DC Heroes: MechWarrior I

By: Christopher W. Blaine

e-mail: darth_yoshi@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMER: All characters and situations contained in this story are ©2002 by either DC Comics Inc. or WhizKids and are used without permission for fan-related entertainment purposes only. No profit is made from this story. This original story is ©2002 by Christopher W. Blaine and may not be reproduced either in part or as a whole without the express permission of the author.

Chapter 4 Romanus (Gotham Quarter) Solaris VII Gotham Commonwealth April 14, 3031

"And what's your name again?" the sweaty man asked, looking down at a set of papers.

"Matches, Matches Malone," the red-haired visitor said from behind a pair of sunglasses. He pulled out a wooden match and lit it with his thumbnail. "I'm from the east side of the Metropolitan Suns."

"Uh-huh," the man replied and then he looked at the match. "I told you to stop that, it's annoying." The young man was more than that; he was what stable owners hated more than anything else, even losing. This cocksure young man was a wanna-be. "And you have your BattleMech, you say?"

Matches yawned and stretched, his arms coming out a little too far from the sleeves of the leather jacket he wore. It was adorned with patches from various stables, some of them fictional ones from holodramas. "Yeah, I got me a Firestorm locked up down at the Bays." The Bays was the official storage site for BattleMechs that did not belong to a stable or some other legitimate organization. Established by the government of Solaris, it prevented wanton theft of 'mechs while owners sought employment. It was considered strictly hands-off and any person found inside without authorization was shot on the spot.

"And it's yours?" the man asked, picking up a soggy sandwich and taking a bite out of it. Matches noted that the man now had some green vegetable matter stuck on his chin. "Free and clear?"

"Yeah; I didn't steal it," Matches replied.

The interviewer shook his head. "Jumpy sort, aren't ya?" He finished scribbling some information down and then handed Matches a card. "We're gonna have to see ya fight. Report to the Tributary Arena this afternoon at 1600 hours. We'll arrange for your 'mech to be delivered."

Matches shook his head. "I don't think so; I'm not trusting you with my Firestorm."

Stupid jerk! The man wrestled with the idea of smacking the smirking moron in front of him. "Okay, so how do you plan to get it there? Walk it down the main avenue?"

Matches' face burned red. He really hadn't thought that through. He knew that the man in front of him thought he was an amateur, but that was part of the act. Too bad he wasn't acting at the moment. "Uh, right; I'm used to the way things are back home."

"The presidential palace on Metropolis?" the man asked sarcastically as he rolled his chair over to a terminal. He typed in the request to have a union 'mech moving company ship the Firestorm to the arena and waited for the confirmation before he turned around. "Where did you say you were from again?"

Matches stood up. "I didn't." He tugged on his jacket and flashed a big grin. "Don't have a home, I'm a wandering wolf." It was a line from one of the more popular 'mech jock holodramas.

"Uh, huh, just don't be late. 1600 hours the flag goes down."

Bruce felt uncomfortable wearing the glasses and the three days worth of growth on his face itched badly. He had never gone this long without shaving and a bath. The idea of a simple shower appealed greatly to him as he wandered through the streets of Romanus. Somewhere in his walking, he realized that he had crossed out of the Gotham Quarter and into the Thanagarian district.

The signs were printed in the harsh script of the Combine and all of the people looked the same. Tall and beautiful, every last damn one of them. Even those of Asian descent had been affected by hundreds of years under the rule and breeding of House Hol. The average height of a Thanagarian male, regardless of ancestry, was over six feet. Bruce was lucky he was four inches taller than that and had been for some time. He blended right in.

That was a lie and he knew it. He looked like some holostar on vacation, but it was necessary for the ruse. He had at first lived in fear of being recognized, despite the make-up and change in attitude, but soon realized that even though he was one of the most famous faces in the Inner Sphere, it meant nothing if he wasn't being sought.

He passed by a street vendor and purchased some of the local pastries. It tasted as harsh as he imagined the Thanagarian Combine was every day. That was one of the reasons why he was here. Of all of the Commonwealth's enemies, the Combine was the most vocal. Katar Hol made no bones about wanting to turn the Commonwealth into an extension of his domain. Only a strong ruler could stop that and if Bruce was going to be that ruler, he had to find the person who killed his parents.

It was funny, he thought, that the Gotham Commonwealth and the Thanagarian Combine were such mortal enemies. The Combine barely shared a border with the Commonwealth; the line between it and the Metropolitan Suns was far larger. However, House Luthor was known for being the smart ones in the Inner Sphere and Katar Hol was best known for his foolishness.

That was probably being said of him right now in the Royal Palace on New Gotham. He had noted the cover story that Oracle was putting up about him, that he had decided on a sabbatical to contemplate the future. No doubt, Alfred was bareheaded now from pulling his hair out over the entire affair and Jim Gordon was probably smoking in his sleep.

Somewhere out there were Oracle agents assigned to watch over him, but he would never know who they were. They would just watch and act only on orders from the Archon-General himself. Bruce was on borrowed time; as soon as Melissa Steiner began to suspect that he really wasn't on an extended vacation, Alfred would have him taken back to New Gotham.

The prince never really thought he could simply just slip away and maybe he had talked to Jim Gordon in an effort to find a reason not to do what he was doing. He wanted that one convincing argument that would keep him in the academy until he graduated and assumed the throne.

There was no argument, however, to quench the fire of vengeance that was burning in him. He had sworn an oath to the spirits of his parents that was more important to him than anything else.

Anything.

He walked the streets of the Thanagarian sector for several more hours, passing the time by visiting several shops and trying to get a feel for the area. There were no things such as brothels or even bars, as such excesses were frowned upon among the Thanagarians. Bruce wasn't quite sure if he agreed with that philosophy or not.

Around two in the afternoon he found himself at the Tributary Arena. He checked in and was directed to the 'mech bay for the Lazarus Pit, a gladiator stable he was trying to get hooked into. Trying to get in with Moxon's crew, which had recently been renamed to Moxon's Magic, would have been too hard. It was better to build up a reputation, he figured, with one of the smaller stables.

The Lazarus Pit was a small company, eight BattleMechs and some fifteen warriors. As near as he could tell, none of the other 'mech pilots owned a 'mech, which meant they were dispossessed. That could mean trouble, he was sure, when he made it in. Of that, he had no doubt. One year of academy training, plus all of the extra lessons he had taken, would be more than a match for washed-up has-beens.

The 65-ton Firestorm rocked under the blow from the powered-down PPC burst and Bruce tried to back away. The hunched-over design of the torso of his BattleMech provided a large target for the other gladiator's 'mech. His opponent was piloting a beat-up old BattleMaster that was missing the left arm. No doubt this was a practice 'mech as Bruce failed to see how such a thing of barely held together components could ever compete in the arena. "C'mon you wet-nosed little snot, show me what you got!" the other pilot taunted.

Bruce gritted his teeth and switched to his medium lasers. The Firestorm was a 'mech designed for close-in fighting, but it was meant to handle things like infantry vehicles and tanks, not 'mechs bigger than it. He fired, four beams of crimson coherent light striking the torso of the other 'mech. Had the lasers been fully powered, it would have bored a hole clean through. Instead, the poor paint job blistered and popped leaving only a black mark where the lasers had struck.

The audition required that Bruce allow the Lazarus Pit technicians go in and dial down his laser output. This wasn't an effort to see who could kill whom; it was to see if Bruce was anything like the image he was trying to front.

Bruce waited for his lasers to recycle and watched as the BattleMaster started to slowly step backwards. Again, he saw the now-familiar blue glow emit from the front of the S.T.A.R. Labs Model 3 Particle Projection Cannon and then the shot reached out at him, hitting just above his cockpit. His battle computer, rigged to see every shot as being at full power registered a weakening of his overhead armor. Bruce fired again, not worrying about the heat because the technicians had not had enough time to rig that up. His 'mech was running as cool as a cucumber.

Again, the torso of the other 'mech was burning paint and Bruce took some satisfaction at the precision of his shots. He was hitting exactly where he wanted to and avoiding the cockpit located in the head of the BattleMaster. It would be beneath Bruce to shoot there, even though he was sure he could hit it without error.

The BattleMaster stopped and sagged forward slightly and Bruce figured it was a simulated shut down. If a 'mech heated up too much it would automatically shut down to prevent an explosion. The older 'mech probably had an engine held together by string and wire, Bruce thought with a grin.

Pushing his throttle forward and working the foot pedals, Bruce took off at a run to close the distance between the two. Like a shark in the water, he was closing in for the kill. He switched to machineguns, figuring that at such a close range, he could wedge the high-caliber ammunition in the shoulder and hip joints, freezing up the enemy where he stood.

As he came within arms length, the other 'mech stood straight up and raised it's one good arm, delivering a thundering strike to the top of the Firestorm with such force that Bruce chipped a tooth. He shook his head and realized that he had been suckered and tried to back-up when the PPC fired again, striking the Firestorm in the same area as the blow had landed.

Bruce screamed in rage as his 'mech shut down. It had registered a fatal cockpit breach.

He was dead.

Bruce climbed out of his 'mech and stared up at the damage to the top armor. It was nothing to worry about, easily replaceable and he certainly had the money for it, but it was the shame of defeat that made his eyes sting. He was the son of Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne, two of the finest MechWarriors that ever lived. Their skill had been passed on to him when he was created.

The pilot of the BattleMaster climbed down the rope ladder from the cockpit and Bruce waited for him to come over and rub it in his face. He was odd looking for a MechWarrior, tall and skinny, looking more like tech than a warrior in the outlandish red and yellow coveralls he wore. He also sported sunglasses that were even larger than Bruce's.

"You must be Matches," the other pilot said offering his hand.

"Yeah, that's me, what about it?" he replied with true ire in his voice. He had come here to get a spot in the stable and had ended up getting his ass handed to him with a pretty bow on top.

"Name's Eel, Eel O'Brien, but most people call me Plas," he said with a big smile. He kept his hand out until Bruce took it.

"Why do they call you that?"

Plas kept the big smile. "'Cause I'm made up mostly of plastic parts. Used to be a big time competitor here but too many injuries have disqualified me. The other stables are afraid I've had some sort of BattleMech-slash-human interface installed so I've been banned from competing." He pointed to the BattleMaster. "Even served for a time in the Free Atlantean League as a merc for awhile; that's where I got my 'mech."

"So you make your living beating the crap out of perfectly good 'mechs for no reason?" Bruce was beginning to get even angrier as he noticed a heat sink beginning to leak on his 'mech.

Plas held up hi hands in defense. "Look, buddy, you wanted to try out and you did pretty good. I'm the head tech here now," Bruce grimaced at that realizing his worst fears were coming true, "and I can tell you that your Firestorm has been kept in premium condition."

"It's the pilot that's bad, right?" Bruce remarked as he pulled off his cooling vest. He hadn't even had to plug it during the battle.

"You've got talent, but no experience, kid. You're an academy drop, aren't ya? I can tell, you fight like this is a simulator and its not. In the games, you want to stay away from the enemy, not get in close, which is why your 'mech is no good. You don't pack the firepower for 'mech to 'mech fighting."

Bruce shook his lead. "Hell, I've seen competitions where Locusts and Jenners have fought…"

"Sure, in the lightweight categories. You're a heavy 'mech, which means you'll be fighting the big boys." Plas picked at something in his teeth and then retrieved his smile. "Like I said, you have talent. Your shots were right on the money and to be honest, if your lasers were at full power, you would have cored my gyro."

Bruce's face began to break into a grin. "So, maybe I could survive, eh?"

Plas shook his head. "Buddy, against a fully armed and ready BattleMaster, you'd be toast." Bruce looked over at his 'mech and realized it was true. Maybe with more training, he could do some amazing things, but he wasn't Alfred Pennyworth and this wasn't the frontline. "However, I think you got what it takes to be a good 'mech jock. If the boss says its okay, why don't we mothball the Firestorm and start training you in something with some ass in it?"

Bruce suddenly realized that he wasn't being rejected, but his 'mech was. That suited him just fine. It would make it harder for Oracle to find him if he wasn't in the Firestorm. "You got it, pal," he said, pulling out a trademark match and lighting it.

"Do you smoke?" Plas asked as he pulled out his pack of smokes.

"No," Bruce said. He found the question disturbing. Why would anyone start such an awful habit.

"So why do you carry matches?" Plas asked as he lit up off of the offered flame.

Ra's Al Ghul studied the video files from Matches Malone's testing with O'Brien, but he said nothing. Whether or not he was impressed was something that he kept buried deep in his brain as he watched the predestined demise of the Firestorm. The 'mech was in excellent shape, even though someone had gone to the trouble to make it look as if it had battle damage. His personal technician had looked it over prior to the battle and had commented that it appeared to be a military grade model with all of the recent upgrades. The curious thing was that the IFF transponder had been ripped out and the serial number on the fusion engine had been wiped away with a laser.

Whoever Matches Malone was, despite the lack of practical 'mech experience, he was no fool. This was a man who access to money because only money could pay to have a 'mech look like it was damaged. Poorer people simply shot up their machines to make it look so, but then you were taking the chance of performing some real damage. Malone took no such chances and so that told Ra's that this was a very careful individual.

Except when his blood was boiling. This one had a rage in him as was evidenced in the way he had rushed head on to meet death in the arena. Of course he had lived, O'Brien was too much of a professional to simply kill another pilot. There was no sport in that. Killing one person was a tragedy; killing a million that was art.

Ra's Al Ghul was a man with ambition, great ambition. It was that ambition that had led him to developing this 'mech stable in order to fill his personal bodyguard with the most prolific killers in the Inner Sphere. He would need them in the years to come as his criminal empire slowly began its move towards domination of the Inner Sphere.

It had taken many generations for his family to get to this point. Once, centuries before, his family had been feared on Terra, but now they were forgotten. That was fine, he thought, let them forget, let them believe that the real power was in the hands of the simpletons who ran each House. That would make his eventual takeover all the more sweet.

He froze the image of Matches Malone as he talked with O'Brien and called to his memory any person who even remotely resembled the man. Nothing came to mind but he was still nagged by the thought that he should know who this was. It didn't matter; the man now worked for him and that was that. He would soon begin his training under Lady Shiva, the undisputed champion of Solaris and just one of Ra's' many lovers.

He would let her worry about the stable and the training while he worked on the problem in the Gotham Commonwealth. The damned Steiners were getting itchy for control, making all sorts of ridiculous claims of bloodright and other such nonsense. His backing of them, though discreet, was quite substantial. He needed to see it through if he was going to get his money's worth.

He turned slowly in his chair, his hands together under his well-trimmed beard. Lew Moxon was seated before him, holding a drink. The overweight owner of Moxon's Magic smiled. "Looks like a wiener to me, boss," he said, indicating Malone. "All talk with very little talent."

"I'll be sure to remember your advice," Ra's said in a low voice. "We may have need for another job on New Gotham."

Lew wiped his brow and Ra's noted that the man's hand was shaking. "That one still gives me the willy's boss. Do you know what Oracle will do to me id they find out?"

"Only three people know that I ordered the murder of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Myself, you and the assassin, whomever he or she may be." Ra's reached out and picked up his tea and sipped it before continuing. He spoke slowly as he knew that a man of Moxon's limited intellect would not be able to follow along otherwise. "General Pennyworth turned out to be a better leader than we thought. I always assumed that he would either make a mistake or try to keep the Archon-Prince from taking the throne. Either way, it would have allowed the Steiners to press their claim for rule with the people."

Lew only nodded as political intrigue was as abstract an idea to him as nuclear physics. Ra's continued, letting the man believe he was actually a functional part of the conversation. "This so-called sabbatical that the Archon-Prince has taken, it has me wondering. Our contacts in Oracle say they know nothing about it."

"You think he's planning something? Maybe coming after us?"

Imbecile. "No, I was thinking more along the lines of what he could be doing on the inside. If he suspects that the Steiners are involved, he may move against them and that would do no good at all."

"But Melissa Steiner…she don't even know what we did," Lew responded, still shaking a little. The contract on Thomas Wayne had made him in his eyes, put him in the big time. Several times since he had the contract carried out, he had woke up in the middle of the night in a old sweat. Paranoia was now his constant companion as he waited for secret Oracle assassins to come and slit his throat.

"Yes, even more the pity." Ra's set the tea cup down and leaned back in his chair. "We need someone to kill the Archon-Prince."

Lew's shaking got more violent and he downed the last of his drink. "I don't think I can do that," he finally said.

"I don't expect you to this time, Lew; I only need you to provide me the information to get my assassin in," Ra's responded. "I've found the perfect person for the job and I can assure you that within the year, Bruce Wayne will be dead."