The business district of Biggers was impressive enough to rival New York's own. Though its buildings were not as tall, its metallic not as shiny, and its streets not as crowded, it made good business for one individual, at least.
"Well, I'll be!" exclaimed a man, nearly bending over himself to look at his feet. "I can see my reflection in these shoes! Beautiful work, shoeshine!"
His shoeshine had long since accepted his profession as his name. The dog gathered his supplies back into his box and stood up straight, strapping it over his shoulder. "Thank you, sir," he answered kindly.
The man continued to ramble, and as kind as Shoeshine was, he did not listen to the man's ideologies of well-paying jobs and destiny. Shoeshine pushed his oversized glasses up his muzzle and watched as the man stumbled for his wallet.
Shoeshine Clark was a well-known face around Biggers. He looked just like a thousand other people in the town, including their hero; he had cream-colored fur and floppy black ears, dark freckles dotting his face and glasses so thick that his lenses threatened to pop out of their frames. He wore a loose-fitting, threadbare hoodie, with a dark red torso and yellow sleeves.
He had started work in the city as a mere shoeshine boy, and in recent years, had expanded into shoe customization and larger shine orders as he carved his own little space into the World Wide Web. This, too, extended to the rambling man, as Shoeshine traded him a business card for his cash. Shoeshine gave a polite wave to the still-speaking man, then turned on his heel as he counted his money.
Shoeshine had barely shoved the cash into his shine-box when a horrible shriek pierced through his ears. He lifted one to confirm what he was certain the noise was. Sure enough, as clearly as if it had come from right beside him, Shoeshine heard a voice singing, scared and frantic.
"Where—oh, where has my Underdog gone? Oh where—o-oh where has he gone?"
"Polly!" Shoeshine exclaimed. He glanced around the street where he stood. Few others were around, some mingled on the other side of the street with their backs turned to him, and the rambling man was still caught up in his metaphor.
Acting as if he hadn't been so startled, Shoeshine padded around the corner, behind a building and away from any prying eyes. Kicking off the concrete roughly, he booked it down the block to where a phone booth lay, ready and waiting to be of some use.
Shoeshine slammed the door shut, his body little more than a yellowish blur. In a moment even quicker, the phone booth suddenly burst into bits across the sidewalk. Emerging from the smoke of its explosion trailed a streak that was light blue and star-studded.
With a speed too great to see more than a contrail, Shoeshine Clark was gone—in his place, a legend flew through the sky. When criminals, their hearts filled with greed, appeared in this world and broke the laws to rob and steal from those in need, there was only one man to right their wrong—there was only one man who claimed the title of Biggers's hero.
The comet flew through the bright blue summer sky and into the belly of crime. It burst through the boarded up window of a large and dreary warehouse with a cry on its lips long before it had landed.
"THERE'S NO NEED TO FEAR - UNDERDOG IS HERE!"
Underdog stood tall atop his pile of rubble and wooden boards. Admittedly, one has an expectation of a hero's appearance—one that Underdog seldom fits. He wore a baggy, threadbare red sweater with an embroidered U across his chest. His sweater's bagginess only accentuated his own fat body, and the piles of blue cape behind him made him look bigger still. His face was still dappled in freckles, but one on either cheek had been covered to look like a star.
The hero scanned the room he landed in with narrowed eyes. It was a giant area, though absurdly plain. It had a concrete floor and equally as rocky walls, and its only decor were large steel beams and wooden crates strewn about.
"Underdog!" cried Polly gratefully. Underdog's ears found her before his eyes did. Usually, Polly was a well-put-together, beautiful poodle—but in her predicament, her light hair was a frizzy mess and she was tied in ropes like a cocoon. Underdog started cautiously toward her.
"Ah, Underdog!" came another voice. Again, Underdog's ears found its source first; but this time, his body was too slow.
Underdog was struck in the back with a light, but startling force. He let out a cry and stumbled to the ground, landing on his hands and knees. Quickly he recovered himself, and looked over his shoulder to find what had attacked him.
The creature was a shadow, with upturned eyes and a massive smile. A forked tongue swiped across one of its oversized canines as it reached up to pull its sun hat from its head. As soon as its face was illuminated, Underdog instantly recognized the creature as Battyman.
Batty hissed out a high-pitched laugh. "It has been quite some time," he said as he circled the hero, blocking his path to Polly. "I have missed you so~ Do you remember our duel on the roof? Our race through the catacombs?"
Underdog swallowed thickly as he sized the bat up. He let himself reminisce in the hopes it would distract the vampire for a few moments longer. "With everything you did to me, I can't say you're one I miss."
Underdog did more than get to his feet, he shot into the air with a blast of wind and a sparkle of stars behind him. When he looked down to observe Batty, he could see that he had stumbled... and it seemed that he was choking on the stardust.
"But if you thought those were good times," he taunted as he prepared to strike, "You're going to love this!"
Underdog swooped down at Batty as he had done to him. Batty ducked and weaved through the hero as his face fell into shadow again. Again and again Underdog attempted to strike him, but Batty was rail-thin and even more agile than the hero was. He prepared once more, but hesitated as Batty stood up straight and clicked his tongue at him.
"This is not how our fight will go, Underdog," he yawned, "I tire of one-on-one combat. I would much prefer a show."
Underdog scoffed at him, and rushed at him again before he had gotten his last word out. And again, Batty avoided him like a wraith. This time, however, Underdog had gone too low, and his sneakers scraped the concrete as he skidded to a halt.
"You speak nonsense, and I have no time for folly," he said dryly. He cracked his knuckles and rolled up his right sleeve as he glared up at Batty. "Fight me now or release Sweet Polly!"
The moment she was mentioned, Polly shrieked: "Underdog, look out!"
Underdog stiffened as he felt a certain anxious heat blaze across his back. He turned his ears behind him, though heard nothing. When he turned his body around, he felt a pulse of fear bolt through his fur.
He was certain that every criminal he had ever met was standing behind him. Riff Raff and every member of his Gang, Electric Eel and his swarm, The Gadget Master, Hush Puppy, Prince Clown, the Pie Men, Rubber Duck, Overcat, even his most recent adversary, Dr. Hiss—and several others who, if he had ever beaten, he didn't recall.
"Oh," he muttered, "no."
Like a crashing wave, the villains were upon him. Punches and magic and claws and bullets riddled across Underdog all at once, so intense and overlapping that he couldn't tell what was what. For a long moment, he could not even gain his bearings, and took his beating with little more than a cry of anguish.
Underdog heard them all talking to eachother, quipping to eachother, hyping eachother up—even as they pulled on his ears and crushed his feet and punched out one of his premolars. He thought it was a premolar—he couldn't focus on it as his pains were replaced with different ones: a punch to the gut, a kick to the groin, a pull of his tail, a fist in his eye.
By the time he coughed out another puddle of blood, Underdog thought he knew where he was. Adrenaline rushed through his veins—fear for himself? Or fear for Polly? He couldn't tell, and he couldn't be bothered. He lashed out with everything in him, sending out equal punches and kicks to his attackers as they pummeled him with more.
He heard Polly shriek behind him. Beside him? Somewhere.
He had to get to her. He bit the hand of whoever held his muzzle and raised his leg to kick out their wrist. The villain let out a catlike snarl, but released him in surprise. Underdog pushed off the crook's chest and flew straight upwards, peering down at the crowd as they seemed to not have realized their target was missing. They rippled like ocean water in a tide pool and tumbled over eachother like a rat king.
Underdog took in several jagged breaths, never able to recover enough air to help the bruise he felt on his lung. He gulped thickly, tasting only rust, and licked his upper lip as he felt the blood from his nose pooling there.
It was a trap—Underdog finally had enough air to realize it. But looking down, he couldn't see Polly. He had to find Polly.
In his frantic search for her, Underdog did not notice that his attackers had spotted his momentary escape.
"I'LL GET HIM!" one shouted, and Underdog choked as a supermassive force crashed into his body. Overcat had flown up to capture him—at some point they must have run out of bullets. The warlord gripped Underdog by his biceps, his hands so large that they curled back around to the balls of his paws. For a moment Overcat flew him upward, then he rapidly turned Underdog so that the hero was forced to look up at him.
Underdog could not look if he wanted to, the shake-up of the cat's unstable flight had made his vision spin. Overcat threw him down by his arms, but Underdog managed to gain control of his equilibrium right before he could fall too far. He tried to get any traction whatsoever in the air, but it was fruitless, and Overcat was more prepared. Overcat beamed down at him, his lip curling over each of his extra canines, and he bunny-kicked Underdog back into the awaiting crowd.
Underdog had expected a slightly soft landing, hoping at least one person to break his fall. No—he landed flat on his back in the concrete with a cry. He heard something break both inside and outside of him—his body had carved out a crater, and he thought his spine just became one vertebra shorter.
Still, he was given no rest. He got his hands under himself and managed to sit up slightly as Riff's Gang loomed over his crater. Panting still and gaining no breath, Underdog sucked in what little air he did have and blew it out at the Gang. As little of a norther that he felt it was, it still had enough force to blow the encroaching crooks back. And as they were blown, they stumbled into their allies, pushing the ragged circle around Underdog's crater back further.
Underdog took another gulp—still rust—and crawled his way to the top. He snarled wildly; he was a fighting dog backed into its corner. It was a noise none of the villains had ever heard from him before. Underdog had never even heard himself make it.
"You can trick me, but I'll never stop until Polly is safe!" he snapped aggressively, even though he wobbled on his paws. "So listen to me, villains—GET OUT OF MY WAY."
For a mere moment, they hesitated. Underdog had just enough time to feel like he could breathe again before the next wave crashed over him. He screamed as a bolt of lightning was shot through him.
So enthralled in their battle, neither Underdog nor the crooks noticed Simon Barsinister's carefully-placed eye in the sky. The warehouse had an office shoved close to its ceiling that overlooked the floor. Behind the tinted glass of the window stood a woman. She held a walkie-talkie close to her mouth, and something that resembled a tripod camera stood on the windowsill next to her.
"Romeo-Oscar-November to Kilo-November-Golf. Come in, boss..."