“And that’s why I choose Redd Hott tobacco sauce. Take it from me, Fire Eater; it doesn’t get any hotter than Redd Hott!”

Isabella Ramirez turned away from the television as she took another bite of her roast beef sandwich. Her grandfather sat on the other side of the kitchen. He quickly and expertly sliced an onion. He dropped it on top of the omelet cooking in the frying pan behind him.

“What do you make of that, granddad?”

“What do I make of what, Isabella?”

She gestured back towards the television set. “Your buddy, the Fire Eater. He’s shilling anything and everything that he can. He catches one international terrorist and suddenly he’s Mr. Popularity.”

Ernesto shrugged as he dropped a few pieces of roast beef over the onions. “To each their own. I would never use my name and the name of my ancestors in such a way, but he’s not me. His path is his own, and it isn’t for us to judge how he travels it.”

Isabella finished chewing the last bit of her sandwich. “So you wouldn’t mind if I went out and got me some endorsement deals?”

Ernesto dropped his spatula and glared at Isabella. “That’s another story, young lady.” He picked up the spatula, flipped his omelet, and removed it from the pan. He plopped the still soggy mess down on to his plate. He pulled a fork from the drawer and cut a chunk off to start eating.

“Now then,” he said between chews, “I suggest you get training again. If you ever want any hope of carrying on my legacy, you must be ready to fight.”

“I told you already, abuelo. I’m ready to fight. I beat you didn’t I?”

“Barely. You are strong, very strong. But strength only gets you so far. The strongest fighter can still fall to one who is faster. One who is tougher. Never underestimate your foe, and never overestimate your own ability. In doing so lies the path to defeat.”

“Very zen, gramps. But I think I’ll be all right.”

Ernesto sprung up and across the counter. His hand wrapped around a butcher knife on the battle as he landed. A second later the knife was at his granddaughter’s throat. “Never underestimate your foe, Isabella. Or expect them to play your game. On the street, they will do anything to take you out. Don’t forget that.”

Isabella, her eyes still wide from Ernesto’s sudden movement and the blade at her throat, slowly nodded.

Ernesto lowered the blade. “Now then, I think it’s time you start your regimen. One hundred Hindu squats sounds like a good warm up.”

Isabella groaned. “It’s Labor Day. Can’t we take one day off?”

“Do you want to catch our family’s killer or do you want to just be another worthless loaf like everyone else in this world?”

Isabella nodded. She rose from her chair and walked in to the living room of the loft. The hard wood floors were bare but for a large blue mat in the center of the room. She took her place in the middle of the mat and began the work out.

Ernesto sat back down to finish his omelet, a smile on his face.

*****

Atoman Task Force Command Center, outside San Antonio, Texas
September 5, 2008, 12:00 p.m.

“You called, General. I came. Now spit out what you want.”

General Woodrow Wallace rose from his desk seat and offered a hand to the red and blue masked man before him. “It’s been a long time, American Crusader.”

Archibald Masters, the American Crusader, hadn’t worn the costume in several years at this point. After over a decade active in the forties and early fifties, he had retired during the Red Scare. The … in his blood served to keep him young, but his days as a metahero were few and far between. Despite his immense dislike for Wallace, he still couldn’t ignore a call from his government in the time of need.

American Crusader pulled his cape down and around him. “Not long enough. I tired of your games back when you worked with ACTION. I saved your ass during the Captain Mettle affair by necessity, not by choice. I was retired then, and I’m retired now. I can’t imagine how I can be any help to you.”

“I am running out of options, Archie. May I call you Archie or do you prefer Doctor Masters?”

Crusader showed no sign of shock at Wallace’s use of his real name. “Crusader will be just fine, general. Now speak your mind before I grow completely tired of your stupid mind games.”

Wallace nodded as he sank back down in to his chair. “Fair enough. I will get right to the point.” He shoved a manila folder across the desk. Crusader glanced down at it momentarily. He turned his attention back to Wallace without touching the documents.

“You are one of only a handful of metahumans still active from the World War II era. Which makes you one of the only people who knows anything about the metahumans the blasted media has dubbed the goddamn Living Legends. And of that handful, you’re the only one who has the raw power to stand a chance in what I need.”

“What is it you’re looking for me to do?”

“Atoman.”

“You want me to be part of your sick witch hunt? No thank you, general.”

Crusader turned to leave but Wallace threw up a hand to stop him. “Please wait. Wait. I would not have contacted you if I didn’t think it was important. This Atoman is a terrorist, a murderer, and a potential threat to the world.”

Crusader leaned over and flipped open the folder. At the very top was a photograph of an empty field. A desiccated corpse sat in the middle of the field. Its skin was gray, almost mummified in appearance. Crusader immediately recognized the corpse’s garments. Even with modifications, it was unmistakably Flag Man’s costume.

“Atoman did this to Flag Man, a symbol of America just as you are. Atoman murdered him, drained the very life from him, and left his body to rot in an empty field in Colorado.”

“You have proof of this?”

“I sent Flag Man in myself.” Wallace shook his head. “I wanted to question Atoman, talk to him about the events in Brazil that led up to the legends’ timeslip. I never suspected he could perpetrate anything so brutal or heinous.”

Crusader flipped through the file. The next few pages were filled with a detailed autopsy of Flag Man’s body. The cause of death was ruled as old age and acute heart failure. “How… how could Atoman do this?”

“The science boys chalk it up to his control of something called tachyons. They think Atoman can manipulate time itself. Everything adds up to one simple conclusion: Atoman is responsible for the heroes’ betrayal in Brazil. He was the man responsible for bringing the other metas in to the future. Atoman is the key to it all.”

American Crusader perused the rest of the file. Most of it was filled with conjectures about the nature of Atoman’s powers and his control over tachyons. He understood most of it, and he stored the rest of it in his mind for further study later.

“All right, I will help you find Atoman, but on my own conditions.” American Crusader let his cape fall to his side, revealing the white star beneath. “I am a symbol of the American people, and we are all innocent until proven guilty.”

“I don’t think you fully understand the danger that Atoman—”

“You heard me, general. I will help you capture Atoman, but he will get a chance to state his case. I’m not your personal hit squad. I may be old, but I’m not stupid.”

General Wallace nodded. “We will play it your way for now. But I strongly suspect you’re come to regret your decision. Atoman is a threat, and soon the world will see it!”

*****

Sharp Memorial Hospital, San Diego, California September 8, 2008, 3:29 p.m.

“So you think he’s ready to come out of the coma, doctor?”

Agent Johanna Chance stood in the waiting room of the long term care unit. A middle-aged woman of Middle Eastern descent in blue scrubs looked over the chart in her hands as she spoke. “I don’t see why not, Agent Chance. Even without his so-called Heart of Gold, Mister Preston possesses uncanny recuperative abilities. For the last several days, we’ve kept him in an induced coma solely to make sure his stitches have fully healed before he wakes. In cases as traumatic as his often times, a sudden wakening can be traumatic and lead to the reopening of wounds.”

Chance looked outside the room. Saheed nodded to her from the hallway. “All right, we’re ready. My people are in place in case of any sudden metahuman activity. You can bring him out whenever you’re ready, doctor.”

Chance followed the doctor out of the room and down the hall. They passed Saheed and three other ACTION agents before reaching the only occupied room in this portion of the hospital. An eighteen year old blond boy rested comfortably in the room’s only bed. His bruises were gone and the damage mostly healed, but he still looked somehow different to her. Older, somehow.

Chance took a seat in the chair next to Tommy Preston’s bed. She looked across the room at the doctor. “Bring him up.”

The doctor nodded. She picked up a syringe and inserted it in to a hole on the IV. She depressed the plunger and pulled the syringe free.

“Is that it?”

The doctor nodded.

“Good, I suggest you wait from the hall. This could be traumatic.”

The doctor nodded again. Chance could feel the fear radiate off of her.

“Saheed, watch the door. If he bolts, it’s up to you to bring him down.”

Saheed gave a quick nod and readied his power nullifier.

Johanna sighed and laid her head back on the chair. She listened to the steady beep of the heart monitor. Now it was just a matter of waiting until the drug took effect. It didn’t take long.

Tommy coughed a few fitful coughs. Moments later, he shot upright. His eyes went wide as he coughed again and again.

Johanna grabbed the water bottle at the end of the bed and brought it up to Tommy’s mouth. “Drink, Tommy. Drink.”

Tommy took the bottle and swallowed one gulp and a second. His eyes fell on Chance. “Where—” His voice was little more than a croak, the result of too many weeks without use.

“Shh,” Chance said. “Save your voice, Tommy… Golden Lad. You’ve been unconscious for eight weeks now. We didn’t think you were going to make it there for awhile. Do you remember what happened? Who did this to you?”

“Golden Girl,” he rasped. “It was… Golden… Girl.”

Tommy’s head wavered and he dropped back to the bed. The steady beep vanished, replaced by an extended squeal.

The doctor charged in to the room, followed by several other orderlies, nurses, and doctors. “Get the crash cart,” she yelled.

An orderly grabbed Chance by the shoulders and unceremoniously dumped her out of the room. She could only watch from outside as the hospital staff fought to save Golden Lad’s life. And hope that she hadn’t caused the boy’s death.

*****

The Village, New York City
September 8, 2008, 3:16 p.m.

“I feel like a damn crazy with you two in those get-ups.”

Doctor Frost nodded beneath the trench coat and fedora both he and Blackout wore. Sally “Ghost Woman” Lincoln wore a frilly sun dress that, while modest for twenty-first century standards, still felt too short for her. Marcus wore a simple blue shirt and khaki pants.

“I think we will be all right,” Frost said. He nodded towards two rather large and garishly dressed women. Both towered over every member of the party, the shorter probably stood at least six-two. It took another moment for her to recognize the prominent Adam’s apple on their necks. Sally’s hand went to her face to cover her shock. Dear Lord, they’re men.

“I see your point, doctor. Now where are we heading?” She looked up at the tall buildings, many of which were in less than full repair.

“We’re actually here already.” Frost started up the nearest set of steps. Blackout bounded up after him. Sally looked to Marcus momentarily before following their more conspicuous compatriots.

Sally stopped at the door to examine the several dozen doorbells and the nameplates that went with them.

“No need for that,” Doctor Frost said. “Please go inside and let us in.”

Ghost Woman glared at Doctor Frost. She didn’t like his tactics, and she didn’t like breaking and entering. But she made her deal with the devil weeks ago, because she needed to know what caused their timeslip. And after over eight weeks of lying low, it was about time. She summoned up her glamour long enough to pass through the front door. Once inside, she solidified, turned back to Sally, and opened the lock.

“Good work,” Frost said. He walked past her and up the stairs.

They followed Frost to the fourth floor. Once there, he led them to the end of the hall. He stopped in front of the last door on the right and knocked.

No one answered.

“He’s home,” Frost said. “I know it. Why isn’t he answering?”

Marcus spoke up. “Maybe because some gas-masked freak is ringing his doorbell?”

Frost shook his head; the movement was almost imperceptible beneath the helmet. “Ghost Woman, we will have to—”

The sound of a hammer being drawn back stopped Frost’s words. “It’s been a long time, Frost.”

“Hello, Russell. It has been a long time.”

London held a .44 Magnum to the base of Doctor Frost’s skull. Sally activated her glamour, becoming Ghost Woman again. Blackout growled to her left, and Ghost Woman reached out one hand to restrain him. Any sudden movements and she knew he would be dead.

“The name’s London now. I figured it would be the government who sicced their goons on me first. What are you doing here?”

“We’re hunting down the reason for our disappearance. I have my leads, but we need to head to the UK. I have reason to believe that we will find our answers there, at a place called Caer Alder.”

Doctor Frost turned to face London and his massive revolver. “Our only problem is that this Caer Alder isn’t on any map. Its origins are mystical, and only those who have been invited or been there before can enter. People like you, Russell.”

London lowered the pistol to his side. “You’re a real piece of work, Frost. You disappear on us back in New York, stay vanished for four months, only to pop up on my doorstep with stories about how we disappeared. Now you want to lead me on a merry chase to Mirror Man’s old stomping grounds? I don’t think so. I’m tired of damn mind games whether they’re yours, the governments, or anybody else’s. Flag Man is dead from these damn games, and I don’t plan on playing them anymore.”

Ghost Woman’s eyes flickered between London and Doctor Frost. She didn’t know what to do, who to approach, or what to say. She floundered over words before Doctor Frost finally spoke.

“Fair enough,” he said. “I haven’t been honest or straightforward with any of you, and for that I am sorry. I spent years on close guard even before we came to this time, and my natural reaction to anyone is distrust. I worked alone for years because of it.”

Frost reached up to the back of his head and unbuckled the clasp at the base of the helmet. “It’s time I be completely truthful about who I am, why I’m here, and what happened back in forty-seven.”

He unlatched the second clasp and removed the helmet. Ghost Woman gasped at what she saw beneath it. Doctor Frost’s skin was a light gray in color, pock-marked and heavily damaged. The top of his head and his chin were covered with thousands of minute ice crystals wherever hair would be on a normal man.

“My name is Anthony Brina and I am dying. But that’s only the beginning of the story.”