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Batman 1939: Swimming in the Styx

Chapter 11: Assess and Reload


Diana Prince was dead tired when she reached her hotel room last night for the second time. Neither she nor Steve were in a condition to make conversation – they practically napped in the taxi, each leaning on the other's shoulders. Before they parted ways in the lobby, they promised to meet for breakfast, although after laying down for good, Diana feared she would sleep until noon. Fortunately, in this regard, anyway, her fears were in vain. Diana awoke half an hour after daybreak, gummy-eyed and sore. Rubbing her face, she tried to ignore the incessant noise outside her window. She was sure she could hear four jackhammers working on streets beside their hotel alone. It was a miracle anyone lived here without permanent insomnia, but if that insight offered any deeper wisdom into Gotham City, she was too sleepy to realize it.

Diana put on a yellow sundress and found her way to the cafe on the ground floor. Her table overlooked a swimming pool that a few guests were already enjoying. Diana had once tried one of Man's swimming pools. When she had dived in, Diana discovered to her confoundment that the owner had dumped bitter chlorine into the water. Diana nearly attacked the lifeguard, certain he was an agent of the cowardly poisoner, but was talked down before she became violent. Today, she was content to watch.

Diana expected to see Steve waiting for her; he was always up early. But he was nowhere to be found. She seated herself and picked up a menu. A waiter came around.

"Excuse me, Miss Prince?"

Diana was busy trying to decide whether Eggs Benedict was a kind of egg or a kind of Benedict and delayed in looking up. "... Yes?"

"A Mr. Trevor left a message for you a few – I'm sorry, is something wrong?"

Diana had slumped down in her chair and was rubbing her eyes again. She missed him again. It was decidedly not a regal posture. She didn't care.

"No, nothing's wrong, sir. Forgive me. What was his missive?"

"Um." The waiter pulled a scrap of paper from his apron. "He said, 'Diana, be back in a minute. Don't get into any trouble!'"

"Why did your voice rise at the end?"

"He wrote an exclamation mark. See?" The waiter turned the paper around. "I assumed he meant it in a playful tone."

Diana tapped her lips. Man's punctuation was a fickle, poetical art. "Perhaps. Or perhaps it was a warning."

The waiter shrugged. "Or a command."

Diana's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Well, that's the message. Did you want to order anything?"

Diana heard her stomach rumble and appraised the menu again. "Get me your, hmm, best food."

"Our … best … food."

"Yes, please." Diana smiled up at him. "Two of them. And an iced tea."

Diana's breakfast of two steak omelets was quite satisfactory, though she was so hungry, she would have finished a plate of shoe leather. She made to push herself away from the table when a pair of hands covered her eyes.

"Guess who?"

The first time Steve had tried that, it earned him an first class ticket into a rosebush. He kept his distance for a few days afterward, until she sought him out and explained that she finally understood the game. He was a good sport about the incident, as the locals would say.

"Steve!"

She stood and gave him a hug. He was wearing his dress uniform, like usual.

They broke and Captain Steve Trevor handed her her an orange. "I went to this little stand a few blocks down. You can't find good citrus in these hotels."

She grinned and peeled off half the skin. "Thank you!" She took a big bite.

He shook a finger at her, "You were sleuthing without a license, miss."

She pointed a finger at him, juice dribbling down her chin. "Your name's Archibald."

Whatever Steve was about to say died in his throat. "Yeah, my middle name. How do you know that?"

Diana dabbed her chin with a napkin. "A small lady told me."

"Oh, Diana, don't tell me you called my mom. She still thinks I'm a mechanic in Albuquerque."

Diana looked thoughtful. "I don't think this lady was your mother. She offered no resemblance, and she didn't share your surname," Her nose made an annoyed crinkle. "Which I know is spread patrilineally."

"What was this lady's name then?"

"Amanda Waller."

If Steve was surprised before, now he was in shock. "That … was that her next to you outside the police station?"

"Yes, she said she was expecting me, which I found impressive. I hadn't even been expecting me until shortly before I left."

Steve folded his hands over his head and fell into the seat beside her. "Ah, Jeezy-petes. I am so fubared."

"What is 'fubared'?"

"Oh, uh, it's an acronym. We say it sometimes in the military when we hear bad news."

"What is this acronym mean?"

"Um. It's F, U, B, A, R, and then the '-ed' just makes it a verb."

"And its full meaning?"

"Right, well, it's, uh, Follies, that's right, Unfortunately, uh, Blight, uh, All, um, Responsibilities.

"Follies unfortunately blight all responsibilities?"

"Yes, that's it. You know how it is, you're trying to get a job done, when gosh darn'it, all this follies start blighting your responsibilities. Cause we all make mistakes. Unfortunately."

"That's a wise motto." She nodded and took her seat again. "Why does this lady cause you to make such fubars?"

"I only know her by reputation. She's very influential, I suppose that's the best word for it. I'd love to share more, but even most the rumors are classified. Some of it sounds positively un-American" He whispered 'un-American' like is was a naughty curse. "They say she put a guy in Leavenworth for sneezing on her. I heard she once drafted a baby and sent it on an undercover mission by swapping it with some dictator's baby. I don't know what she wanted, but my life was much prettier before she knew I existed."

"Perhaps she's always known you've existed."

Steve stared at her and slowly grimaced. Diana realized her remark wasn't as comforting as she had hoped. She patted his knee. "Don't be forlorn. I think her intentions are honorable. She offered me great help."

"Yeah?"

"First, she said I shouldn't enter the law building to retrieve you last night."

Steve expression bent in a awkward fuse of pride and horror. "You were going to do that for me?"

"Yes, but she suggested it would be counterproductive."

"No kidding. Please don't do that, okay?"

Diana folded her arms. "I make no promises."

"Fair enough. What else did Waller tell you?"

"She had some ideas about our, um, what you called 'arrangement'."

"Were they bad?"

"Some of them were accurate."

"Oh, dear."

Diana smiled. "She also commended me for routing the Batman!"

Steve spit out the iced tea he was stealing. "That scumball racketeer was telling the truth?"

"What is a scum'd ball?"

"Arturo Bertinelli. He said you came to his apartment with the funny walls. He said you chased after the Batman."

"I didn't think the walls were funny, but yes. I followed Batman away. I knew you would ferry Arturo to safety."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Only too well, it turned out."

"What do you mean? Didn't the military officers wish his protection?"

"Not for very long. We discovered he was a crook Diana. A real bad guy. Maybe as bad as Batman. I don't know how the-" Diana watched him speak, but she didn't hear anything further. Her pupils shrunk to dots. She felt a throb in her ankle and the itch of nigh-invisible burns. With a rush of vertigo, Diana subconsciously touched her hip for a golden lasso that wasn't there.

Diana blinked. She noticed that Steve had just asked her something. "I'm sorry, what?"

"So you didn't catch the this Bat guy?"

Diana nodded then shook her head. "Yes, no, I, he did get away. I chased him awhile, but he lost me in these many street. Yes."

"Wow. Shame. You don't remember where he went? Did he say anything?"

Diana paused.

Steve lifted an eyebrow. "Angel?"

She forced her most candid smile. "Nope! Sorry, I was recalling how frustrating it was. He is very elusive. I don't know the names of the paths; they all look the same to me at night."

"No kidding." He shrugged. "Well, you tried. And you saved Arturo; I bet the Bat was going to kill him, which - like the guy or not - is not what we bargained for. I don't know what that nut-job's problem is, but I'm sure they'll find a nice padded room for him sooner or later."

Diana was familiar with the reference. "Yes, nice and padded. So Arturo is bad? Are you sure?"

"You don't want to know, believe me. But yes. He's bad news, Diana."

"And he's not in custody."

Steve frowned. "No, he's not. That's on me. Before word got out that he was bad, I even helped him catch a train."

Diana shrugged a shoulder sympathetically, "Well, sometimes you're just fubared."

Steve snorted and tried to hide it with his knuckles. "Yeah, I guess so. Let me grab a quick bite, then we can take a walk."

"I'd like that."

"Me too. But we're going to talk about you going out last night after we agreed you wouldn't, capisci?"

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. Arturo kept saying it. I thought it sounded neat."

The waiter walked up to their table and cleared his throat. "Phone call for Mr. Trevor."

Steve looked up, distracted, "Yeah, sure. Hold on, Diana."

He followed the waiter into the back room of the cafe. Diana ate her orange. When Steve returned, she saw in his expression all she needed to know."

"Sorry, that was-"

"The General?" she interjected rhetorically.

"Sort of. I'm sorry, but I have to head to a meeting tout de suite. You understand."

"If you say so, Captain Trevor."

He chuckled with a little guilt. "Right, well, take care of yourself. I don't know how long this will take, so if I don't get in touch earlier, let's agree to meet back here for dinner around, say, six. The concierge desk over there will tell you about all the storage if you want to take a tour. You can go shopping. I know you brought some cash, and they say everything's for sale in Gotham," Steve paused and his pleasant expression turned uncertain, "Which, now that I think about it, might not be a positive thing. Anyway, tootles!"

He waved and turned to jog away, and Diana realized she never finished sharing what Amanda Waller had offered. After draining the last of her iced tea, Diana walked past the hotel concierge to the pay phone near the spinning entrance door.

She took Amanda Waller's number out of her purse and turned the dial. The call took a long time to connect, but once it did, it picked up on the second ring. A clipped male voice said, "Surgeon General's office."

Diana froze in confusion and peered again at the number. "Euh. I-"

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

"I was told this was the number for an Amanda Waller."

"And you name?"

"Diana Pr-"

"Please hold."

An interminable time later, someone else picked up the line, a woman who spoke with a long drawl. "Alabama Bureau of Hog Breeding."

"What?"

"I said you have the BHB, can I do you anything today, missy?"

"I'm sorry, the BHB, I was transferred to this line from some sort of, um, surgeon, I think, and I believe there's been a mistake."

"Maybe I can straighten things out there then. Who're you lookin' for?"

"A lady by the name of Amanda Waller."

"Well, shoot! With whom do I have the pleasure of speechifyin'?"

"My name is Dian-"

"Beauty. Hang on jus' one moment then, hun."

Diana tried to stutter out a plea to wait, but it was too late. She lowered the receiver from her ear and looked dumbly at it.

A familiar woman's voice came on the line. "Waller."

"Miss Waller, it's Diana Prince."

"Miss Prince, what a pleasure."

"We spoke last night at the entrance to a law enforcement station. You promised me help."

"And I certainly didn't forget."

"Good. Yes. Well?"

"Here's what I have in mind, dear. I happen to be friendly with the chair of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations. He's traveling at the moment, but if you'd like, we could have a chat with his chief aide tomorrow afternoon on Capitol Hill."

"And this is useful?"

"It most certainly is. I can't promise anything now, but let me present what I might occur you succinctly, Diana. Can you guess the difference between a random spot on a map and a diplomatically-recognized ally of the United States of America?"

"No."

"About seven swing votes, if you know what you're doing."

"Swing votes?"

"I suppose you don't remember the lesson on the legislative branch in primary school."

"Yes! I went to the schools. We learned about the branch. We learned all the trees."

"Uh-huh. The legislative branch of the legislative tree."

"Yes."

"Charming. Well, listen. If that meeting sounds agreeable to you, here's what I want in return. After the meeting, you come with me to another meeting just outside Washington with some other friends of mine."

"Other politicians?"

"Ha. No, these are special individuals who also have an interest in being helpful like yourself. I'd like you all to get to know each other."

"I suppose that does no harm."

"Then call me Hippocrates."

"Alright, Hippocrates."

"Uh-huh. So we have a deal. I'll have a car pick you up around three."

"You don't know where I'll be."

"Yes I will. Goodbye, Diana. Enjoy Gotham. Y'know, if you can."

Amanda Waller hung up. Diana returned the receiver to its cradle and stood in the booth for a minute. In her young life, she had almost never faced the challenge of free time. She didn't know what to do with herself. Then she was struck a bolt of inspiration. She looked under the shelf and found a hefty Gotham City phone book. After the kind of night she had been through, a lady had certain needs.


Forty minutes later, Diana stepped out of her cab in a quiet part of town. She looked at the sign on the store in front of her.

Terrible Swift Sword Antiques

Weapons, Armor, Martial Souvenirs

For Sale or Trade

The window displays were gleaming exhibits of swords, shields, pikes, halberds, flails, and other sharp metal objects Diana didn't recognize but wanted badly to learn. She could feel a wide grin growing across her face.

Diana opened the door and skipped in. The store's only occupant stood behind a counter in the back, and this was the sort of cluttered specialty store which lacked neat aisles or straight paths of any kind. Diana weaved around cases of spears and arquebuses and ducked under some sort of camel armor suspended from the ceiling before she could clearly see the man. He was strong and portly and bearded. Despite his grey suit, he looked every bit the classic blacksmith (this body type even held true for blacksmiths in Themyscira - minus the beard, usually).

An engraved block on the counter in front of the man read: Louis Delacroix, Proprietor and Head Antiquarian. Diana nodded at him eagerly. "Hello, Mr. Delacroix." She utterly failed the French pronunciation, De-la-kwah, instead calling him De-la-crocs.

Louis Delacroix favored her with a big toothy smile. He was always happy to great a customer, and her enthusiasm would have been infectious anyway.

"Hello, hello! How can I help you, young lady?"

"I'm looking for a sword."

"I see. Do you know much about swords?"

"I'm all about swords!"

"Do you have a style or era in mind?"

Diana used to fancy herself a mistress at arms in every sort of weapon, but since visiting Man's World she had learned enough to realize that she only had a firm grasp of a few weapons of the Bronze Age Mediterranean. She didn't even know what to call half the merchandise in the store.

"I'm just browsing. Perhaps you could you show me your favorite items?"

Louis chuckled. "Oh ho! I could hardly list them all."

"Then could you show me everything?"

"Ha. You are a perfect treat, madam. Yes, I could show you everything you'd like. Perhaps it would be useful to ask, if you're looking to buy today, what you intend to use a sword for?"

Diana tilted her head at him, puzzled. "I would carry it, of course. To cut down foes in my path." She said this like it was the most obvious fact and didn't understand why he seemed taken aback.

Louis recovered quickly and said, "For one thing, if you're new to this fine city, I feel obliged to point out that publicly carrying a blade five inches or longer is illegal."

"That's preposterous!"

"I agree, and while we're on the subject, feel free to peruse my best-selling collection of knives with four and nine-tenths inch blades. It's the display case to your left. Big discount this week: ten percent off."

"No, I'm certain I'd like a sword."

"Well, as a lady, I'd suggest you start with a foil or rapier." He busied himself behind the counter and brought up an example of each. They were frail, twig-looking things. Sharp enough, she supposed, but far too flimsy to cleave a helmet. What was the point?

Not realizing her own pun, Diana shook her head and looked around, tapping a finger on her lips. "Ah!" She paced over to a stand in the back of the store and pointed to a monstrous blade the shape of a classic European broadsword but three times the size. It was taller than most men, the cross-guard alone was over a foot across, and the blade had what seemed like a small second cross-guard above the first.

She made a noise in awe. "Tell me of this one."

Louis eyed her curiously. "Madam, that's my zweihander. Late 1540s. German, obviously. The little cross features on the blade are called the parierhaken or parrying hooks. That kind of sword was a famous weapon of the Landsknecht mercenaries. In particular, it would be used by a special kind of troop called a doppelsöldner, which literally means 'double-pay men', since they were paid double. Go figure. If you look at the base of the grip on this one, the symbol there is a crude impression of the coat of arms for the Brotherhood of Saint Mark, a fencing guild. The man who sold it to me that claimed it was a teaching weapon at one of their affiliated schools in Frankfurt, though I think the symbol was added much later as a wishful decoration."

Diana casually gripped the huge sword in her right hand and held it aloft. She had seen a blade like this in the Smithsonian, but she hadn't been allowed to touch it. Diana swung the sword lightly back and forth. "Zweihander. What does that mean?"

Louis ogled her in astonishment. "Uhh, it means 'two-hander'. You see, since most people can't do, er, that."

Diana blushed and put the sword back. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

Half an hour later, Diana walked out of Terrible Swift Sword Antiques carrying three swords, a shield, and a short spear. She took a bus back to the hotel. Though the bus was nearly full, no one sat within three seats of her.


For complicated reasons, Gotham City had long avoided hosting major military installations (besides the naval yards, which was a whole other story). Until recently, the nearest post was a depot several hours upstate called Fort Morrison. But lately, issues of national defense compelled the reluctant authorities to invest in sites closer to the city proper. The first of these to open its doors was the Conroy National Guard Barracks near the edge of the Youngstown suburbs in the southwest. This was, by psychology and population density, about as far away from central Gotham as you could go without giving up a city address.

Captain Steve Trevor took another taxi to pick up his car at an impound lot. He wasn't sure what amazed him more: how quickly the towing company stole his ride from a public parking lot, or how his new cop buddy got them to hand over the keys free of charge. From there, the route to Barracks was easy enough. He took one of the city's few raised highways that led anywhere, gliding eight stories over the streets for most of a mile. Then the road dipped into a tunnel where Steve wasn't sure whether he was underground or merely inside a large building. Then, without climbing or descending, the tunnel somehow opened straight onto a regular ground-level road, which almost seemed exceptional given the ride thus far. He was lost in traffic for twenty minutes, then crossed a bridge and was lost in traffic for twenty more minutes. Then the traffic thinned and he found a sign pointing him to Youngstown.

The National Guard property was a casual place compared to the grim military bases where Steve usually worked. A guard ushered him through the small checkpoint, and Steve saw a baseball game going on in the grassy yard as he drove past. He parked in front of an officer's mess. Inside, they were still serving the last dregs of breastfasters the last dregs of breakfast.

A cook behind a huge vat of oatmeal called at him as he approached. "Captain Trevor?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, that's me."

"You're wanted around back. You can head straight through the kitchen."

"Sure. Thanks." Steve walked through swinging door at the rear of the room, through the cramped kitchen, and out the back door. It led to a small park with varied exercise equipment surrounded by thin trees. Mounted on the back wall of the mess was a set of pull-up bars, and here a huge soldier in sweat-stained fatigues pumped out steady pullups. There was no one else around. Steve watched for a minute, duly impressed. He couldn't tell whether the man had done merely twenty pull-ups or two hundred; he wasn't slowing or shaking. Big guys could be strong, but they rarely moved their own bulk so easily. This one he was as nimble as a middleweight.

The big guy paused briefly over the bar and glanced down. "Steven Trevor?"

"Yes. Sorry I'm late."

The big guy dropped and wiped his palms. "I knew you would be. Don't worry about it."

Facing him, the man seemed older than Steve first thought, with white hair, small wrinkles near his eyes, and a crooked nose. Steve glanced around his fatigues, but they were unmarked and revealed no name or rank.

The man held out his beefy hand. "Lieutenant Slade Wilson."

Normally, a lieutenant would not have treated a captain so casually, but Steve was sure this was anything but normal. And he had the odd feeling that he had heard that name before.

Steve shook the hand. "You already know me. What's this about, Slade? They told me next to nothing on the phone."

"Well Steven-"

"Steve."

"Steve, sure." Slade picked up a Dopp kit sitting against the wall. "Let's walk by those trees."

Steve let Slade take the lead. He struggled to remember where he had heard that name. When they were beyond earshot of the mess hall, Slade stopped and leaned against a balancing log. "I got to say, Steve, you're my own personal Errol Flynn."

"What's that mean?"

"I mean I've been at this a long while, and I've yet to bag a sweet dame as my assignment. But you?" He clucked his tongue approvingly. "One for one. Some guys have all the luck."

Steve crossed his arms and stood back. "And just what have you been at awhile?"

"I think you can guess. We're in the same line of work."

"You're a pilot?"

"No. And maybe that's your specialty, but it ain't your work. Not for long, anyway."

"I'd quit it with these runaround answers, Lieutenant."

Slade cocked a eyebrow, still friendly. "Is that how you treat an old bud?"

"I don't know you."

Slade rubbed a hand over his face, "Am I getting so long in the tooth? Okay, maybe we weren't bus, but you knew me. Think back. Lincoln Battalion. Jarama, '37."

Steve stood still, mouth tight, thinking hard. Finally, he shook his head. "You're dead."

"Yeah, I was."


Diana Prince did find it difficult to retrace the steps of her chase in the light of day, but she certainly hadn't forgotten. She was reluctant to enter the Twelfth Street Arms again lest anyone recognize her, so she asked the taxi to let her off two buildings away. It was another apartment building. No one met her inside. She climbed the stairs three at a time. The window at the end of the top floor hallway didn't have a balcony or any platform outside. The sill was barely wide enough to plant her feet. Still, she opened the window, climbed onto it, and carefully turned around, blindly crouching five stories over the pavement. Then, a remarkable leap! Diana caught the edge of the roof and swung herself over – not the easiest maneuver in a sundress.

It didn't take long to reorient herself to the path Batman had fled out the rear of the Twelfth Street Arms, leaping from rooftop to rooftop in a fairly straight line. She even found the footprints she had originally followed, plus another set of her own. Heedless of the shock she might be giving pedestrians below who could easily look up and see her jumping through the sky, Diana traced her way to the final roof overlooking that bleak industrial area. Only now many of the buildings were in operation: smokestakes smoked, assembly lines whined, shift bells chimed, trucks rumbled, and dozens of men walked about like ants below.

But to her relief, though not a great deal of surprise, the half-built factory where she had found Batman was deserted.

Or so she thought. Before she slid down, Diana considered that Batman might live inside, or at least travel through frequently. As a general rule of nature, it was uncommon for man or beast or return to a lair so recently attacked, but wasn't he uncommon?

Deeply regretting her decision to leave her new swords in her hotel room, Diana cautiously approached the skeletal structure again. It was not a small building by any measure, certainly not by her old standards, but it seemed so much smaller in the day. She was surprised Batman could ever hide from her here. Generous beams of sunlight glowed through the many holes above, illuminating all but the most obscure corners.

Wandering around, Diana noticed several lightbulbs snapped at the stem, the glass shads littering the floor. It wasn't hard to find those sleek black throwing knives nearby, often stuck point-first into a wall. She put all of them into her purse.

In time, she found that round, open room with the chute in the floor, site of their final encounter before he fled the building for that ungodly abattoir where he disappeared – a feat that still had her convinced he was favored in some way daemomnic. Diana walked a slow circle around the room. The most obvious artifact was that length of thin steel Batman had purposed as a staff weapon with … adequate success. Not the skill of an Amazon, but decent. She considered taking the staff home to practice with the new metal, but she wasn't sure how she would fit it inside a taxi or onto the plane later. Besides, she already bought a new spear today.

The next item to catch her eye was that electric drill still plugged into the wall. She noticed its stiff bit was tweaked and blunted at the end – she didn't remember holding on quite that tight, but her memory of the experience wasn't detailed, and perhaps that was a mercy. She unplugged the tool and moved on.

Diana passed twice by a tiny device on the floor that looked something like a tube of charcoal mounted on a pistol grip. She assumed it was another unknown construction tool. Finally, whim had her kneel and take a closer look at the thing. The tube seemed much too small for whatever the grip was meant to support, as if it was the bottom of a larger frame that had fallen off, or – Diana touched the tube and realized it wasn't charcoal, it was some dense metal or stone that had been covered in ash. Or maybe the larger frame had melted off. She absently touched at her waist where the deep burn was still healing and winced. What alchemy of Man had caused that? He must have been too hurried to take it with him. Or, more likely, it had been too hot. She wiped the worst of the ash off the device and slipped it into her purse which was nearly out of space.

Diana didn't believe that she was deliberately searching for the room's final rewards, the teeth, but somehow she managed to find them in a corner of the dirty room anyway. There they were, only a foot apart, trailing a stain of dark black spots. Her expression turned grim. Diana had no hesitation to violence, but there was no pride or honor in brutality. Granted, that was a hazy word, perhaps best left to philosophers, but here in the light of day, she wasn't feeling pride at knocking that man's teeth out. She took an old paper mint wrapper and picked the teeth up. They looked somehow unnatural, but she wasn't sure. Diana took these as well; perhaps a great detective could take advantage of them if she ever decided to share.

Diana climbed to the roof. She ignored the other black throwing knives as well as their longer cousins which Batman had used to parry and stab. No, she was here for the gloves. Of course, they were there where she had dropped them. She picked one up. It was so light yet so strong. Even by the level of Man's craft, it was made of wondrous materials indeed. She slipped one over her hand. Every joint of every finger articulated freely with hardly an effort, yet she had to muster a modest force to squeeze a dent in one of its joints with her other hand, despite her Amazonian strength. Incredible.

These didn't fit in her purse. She carried one along anyway.


In the exercise yard of the Conroy National Guard Barracks.

Steve shook his head. "No, this is impossible. Not only is Slade Wilson dead, he looked nothing like you."

The self-proclaimed Slade Wilson seemed unconcerned. "Alright, I'll stop playing cryptic. Force of habit, you see."

Steve didn't respond.

Slade placed his Dopp kit on the balancing log and unzipped it. "Slade Wilson was just another Americano looking to kill some fascists. So was I. He died in combat. A hero, but tricky to identify given the sort of wounds you get playing hero. And you're wrong, he looked a hell of a lot like me. By coincidence, around the time he kicked the bucket I had fallen into rough circumstances myself, the kind where I was about to feel either a noose or a bullet in the back. So I stole the departed Slade Wilson's identity." Slade held his hands apart as if to gesture to the scenery. "And here we are."

"Wait, hold on. What? How? And why? If you're not lying, why did you want to meet me?"

"First, this meet wasn't my idea, I'm just a delivery boy shooting the breeze before we get to business."

"What's your real name?"

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not."

"Listen, I promise I'll tell you the story if you don't make a stink about your gift. Deal?"

Steve wasn't any less suspicious, but he considered his options manfully and accepted that he had his own orders to follow.

"Deal. What's the gift?"

"Look at this." Slade lifted a tiny pistol out of the Dopp kit. It seemed like a two-shot derringer from an Old West saloon, but fatter than any classic model. Slade held the gun up gently. "Custom-made. Just small enough to fit in a pocket or a shoe, but big enough to fire these," Slade popped open the barrels and shook the contents onto his palm – two enormous bullets, each cartridge longer than one of Steve's fingers. "A variation on the .470 Nitro Express. Accurate to about six paces. One trigger pull fires both rounds. I'll say right now, these will probably break your wrist." Slade tossed Steve one of cartridges. "Here."

Steve caught it and took a close look. "They're heavy."

"That's the last surprise. Remember your periodic table?"

"No."

"The core is made of a metal called tungsten, nearly twice as dense as lead"

Steve whistled and tossed the cartridge back. "So it's an elephant gun packed into a fly swatter. Why only one shot?"

"My unit has practice using heavy weapons on special targets. In our experience, these enhanced rounds tend to either be overkill or useless. Two rounds at once is the most punch you can fit. If that doesn't work, another shot won't help."

"What if I miss?"

"Then you're six paces away with a broken wrist." Slade loaded the rounds into the pistol. "I suggest you aim carefully."

"And if I have two targets?"

"You won't."

Steve was about to speak but paused. He mulled a thought, not moving his eyes. "Tell me, Slade, who's this one target?"

Slade gazed coolly at him and handed the pistol over. "You know."