Billy barely skidded to a halt before hitting him.
The stranger's face was kept in a shadow by the hat, but the outlines of his face and posture of his body seemed familiar depending on how he moved. Or was the term "he" proper? A voice that seemed strangely masculine and feminine simultaneously, as if a man and woman were speaking together, floated from the strange figure's face. "Why aren't you home in bed, son?"
Somehow, the infliction in the way the voice (voices?) said "son" made Billy stop and forget about Bronsky. Strangely trusting of this figure, he answered with the whole truth. "I, er -- don't have a home, uh, sir. I sleep in the subway station. It's warm there, and --"
"Bat-SON!" rumbled from down the street. "Bull" was limping from his fall but he was still starting to gain on the smaller classmate.
Holey moley. Looking for a rescuer, Billy turned back to the trenchcoated figure. The stranger had turned away from Billy but, as "he" walked down the stairs to the subway, "his" voice trailed behind, calm and reassuring. "Follow me."
At the bottom of the stairs, they were met by a locked gate. Looking over his shoulder for signs of the oversized sophomore, Billy tried to explain the problem of going down into the subway station. "Your wasting your time, mister. This station's closed. See? This old gate's as far as you can --"
A gentle push, and the stranger opened the gate as easily as if there was no lock at all. Spellbound, Billy followed "him" up to the edge of the tunnel. Trying to restore a sense of reality to these proceedings, he voiced, "Well, maybe you got the gate open, but there's still no train gonna come through here tonight. We better --"
A distant rumbling silenced him instantly. A pair of lights, brighter than any spotlight, and possessed of an unnatural glow appeared down the in the darkness of the tunnel. A moment later, a huge subway train, jet black with red streaks along the sides and top flew into the station, only to slow and stop instantly before Billy and the stranger. There were a few windows along the sides for passengers to look out of apparently, but none for a conductor to use. There seemed to be no openings at all, until a circular door slid open on the side facing them. Following the stranger, Billy entered through the door, noticing that a series of designs, most triangles, circles, and other geometric shapes, along the side of the train were, up close, intricate engravings of ancient pyramids and astronomical figures.
Inside, the train was empty except for row after row of high-backed passenger seats, with the only decorations being another series of ancient arcane designs, almost like hieroglyphics, along the walls and ceiling. The stranger and Billy randomly picked and sat upon two well-cushioned seats, the train suddenly starting to move the instant they'd sat down. Looking out the window, Billy saw the subway station quickly disappear, replaced by a tunnel made an indistinguishable blur, the train having accelerated to an astonishing speed. "Have no fear," the stranger suddenly spoke up. "Everything has been arranged."
In what felt like only a few moments, the train suddenly decelerated to a stop and the door slid open again. Looking out the windows, Billy saw only rough stone walls and, once they'd disembarked, found that the train had stopped inside a massive cavern. Looking into the gloom beyond, Billy at first thought he saw one, perhaps two figures, walking upright but reptilian in appearance, spying on them from behind boulders. His attention was diverted by the stranger's voice.
The man (?) in green pointed to a doorway cut into the rock wall, eerily lit by a single torch. "Through this doorway, you will meet him -- alone," the figure said, with evident melancholy. Giving the stranger one last look as he walked past him, Billy walked through the entrance into...
A hallway, carved long ago from the rough cave walls, the length of it lined along its left by a series of large, grotesque statues. Seven there were of them, vaguely humanoid in shape, eerily lit by a small fire before each of them. On the wall above them was carved in large English, "The Seven Deadly Enemies of Man," and likewise was each statue's name carved before them on the long dais they were situated upon.
In the distance, at the end of the hall, Billy espied an elevated stone throne with a high back, flanked by a large stone globe, and a large tome that, even tilted, reached the throne's right arm. Upon the throne sat a man, apparently very old, as his robes were a very faded blue, nearly white, and his beard nearly reached down to the floor. He also noticed other "decorations" around the throne, a tall brazier a few feet to the right of the throne, its flame weakly waning. Above the throne, most astonishing of all, a perfectly rectangular block of stone, perhaps granite, held aloft by what looked to be a single thread. And the thread didn't look to be doing a very good job.
Concentrated on the block of granite and the elderly man beneath it, Billy swiftly walked down the length of the hallway. He barely gave the seven statues any attention, and probably would have done the same if he'd had the time. One after another, the statues were listed Pride, Envy, Greed, Hatred, Selfishness, Laziness, and finally, Injustice. Each statue was colored sickly shades of green or red or grey, even pink and blue, and each statue's expression and arms were arranged in a representative caricature of covetous, rage, or deluded self-worth.
Reaching the end of the hall, Billy spoke up. "Er -- that stone block over your head, sir -- it --" he nervously stammered, seeing the thread start to fray as tiny strands of it, one by one, broke off, yet the stone remained immobile above the bearded man's head.
"Welcome, Billy Batson," a voice, cultured and aged, rumbled from the bearded man's lips, his eyes now clearly opened, examining the boy. Mere feet from the old man, Billy could now see, despite his age, the man held great force of will, reflected in his eyes, filled with power and old wisdom. These eyes were now upon him, and Billy felt them looking not only at him, but through him, as if at his very soul.
"H-How did you know my name?" was all he could say.
A melancholy smile seemed to form beneath the whiskers. "I know everything. I am -- SHAZAM!" At the utterance of the old man's name, a small storm cloud briefly enveloped the stone slab and a bright bolt of lightning flashed through the room. Looking where the lightning bolt had darted, Billy's jaw dropped. On the cave wall behind the brazier, the old man's name had appeared in large red letters, but slanted like on a crossword puzzle, allowing more words to start off with each letter.
But they weren't just all just words. They were names. Names Billy had heard many a time on his parents' expedition. Ancient names. Powerful names. They formed a list...
Solomon -- Wisdom
Hercules -- Strength
Atlas -- Stamina
Zeus -- Power
Achilles -- Courage
Mercury -- Speed
And in that instant, Billy Batson knew his life would never be the same again...
As the smoke cleared and the thunder's echoes faded away, Billy's eyes returned to the bearded elder, the effect of him announcing his name obviously being of no surprise to him.
"Listen to me, son," he said, a small sense of urgency in his voice. "For thousands of years, I have used the powers which the ancient gods and heroes have given to me to fight on the side of righteousness, to battle the faces of evil which, every day, threaten to extinguish humanity from the face of the earth."
Whoa, back up here. "Did you say -- thousands of years?"
The old man smiled at the boy's slowly dawning realization of the hand fate was about to play in his life. "Yes," he responded matter of factly. "And during that time I have seen everything -- known everything -- that has happened throughout the world, from the highest to the lowest."
As he continued to speak, Shazam shifted in his throne to his right. "I have used many means, but most effectively... The Historama!" He loudly clapped, and the wall facing him seemed to stir, then shimmered, as a vision of a baby in a crib appeared.
His head still spinning from one miraculous bombshell to another, Billy carefully reached out to the moving vision in an attempt to touch it. He was about to ask if it was some new kind of videoscope when he recognized the crib in the picture. "You mean -- that's me!?" he blurted out as he turned back to the wizard.
Shazam smiled and nodded his head. "By means of it, Billy, I have watched you since the moment you were born..."
Noticing the scene swirl and change out of the corner of his eye, Billy turned his gaze back to the Historama... and immediately wished he hadn't. He'd never particularly cared for his uncle Ebenezer, but the day he'd harshly thrown him out of the family mansion, literally, was without question the second most painful day of his life. His hand to his face, Billy could barely keep his sob stifled as he saw himself, trying to painfully stand back up outside the servants' entrance even as Ebenezer carelessly threw a half-closed battered suitcase out with him, its meager contents of a few random clothes and nicknacks spilling out in its wake. For the first time in weeks, Billy remembered how he'd never found his good luck charm pendant among them. Uncle Ebenezer must have kept it, of course, he thought with, surprisingly, only slight bitterness. It looked like it was made of gold, after all.
Seeing the boy compose himself, Shazam ended his sympathetic silence and began speaking again. "On this screen, I saw your parents die," he sadly confessed, "leaving you in the care of your uncle Ebenezer. And from this distance, I saw you cast out by your cruel uncle, soon after, to make your own way in the world."
The Historama then swirled again to show one last image, one of Ebenezer greedily going through a strongbox full of numerous bonds, coins, and dollar bills. Any smile brought to his face by the sight of the small fortune was obviously gone as Ebenezer now mirthlessly counted and calculated the assembled inheritance, as if fearing his brother had short-changed him from the grave. "I know he got rid of you to gain possession of the money and bonds your father willed to you," Shazam spoke one last time of Ebenezer as the Historama then faded away, leaving a normal, undisturbed stone wall.
To his credit, any anger Billy felt towards this final revelation of his uncle's treachery did not show as he returned his attention to the wizard. In fact, the focus of his concern was quite diverted away from himself... more threads in the bare strand had given away, though the granite block still had not stirred at all. But still...
"Yeah, I guess that's the way it was, all right. But, mister -- " another thread popped " -- don't you see that granite block over your head?" And another... "It's gotta weigh tons -- and there's nothing holding it up but those fraying threads!" So intent upon the thread that Billy didn't notice that, for each breaking thread, the flame in the brazier nearby ever so slightly wavered out that much more.
The elder man waved his hand, silently dismissing the boy's questions have if they were of no concern. The answer would soon become apparent on its own.
"All my life I have fought injustice and cruelty, but I am old now... my time is almost up." He leaned forward slightly in his throne, studying the boy as he spoke. "Within you, who have persevered without complaining, I sense the worthy soul I have been seeking. You shall be my successor."
Sitting up straight, Shazam spoke with sudden authority, "Billy Batson -- Speak my name!"
Without thinking about it, the young boy opened his mouth and heard himself shout out, "SHAZAM!"
More sensing it than hearing it, Billy knew another storm cloud had suddenly appeared, and felt the lightning bolt stab into him. He felt no pain, only a great sense of... awakening. Every feeling of ache or fatigue in his body vanished as if it never existed, replaced with an almost euphoric feeling of vitality. Even more refreshing was the feeling in his mind... one of absolute clarity. It was as if a light had gone on in his head and, as the smoke cleared, he looked around and felt as if he were truly seeing the world for the first time. Then he looked down upon himself.
His hands were different, as were the sleeves on them. Giving his clothes their second inspection of the day, he saw that they were gone, replaced by a sort of uniform. The ends of his sweater arms were now covered by bands, like those of a cestus, made of what looked like spun gold, which encircled his forearms nearly up to his elbows. A similar golden sheen came off his boots, which ended nearly a half-foot below his knees with an almost buccaneer-like fold. A feeling of something behind his back alerted him to a relatively short white cape, like those of an operetta soldier on the theater posters, embroidered with more spun gold, and lined with small loops of cord that formed a vaguely familiar shape, like four-leafed flowers. Trying to look down his chin, he noticed that the cape was held on by a thick golden cord around his neck that was joined together by a single medallion that neatly went under the fold that formed the cape's collar.
Looking down his chin brought to his attention the new shape of his sweater and jeans. They were gone, replaced by a pair of riding breeches (almost like jodhpurs but without those weird wide hips) and a jerkin, both snug without being skin tight, and were a bright, candy apple shade of red. A golden sash encircled his waist which the bottom edge of his jerkin disappeared under, effectively making his jerkin and breeches look to be one-piece.
Furthermore, the jerkin had a button-up flap with a single gold button near his right shoulder. Most startling of all was the decoration on the front of his jerkin. Embriodered down Billy's chest in more golden thread was an almost triangular lightning bolt, flat on the top and having two sharp angles before ending in a point, slanting the crest off towards his right hip.
Examining his hands again, Billy noticed they were larger now, thicker, and tingling with strength. Touching his face, he felt it had changed as well. Were there a mirror present, he would have been able to better inspect himself. He was now older, at least in his mid-twenties, though his face, despite a manly cleft chin, thicker eyebrows, and a more mature hair style (swept flat against his head from his widow's peak), still had an appealing boyish charm about it. His body was also far taller now at six feet and five inches, as well as being muscular and well-toned, robust and broad-shouldered yet still equally formed for athletics, gymnastics, and weight lifting.
The newfound light in his head was active, but Billy still needed some guidance to make sense of what had happened. Looking up from his self-inspection, he looked to the wizard. "I'm a grown-up! I -- I'm not Billy Batson anymore! Who am I?" Too intent on his host was he to notice the deep resonant tones his voice now rang in.
Rising from his throne, Shazam raised a hand in a time-honored expression of respect. "You are -- Captain Marvel! I salute you! Henceforth, it shall be your duty to defend the poor and helpless, to use your gifts to right wrongs and crush evil wherever you may find it."
"Uh... yes, sir." Captain Marvel? That's a little ostentatious, the newly named Captain thought, surprise at the sudden growth in his vocabulary not even entering his head. He then heard another thread pop. Looking back up at the granite block one more time, a dread realization began to come over him. No, he can't be...
"That block, you know -- " he fumbled, "it's still up there -- and that strand's getting thinner all the time!" He looked back to the wizard, who was again seated upon his throne, and breathing rather heavily. "You know, all you've got to do to avoid it is to move..."
The wizard, looking weaker than ever before, wearily shook his head. "Alas, one cannot evade one's destiny that easily, my son." Taking a few more breathes, he looked up and, with an expression of finality, gazed right into the Captain's eyes. "And now, I must go."
With a sharp intake of air, his spoke with that same unquestionable authority one last time. "Captain Marvel -- speak my name!"
With sad acceptance, the Captain opened his mouth. "Shazam!"
And all at once, the flame blew out, a storm cloud appeared, and a final thread broke. And the crash of thunder and granite, for a brief second, merged to form one powerful explosion...
of Chapter One
Captain Marvel created by C.C. Beck and Bill Parker
Batman created by Bob Kane
Superman created by Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster
Captain Marvel, Batman, Superman, and all related characters trademark of DC Comics