Post by Exusiai on Jan 29, 2022 2:22:41 GMT -5
Timely Adventure Publications Present
JOURNEY INTO MYSTERY
Issue 01: Of Gods and Men part I
By Keith Leighton
Prologue
----------
There came a time when the Old Gods died! The brave died alongside the cunning! The noble perished, locked in battle with unleashed Evil! It was the last day for them! An ancient era was passing in fiery holocaust! The final moment came with the fatal release of indescribable power — which tore the home of the Old Gods asunder, and filled the universe with the blinding death-flash of its destruction!*
But death is only the beginning. So magnificent was the least moment of their lives that even through the millennium, the memory of their words and deeds continues to whisper in the minds of mortals. They only need to be found, and awakened.
New York-Presbyterian Hospital
August 5th
----------
Donald Blake was wrist-deep in the abdomen of another human being. This was of course something he was used to. Being one of the head surgeons at Presbyterian did that for you. This particular gentleman was on Dr. Blake’s table due to G.S.W., or a “Gun Shot Wound”. Donald was doing his best to remove the bullet, which was lodged in the man’s small intestine, without causing more internal bleeding. As he stood there, looking into the bowels of his patient, it appeared to him that for the briefest of seconds the man was wearing armor. An armor that radiated an unearthly ethereal glow underneath the floodlights the O.R. What was more, instead of a bullet, in that flash of a second, Don was attempting to withdraw an ax head.
Donald shook his head to clear his vision, as a nurse sponged away sweat from his brow. He looked back down at the abdomen of his patient, and there was the cut he made with his own scalpel. No ax, no armor. Just as he was about to question the vision he felt the bullet with the tips of his fingers. Pulling one of his hands from the man’s body, he held it out to one of his assistants on the left.
"Re-tractor." It was a simple request spoken with a commanding, humble, authority. Donald Blake was the master of this room, and his voice carried the weight of the world. For Dr. Blake, even a whisper was as loud as thunder.
The nurse passed the requested tool into his skilled hands, and after a few more moments he had succeeded in extracting the offending lump of lead from the gentleman's innards. He dropped the blood-soaked bullet into a nearby metal pan. An action that filled the room with the familiar clink of metal on metal. From there, it was only a matter of sewing up the damaged and bleeding intestines. Cleaning out the materials that had leaked them to prevent infection was the next step, and then closing up the patient would follow that. Donald left the final task to the attending nurse, it was something he could handle without difficulty, and it gave the man working on his doctorate experience.
Dr. Blake stepped into post-op and removed the blood-stained gloves and apron. Afterward, he disposed of them in the proper bio-hazard bin. He looked around the room for a moment and then walked over to the large pane glass window. He pressed his arm to the warm glass and his head to his forearm, and he looked out over the New York skyline.
In the past few months, the world had changed. Coast City out in California was now home to what reports stated was an intergalactic police officer, something called a “Green Lantern”. The Gotham City Gazette spoke of rumors of a man-bat terrorizing that city’s underworld. The Daily Bugle was running articles about a Spider-Man, who editor J. Jonah Jameson swore was, a menace plaguing the streets of Manhattan. The Daily Planet had articles daily about the now-famous Superman who seemed to have settled in Metropolis after stopping a terrorist attack against the World Trade towers and the Pentagon. From here Don could even make out the Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four, the world's first "Superhero family".
He had read their story with some interest. Of course, Don had been an avid follower of Dr. Reed Richard's medical work. So when it was announced that Dr. Richards would be testing his experimental spaceplane "Excelsior", it was with detached curiosity that Donald had followed that story too. Thanks to the power of the internet, and Dr. Richard’s insistence of full disclosure, Don had followed the ship’s progress from its launch; to the loss of contact due to a; cosmic storm; to the plane's miraculous rescue over the streets of Metropolis by the aforementioned Superman. It was soon learned that the crew of the Excelsior had also been changed by the storm, each of them granted fantastic powers beyond those of mortal men. They went public offering their super-powered and scientific abilities to the community at large.
Donald sighed as he thought about all of this, a soft chuckle to himself. "I guess the world still needs heroes," he said to no one in particular since the room was empty. There was something about that which spoke to him, it had been almost six decades since the world had “heroes”, and perhaps it was time for them to return.
He turned and walked away from the window and the Baxter Building shining in the distance, headed for the locker room. His original twelve-hour shift had somehow transformed into a twenty-four-hour shift, and he was looking forward to getting home to his bed so that he could get three hours of sleep before his flight left. At least he had his vacation to look forward to, nothing else could possibly go wrong.
Elsewhere
----------
A frail, thin and twisted form stood over the bank of monitors, their light bathing the pale skin of his face in an unhealthy glow. That face along with the skeletal fingers of his hands, which danced across the controls and adjusted dials and flicking a switch here or there as they went, were the only things visible from beneath the folds of his dark purple robes. He was at appearance an elderly man, aged and drawn and yet somehow still strong. His expression was a mixture of scientific curiosity and malicious intent, like a cruel child who had discovered some new animal and was pondering which way would be the longest and most painful method of torturing the poor thing to death.
Thus was the mind of Desaad.
He adjusted a number of dials and devices. Over one of the screens what appeared to be an arm ending in a magnification lens moved in a macabre dance with his gestures until it settled on a blue planet third from its sun. As he continued to attune and fidget with his device a shadow fell over his form, enveloping him in darkness.
Desaad froze feeling the presence, the power of his master behind him. The voice which spoke to him sounded as if it came from the heart of a volcano, and carried the power of his master in every single word.
"Desaad?" Just the sound of his name on the lips of his master was enough to make the frail man tremble in fear. "You 'summoned' me?" There was a touch of mild amusement mixed with annoyance as if anyone could ever summon the being from which it came.
Desaad turned to face the shadow; the pale glow of his monitors upon his face was nothing to the blood-red glow of his master's eyes. Desaad stammered as he answered the shadow. "I.. I.. would ne.. never dare 's.. summon' you Milord,” Desaad’s resolve quickened as he remembered why he had sent the missive to his Lord. “Merely request the honor of an audience to share my discovery with you."
The shadow, and therefore the glow of his eyes loomed closer. "A discovery?” There was a pose as Desaad’s master took that in. “And what trivial matter have you brought to my attention this time Tormentor?" The shadow's voice was full of power that would most assuredly shatter a normal human's bones if they were to hear him speak. It was for this reason, the pain his master’s voice brought to him, the sweet exquisite pain, for which Desaad was grateful to be a god. He quickly turned back to the monitors and gestured with one of his frail hands to the blue planet indicated there.
The shadow drew closer, more quickly this time, the anger in his voice reverberated in Desaad's bones. "You know as well as I The Pact means that insignificant spec of an inferior world is off limits!" Desaad could feel the heat hid master’s eyes against his skin now. "Do you entice me to start a war?"
Desaad shook his head, while a sadist; he was also a coward and would never betray his master. Well, at least not unless there was someone more powerful to take his place. He protested. "No, no great Lord, but look," he gestured again cowering as he did. "Look at what the viewer shows."
He could feel his master's shadow shift off of him and move to the viewer, and after moments of deep dreadful silence he could hear the smile in his master's voice, and even then it was a hateful, evil smile. "Are you telling me that a relic of the Old Gods rests on that pathetic world?"
"Yes Master." replied the sadist. "And it lies in a remote region, far from their civilizations." He rose to move near, but not quite to his master's side when he spoke his voice was full of the promise of power and the guile of trickery. "A small force, no more than four or six, would go unnoticed by the dogs of our enemies would it not My Lord?"
The shadow chuckled, a deep, wicked, scornful sound; and then it turned towards his adviser and smiled. "Send them Desaad. Bring me the relic and your place in my legion will be forever secured."
North Sea Airspace
August 7th
----------
Donald was flying. This in and of itself was not devastating if it wasn’t for the fact that he seemed to be flying under his own power. What was more disconcerting was the fact that he was flying over a battlefield. Below him, tens upon hundreds of what appeared to be men battled with that appeared to be giants, both red and blue-skinned. A great serpent was in the midst of the battle. The warriors were armed not only with blades and melee weapons of all shapes and sizes, but also with contraptions that spit bolts of plasma, and ions ate their enemies.
Donald landed amid the battlefield, noticing a weapon in his hand, one he couldn’t quite make out. The great serpent, five times his size, turned and struck.
Don startled awake in the first-class seat of the 747 he was aboard. His hand instinctively went to his chest where he was certain he’d just been stabbed. It took a moment of searching his body a quick self-diagnostic as it were before he realized the other passengers around him were staring at him as if they may call for the Air Marshall. He grimaced a bit and then smiled at the oldest of them. “Bad Dream.”
And yet it had felt so real. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. He could still feel the weight of the armor on his shoulders. He could still hear the ring of steel on steel. He took a moment to look around the compartment again, a few still stared others had gone back to their business. Don shook his head and made his way to the washroom. Coldwater splashed on his face and he looked at himself in the mirror, and for the briefest of seconds, a crimson-haired bearded face stared back where a blond clean face should have been. Another splash of water and all that was left of the hallucination were the blue eyes that matched the eyes of the good doctor.
Don was about to question it when the pilot came on the air. “Ladies and gentlemen this is your Captain speaking. We will be starting our descent to Oslo Airport. The local temperature is 20 degrees Celsius. The skies are clear and the local resorts are reporting fresh powder on the slopes.” There was a pause “Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts, and thank you for flying Norwegian Air.”
As Donald returned to his seat he looked out the window at the mountains below. Who knew maybe a week of skiing would make these nightmares that had plagued him for the past month go away.
"Yeah," he said to himself. "Maybe."
Oslo Norway
Trysil Ski Resort;
August 8th
----------
Don soared down one of the slopes, the cold wind whipping against his face. The same face that bore a smile that was almost ear to ear. He altered the angle of his body, shifting his weight left, and then right to avoid a tree here and a rock there. This was pure freedom. His troubles, his nightmares were behind him. It was him against the cold frozen mountain, and something about that felt... right.
He altered the angle of his body once more pulling to a stop just before a sheer drop and, letting his ski poles dangle from his wrists, pulled his goggle up to look over the scenery below him. The Drop was roughly twenty vertical feet and below that was more fresh powder and a rocky wooded terrain stretched out. The ski trail went to his right but right now all Don wanted to do was look and enjoy the serenity. This was the reason he'd chosen to come here in the first place. Compared to the noise of New York City, this was paradise.
But of course, paradise couldn't last forever. This was expressed by a massive BOOM that echoed across the mountain. Don's head snapped back behind him and he watched in horror as the snowfield he'd just come down cracked, splintered, and then started to slide towards him. An avalanche of ice and snow raced towards him at breakneck speeds. He glanced left and then right, there was no way he could get out of its way in either of those directions.
Steeling himself against what was before him he quickly pulled the goggles back down and shifted throwing himself skies first over the edge, whispering a silent prayer to whatever god would listen that the snow twenty feet below him was soft enough.
On another facet of the mountain, the source of the noise that had caused the avalanche was fading from existence. A shimmering tunnel composed of rippling circles of light was fading from view. Standing near its end, as if they had just exited the "tube" were four beings. To call them men was an insult. They stood nearly seven feet tall and nearly half as broad in the shoulder. Massive muscles lay hidden under a skin-tight sheen of emerald armor. Over this was a golden harness with short wing-like appendages protruding from the shoulders.
They carried massive guns in their clawed hands, and their helmet-covered heads searched the area around them. One of them was consulting a box-like device held in his free hand and muttering to the others in a language no tongue on earth could speak, nor an ear comprehend.
Don hit the snow like an expert and started down the mountain racing to stay ahead of the encroaching snow. He glanced back and watched it cascade like a white waterfall over the cliff he just come down. Emboldened by this sight he willed himself to go faster. Poles hit snow he angled his body, as the roar of the snow grew ever closer. No matter the effort he put into it Donald Blake was engulfed by the avalanche. As his body tumbled and twisted in the blackness of the snow. Above the roar, he could hear voices. Screams echoing like thunder. Weapons explode like lightning. And then, silence and darkness.
*New Gods #1 - 1971 Thank you to Jack Kirby, without who the gods would still walk only in the imaginations of man.
JOURNEY INTO MYSTERY
Issue 01: Of Gods and Men part I
By Keith Leighton
Prologue
----------
There came a time when the Old Gods died! The brave died alongside the cunning! The noble perished, locked in battle with unleashed Evil! It was the last day for them! An ancient era was passing in fiery holocaust! The final moment came with the fatal release of indescribable power — which tore the home of the Old Gods asunder, and filled the universe with the blinding death-flash of its destruction!*
But death is only the beginning. So magnificent was the least moment of their lives that even through the millennium, the memory of their words and deeds continues to whisper in the minds of mortals. They only need to be found, and awakened.
----------
New York-Presbyterian Hospital
August 5th
----------
Donald Blake was wrist-deep in the abdomen of another human being. This was of course something he was used to. Being one of the head surgeons at Presbyterian did that for you. This particular gentleman was on Dr. Blake’s table due to G.S.W., or a “Gun Shot Wound”. Donald was doing his best to remove the bullet, which was lodged in the man’s small intestine, without causing more internal bleeding. As he stood there, looking into the bowels of his patient, it appeared to him that for the briefest of seconds the man was wearing armor. An armor that radiated an unearthly ethereal glow underneath the floodlights the O.R. What was more, instead of a bullet, in that flash of a second, Don was attempting to withdraw an ax head.
Donald shook his head to clear his vision, as a nurse sponged away sweat from his brow. He looked back down at the abdomen of his patient, and there was the cut he made with his own scalpel. No ax, no armor. Just as he was about to question the vision he felt the bullet with the tips of his fingers. Pulling one of his hands from the man’s body, he held it out to one of his assistants on the left.
"Re-tractor." It was a simple request spoken with a commanding, humble, authority. Donald Blake was the master of this room, and his voice carried the weight of the world. For Dr. Blake, even a whisper was as loud as thunder.
The nurse passed the requested tool into his skilled hands, and after a few more moments he had succeeded in extracting the offending lump of lead from the gentleman's innards. He dropped the blood-soaked bullet into a nearby metal pan. An action that filled the room with the familiar clink of metal on metal. From there, it was only a matter of sewing up the damaged and bleeding intestines. Cleaning out the materials that had leaked them to prevent infection was the next step, and then closing up the patient would follow that. Donald left the final task to the attending nurse, it was something he could handle without difficulty, and it gave the man working on his doctorate experience.
Dr. Blake stepped into post-op and removed the blood-stained gloves and apron. Afterward, he disposed of them in the proper bio-hazard bin. He looked around the room for a moment and then walked over to the large pane glass window. He pressed his arm to the warm glass and his head to his forearm, and he looked out over the New York skyline.
In the past few months, the world had changed. Coast City out in California was now home to what reports stated was an intergalactic police officer, something called a “Green Lantern”. The Gotham City Gazette spoke of rumors of a man-bat terrorizing that city’s underworld. The Daily Bugle was running articles about a Spider-Man, who editor J. Jonah Jameson swore was, a menace plaguing the streets of Manhattan. The Daily Planet had articles daily about the now-famous Superman who seemed to have settled in Metropolis after stopping a terrorist attack against the World Trade towers and the Pentagon. From here Don could even make out the Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four, the world's first "Superhero family".
He had read their story with some interest. Of course, Don had been an avid follower of Dr. Reed Richard's medical work. So when it was announced that Dr. Richards would be testing his experimental spaceplane "Excelsior", it was with detached curiosity that Donald had followed that story too. Thanks to the power of the internet, and Dr. Richard’s insistence of full disclosure, Don had followed the ship’s progress from its launch; to the loss of contact due to a; cosmic storm; to the plane's miraculous rescue over the streets of Metropolis by the aforementioned Superman. It was soon learned that the crew of the Excelsior had also been changed by the storm, each of them granted fantastic powers beyond those of mortal men. They went public offering their super-powered and scientific abilities to the community at large.
Donald sighed as he thought about all of this, a soft chuckle to himself. "I guess the world still needs heroes," he said to no one in particular since the room was empty. There was something about that which spoke to him, it had been almost six decades since the world had “heroes”, and perhaps it was time for them to return.
He turned and walked away from the window and the Baxter Building shining in the distance, headed for the locker room. His original twelve-hour shift had somehow transformed into a twenty-four-hour shift, and he was looking forward to getting home to his bed so that he could get three hours of sleep before his flight left. At least he had his vacation to look forward to, nothing else could possibly go wrong.
----------
Elsewhere
----------
A frail, thin and twisted form stood over the bank of monitors, their light bathing the pale skin of his face in an unhealthy glow. That face along with the skeletal fingers of his hands, which danced across the controls and adjusted dials and flicking a switch here or there as they went, were the only things visible from beneath the folds of his dark purple robes. He was at appearance an elderly man, aged and drawn and yet somehow still strong. His expression was a mixture of scientific curiosity and malicious intent, like a cruel child who had discovered some new animal and was pondering which way would be the longest and most painful method of torturing the poor thing to death.
Thus was the mind of Desaad.
He adjusted a number of dials and devices. Over one of the screens what appeared to be an arm ending in a magnification lens moved in a macabre dance with his gestures until it settled on a blue planet third from its sun. As he continued to attune and fidget with his device a shadow fell over his form, enveloping him in darkness.
Desaad froze feeling the presence, the power of his master behind him. The voice which spoke to him sounded as if it came from the heart of a volcano, and carried the power of his master in every single word.
"Desaad?" Just the sound of his name on the lips of his master was enough to make the frail man tremble in fear. "You 'summoned' me?" There was a touch of mild amusement mixed with annoyance as if anyone could ever summon the being from which it came.
Desaad turned to face the shadow; the pale glow of his monitors upon his face was nothing to the blood-red glow of his master's eyes. Desaad stammered as he answered the shadow. "I.. I.. would ne.. never dare 's.. summon' you Milord,” Desaad’s resolve quickened as he remembered why he had sent the missive to his Lord. “Merely request the honor of an audience to share my discovery with you."
The shadow, and therefore the glow of his eyes loomed closer. "A discovery?” There was a pose as Desaad’s master took that in. “And what trivial matter have you brought to my attention this time Tormentor?" The shadow's voice was full of power that would most assuredly shatter a normal human's bones if they were to hear him speak. It was for this reason, the pain his master’s voice brought to him, the sweet exquisite pain, for which Desaad was grateful to be a god. He quickly turned back to the monitors and gestured with one of his frail hands to the blue planet indicated there.
The shadow drew closer, more quickly this time, the anger in his voice reverberated in Desaad's bones. "You know as well as I The Pact means that insignificant spec of an inferior world is off limits!" Desaad could feel the heat hid master’s eyes against his skin now. "Do you entice me to start a war?"
Desaad shook his head, while a sadist; he was also a coward and would never betray his master. Well, at least not unless there was someone more powerful to take his place. He protested. "No, no great Lord, but look," he gestured again cowering as he did. "Look at what the viewer shows."
He could feel his master's shadow shift off of him and move to the viewer, and after moments of deep dreadful silence he could hear the smile in his master's voice, and even then it was a hateful, evil smile. "Are you telling me that a relic of the Old Gods rests on that pathetic world?"
"Yes Master." replied the sadist. "And it lies in a remote region, far from their civilizations." He rose to move near, but not quite to his master's side when he spoke his voice was full of the promise of power and the guile of trickery. "A small force, no more than four or six, would go unnoticed by the dogs of our enemies would it not My Lord?"
The shadow chuckled, a deep, wicked, scornful sound; and then it turned towards his adviser and smiled. "Send them Desaad. Bring me the relic and your place in my legion will be forever secured."
----------
North Sea Airspace
August 7th
----------
Donald was flying. This in and of itself was not devastating if it wasn’t for the fact that he seemed to be flying under his own power. What was more disconcerting was the fact that he was flying over a battlefield. Below him, tens upon hundreds of what appeared to be men battled with that appeared to be giants, both red and blue-skinned. A great serpent was in the midst of the battle. The warriors were armed not only with blades and melee weapons of all shapes and sizes, but also with contraptions that spit bolts of plasma, and ions ate their enemies.
Donald landed amid the battlefield, noticing a weapon in his hand, one he couldn’t quite make out. The great serpent, five times his size, turned and struck.
----------
Don startled awake in the first-class seat of the 747 he was aboard. His hand instinctively went to his chest where he was certain he’d just been stabbed. It took a moment of searching his body a quick self-diagnostic as it were before he realized the other passengers around him were staring at him as if they may call for the Air Marshall. He grimaced a bit and then smiled at the oldest of them. “Bad Dream.”
And yet it had felt so real. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. He could still feel the weight of the armor on his shoulders. He could still hear the ring of steel on steel. He took a moment to look around the compartment again, a few still stared others had gone back to their business. Don shook his head and made his way to the washroom. Coldwater splashed on his face and he looked at himself in the mirror, and for the briefest of seconds, a crimson-haired bearded face stared back where a blond clean face should have been. Another splash of water and all that was left of the hallucination were the blue eyes that matched the eyes of the good doctor.
Don was about to question it when the pilot came on the air. “Ladies and gentlemen this is your Captain speaking. We will be starting our descent to Oslo Airport. The local temperature is 20 degrees Celsius. The skies are clear and the local resorts are reporting fresh powder on the slopes.” There was a pause “Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts, and thank you for flying Norwegian Air.”
As Donald returned to his seat he looked out the window at the mountains below. Who knew maybe a week of skiing would make these nightmares that had plagued him for the past month go away.
"Yeah," he said to himself. "Maybe."
----------
Oslo Norway
Trysil Ski Resort;
August 8th
----------
Don soared down one of the slopes, the cold wind whipping against his face. The same face that bore a smile that was almost ear to ear. He altered the angle of his body, shifting his weight left, and then right to avoid a tree here and a rock there. This was pure freedom. His troubles, his nightmares were behind him. It was him against the cold frozen mountain, and something about that felt... right.
He altered the angle of his body once more pulling to a stop just before a sheer drop and, letting his ski poles dangle from his wrists, pulled his goggle up to look over the scenery below him. The Drop was roughly twenty vertical feet and below that was more fresh powder and a rocky wooded terrain stretched out. The ski trail went to his right but right now all Don wanted to do was look and enjoy the serenity. This was the reason he'd chosen to come here in the first place. Compared to the noise of New York City, this was paradise.
But of course, paradise couldn't last forever. This was expressed by a massive BOOM that echoed across the mountain. Don's head snapped back behind him and he watched in horror as the snowfield he'd just come down cracked, splintered, and then started to slide towards him. An avalanche of ice and snow raced towards him at breakneck speeds. He glanced left and then right, there was no way he could get out of its way in either of those directions.
Steeling himself against what was before him he quickly pulled the goggles back down and shifted throwing himself skies first over the edge, whispering a silent prayer to whatever god would listen that the snow twenty feet below him was soft enough.
----------
On another facet of the mountain, the source of the noise that had caused the avalanche was fading from existence. A shimmering tunnel composed of rippling circles of light was fading from view. Standing near its end, as if they had just exited the "tube" were four beings. To call them men was an insult. They stood nearly seven feet tall and nearly half as broad in the shoulder. Massive muscles lay hidden under a skin-tight sheen of emerald armor. Over this was a golden harness with short wing-like appendages protruding from the shoulders.
They carried massive guns in their clawed hands, and their helmet-covered heads searched the area around them. One of them was consulting a box-like device held in his free hand and muttering to the others in a language no tongue on earth could speak, nor an ear comprehend.
----------
Don hit the snow like an expert and started down the mountain racing to stay ahead of the encroaching snow. He glanced back and watched it cascade like a white waterfall over the cliff he just come down. Emboldened by this sight he willed himself to go faster. Poles hit snow he angled his body, as the roar of the snow grew ever closer. No matter the effort he put into it Donald Blake was engulfed by the avalanche. As his body tumbled and twisted in the blackness of the snow. Above the roar, he could hear voices. Screams echoing like thunder. Weapons explode like lightning. And then, silence and darkness.
----------
To Be Continued...
*New Gods #1 - 1971 Thank you to Jack Kirby, without who the gods would still walk only in the imaginations of man.