Michael Wooster flipped the necessary toggles on the Lairplane’s console to initiate landing procedures. Its wings rotated ninety degrees allowing the thrusters to ease the multi-million dollar piece of high tech equipment to the ground; struts telescoping from the undercarriage to bear the vehicle’s significant weight.

Unbuckling his safety belt, Michael pressed the button to open the plane’s door and lower its exit ramp. He then made one last look in one of the cockpit’s more reflective surfaces to make sure his mask was on straight before disembarking.

The scene’s early responders, a disharmonious conglomeration of local and state police as well as the National Guard, watched with bemusement as the fit young man in the blue and bronze costume approach them. Inwardly Michael hoped this was not a sign that he was about to enter some kind of jurisdictional turf war.

Instinctively his fingers brushed over the tattoo of the Periodic Table of the Elements that ringed his bicep, as if he was trying to remind himself that yes, the symbols that allowed him to alter his molecular composition were there, that he was a superhero, and that he belonged among these men and women who were trying to deal with this latest anomaly. Michael approached the highest ranking Guardsman in his range and flashed his credentials.

“Alcheman. I’m with the Lair Legion.”

The Second Lieutenant squinted to study holographic image of the Molecular Marvel, and then turned her attention back to its holder, “I don’t…. think so?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Yeah; no. You’re not a member of the Lair Legion. In fact I’ve never heard of you,” the officer elaborated. Several other soldiers nearby seemed to share their leader’s lack of familiarity of the Chemical Crime-fighter.

Michael frowned, “I’m Alcheman. I’ve been active in Parodiopolis for years.”

The woman shook her head, “Nope.”

“Lived in the Big Banana all my life. Never heard of you,” another Guardsman spoke up.

“Me neither,” stated a third.

The lieutenant waved over one of the civilian authorities on the scene, “He says he’s part of the Lair Legion.”

“Yes, I’m Alcheman,” Wooster again held up his identity card, “Governor Ribbentrop’s office contacted us in regards to the manifestation and asked if we could aid in the investigation of it.”

“We weren’t told anything about the Legion getting involved,” the individual, a detective with the State Police, replied.

“But you do know I am Alcheman, and that I’m part of the Lair Legion?” Michael beseeched.

“Nah. Heard of Hatman and ManMan and Ham Man, but no Alcheman.”

“It’s Ham Boy,” The Elemental Adventurer corrected as he pressed the card to activate its communication function. Normally it would only take a moment for the team’s artificial intelligence to reply.
Not this time. No response from her, or anyone else. The static was a new wrinkle as well.

“Hm.”

“Problem?” the Lieutenant inquired.

Alcheman stuffed the comm card back into one of the pouches on his belt, “I’m not getting through. Perhaps the appearance of the construct is to blame?”

He pointed to the reason all of them were here: the stubby black tower with the four slowly rotating sails that had appeared in a field miles outside the state’s capital seemingly from nowhere.
“Our phones work fine,” Sergeant Danbury, the detective whom had earlier misidentified Earth’s Meatiest Hero, held up his cell to show its signal bars.

“Hm. Perhaps, then, I might be able to borrow yours to contact Lair Mansion?”

The sergeant allowed it. Alcheman took the phone and was ready to place the call when a sudden realization hit him.

He didn’t know the number.

He should have. There was no reason not to. Yet , confusingly, mysteriously, laboredly, the necessary digits did not come to Michael as he searched his memories.

“Er, ah, perhaps one of you could help me. I seem to have forgotten the number of the team’s emergency contact line.”

The National Guard officer shook her head in disbelief, “We’ve wasted enough time with you, buddy. Please clear the area.”

“No, no. I have some more questions,” Danbury retrieved his phone and switched into ‘bad cop’ mode, “You realize, Alcheman, that impersonating a deputized law enforcement agent is a criminal offense?”

Michael immediately took stock of his surroundings. He had the detective right in front of him, with the lieutenant to his right. Both had been focused on him, except for the one moment when the woman’s gaze flickered over his right shoulder. There were men behind him, he knew; police and soldiers both. Were they moving into position to subdue him? That seemed likely, and prudent on their part, given what they thought was the truth: that some unknown masked man landed his high-tech plane in a metaphysical hot zone that they themselves were attempting to get their bearings in. The Transmutative Titan looked past his accuser and to the windmill once again.

“Excuse me,” Alcheman reached for the tattoo of the Periodic Table on his bicep and pressed the symbol for oxygen twice. To the men and women around him he seemed to disappear, but the truth was he had altered his own molecular composition to assume the properties of air itself. Then he willed his atoms to float unseen and unobstructed to the slowly oscillating grist mill, sure that answers to the questions that plagued him could be found inside.

The sails to the windmill picked up speed as Alcheman approached it. Within moments their lazy rotations had become quick as a whip crack. The resulting gale caused by the whirring blades pushed against Michael’s non-corporeal form.

“This cannot be a coincidence,” the Tatted Up Troubleshooter thought to himself as the winds forced him away from his chosen destination, “The change in speeds at the very moment I altered my composition has to been orchestrated by some unseen hand. And this current, strong as it is, must have a supernatural component for it to affect me!”

Indeed, the tempest Alcheman struggled against was doing more than blowing him back; it was hurting him. Michael could feel pieces of himself tearing away from his body, even in its ethereal state.
“Must! Keep! Together!” he vowed to himself, using all of his considerable willpower to remain whole. In that endeavor Michael was successful; his attempt to charge the mysterious windmill, however, proved quixotic. The Mighty Metamorph was flung back over the heads of the confused authorities, past his landed Lairplane and into the forest canopy beyond. Exhausted, Alcheman assumed his human form amidst the tangle of tree branches.

He was not alone long. A bird, large and monochromatic, landed next to Michael and peered at him crossly.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Ziggy the Auk of Obsolescence told him, “You’re ‘nevermore’.”


Next: “I Know Why the Extinct Bird Elucidates”

Footnotes:

Under Reconstruction. Check back later.