the world. But they hadn’t launched .
While the skyscrapers of Manhattan burned, the bank accounts of the wealthiest one percent of the world’s citizens were being drained electronically. Electrical grids around the planet sputtered and went dark.
***
The television in McHenry’s cell turned itself back on. The screen was dark but he could make out a form in the shadows of the picture. He sat up on the bed and looked at the camera.
“ What do you want now? I tried to tell you,” he said, exasperated. “I’m not behind all this!”
“Oh, I am well aware,” replied a man’s deep voice. He had a British accent, but it sounded like it was filtered electronically. “Because I’m the one who is responsible.”
McHenry jumped to his feet. “Who is this?”
“You may have heard of me,” the man said. The voice’s breathing was a little labored. “Some call me the Master.”
McHenry nodded. His conspiracy theory had been proven right. Now, he thought to himself, to get some answers.
“So if you’re the one who’s really calling the shots,” McHenry asked, “Why am I in here ?”
The voice was silent for a moment, then responded. “ There’s a tale in that, McHenry. Or do you prefer ‘the Machinist?’”
McHenry sneered, “That depends. Do you prefer ‘the Master,’ or..?”
The voice huffed. “I suppose you might know me better by my old name, the one I began using in the sixties—the one I buried when I faked my own death twenty years ago.”
The image on the screen became clearer as the man leaned forward. He wore a dark red hooded cloak, trimmed with golden Celtic knots. His face was entirely obscured by a stylized, skull-like mask made of bronze. The mouth of the mask was articulated and moved as the man spoke.
McHenry recognized the face—well, the costume, anyway—straight away. This man was the source of many a child’s nightmares in McHenry’s youth; one of the most feared supervillains to ever cross swords with the Titans of Liberty in most of that team’s incarnations. And he was supposed to be long dead, at the hands of the nuclear-powered hero called Blackiron in a battle that claimed both their lives. Blackiron’s sacrifice had been honored by the government by naming the most advanced prison in the world named after him—while his opponent’s name was only ever spat out with disgust and outrage.
McHenry could almost hear the supposedly-dead villain smile beneath his façade as the man’s bloodshot eyes squinted mirthfully. “You may call me Baron Brass.”
“Why should I believe you?” McHenry countered. “Baron Brass died before I even started out.”
“I assure you, I have kept busy in this second life I granted myself.” The figure leaned back and crossed the fingers of his metal-gloved hands over each other. “Building up my wealth and my army by subverting the Brotherhood I started so many years ago into the Network that it is today. I began researching and plotting, fitting the pieces I needed together.”
“Say I believe you, Baron.” McHenry shrugged, sitting back down. “So, what do you want from me? I’ve watched the news. Why did you set me up to take the rap when it’s clear this is not a subtle go at taking over the world?”
“Oh, the point was never to ‘set you up,’ as you say.” The voice paused and took some deep breaths. “It’s just that I needed you to connect to the system one time. What happened to you next was irrelevant.”
McHenry tilted his head to one side like a confused puppy. The voice continued.
“You are aptly named, Nicholas McHenry. Like your namesake, Tesla, you are a skilled inventor, an unparalleled genius.” McHenry felt his heart skip a beat and he felt a smile grow across his bruised face—someone had finally acknowledged him for his brilliance. But the grin didn’t last. “But much like Tesla, you lack vision. You
While the skyscrapers of Manhattan burned, the bank accounts of the wealthiest one percent of the world’s citizens were being drained electronically. Electrical grids around the planet sputtered and went dark.
***
The television in McHenry’s cell turned itself back on. The screen was dark but he could make out a form in the shadows of the picture. He sat up on the bed and looked at the camera.
“ What do you want now? I tried to tell you,” he said, exasperated. “I’m not behind all this!”
“Oh, I am well aware,” replied a man’s deep voice. He had a British accent, but it sounded like it was filtered electronically. “Because I’m the one who is responsible.”
McHenry jumped to his feet. “Who is this?”
“You may have heard of me,” the man said. The voice’s breathing was a little labored. “Some call me the Master.”
McHenry nodded. His conspiracy theory had been proven right. Now, he thought to himself, to get some answers.
“So if you’re the one who’s really calling the shots,” McHenry asked, “Why am I in here ?”
The voice was silent for a moment, then responded. “ There’s a tale in that, McHenry. Or do you prefer ‘the Machinist?’”
McHenry sneered, “That depends. Do you prefer ‘the Master,’ or..?”
The voice huffed. “I suppose you might know me better by my old name, the one I began using in the sixties—the one I buried when I faked my own death twenty years ago.”
The image on the screen became clearer as the man leaned forward. He wore a dark red hooded cloak, trimmed with golden Celtic knots. His face was entirely obscured by a stylized, skull-like mask made of bronze. The mouth of the mask was articulated and moved as the man spoke.
McHenry recognized the face—well, the costume, anyway—straight away. This man was the source of many a child’s nightmares in McHenry’s youth; one of the most feared supervillains to ever cross swords with the Titans of Liberty in most of that team’s incarnations. And he was supposed to be long dead, at the hands of the nuclear-powered hero called Blackiron in a battle that claimed both their lives. Blackiron’s sacrifice had been honored by the government by naming the most advanced prison in the world named after him—while his opponent’s name was only ever spat out with disgust and outrage.
McHenry could almost hear the supposedly-dead villain smile beneath his façade as the man’s bloodshot eyes squinted mirthfully. “You may call me Baron Brass.”
“Why should I believe you?” McHenry countered. “Baron Brass died before I even started out.”
“I assure you, I have kept busy in this second life I granted myself.” The figure leaned back and crossed the fingers of his metal-gloved hands over each other. “Building up my wealth and my army by subverting the Brotherhood I started so many years ago into the Network that it is today. I began researching and plotting, fitting the pieces I needed together.”
“Say I believe you, Baron.” McHenry shrugged, sitting back down. “So, what do you want from me? I’ve watched the news. Why did you set me up to take the rap when it’s clear this is not a subtle go at taking over the world?”
“Oh, the point was never to ‘set you up,’ as you say.” The voice paused and took some deep breaths. “It’s just that I needed you to connect to the system one time. What happened to you next was irrelevant.”
McHenry tilted his head to one side like a confused puppy. The voice continued.
“You are aptly named, Nicholas McHenry. Like your namesake, Tesla, you are a skilled inventor, an unparalleled genius.” McHenry felt his heart skip a beat and he felt a smile grow across his bruised face—someone had finally acknowledged him for his brilliance. But the grin didn’t last. “But much like Tesla, you lack vision. You
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