Previous Post The Order of the Red Velvet Masquerade Part One This story is a continuation of Bad Sports and A Little Learning…. while also referencing events in Part Four of Untold Tales #344. Wooster’s in Carrington had once been billed as an architectural marvel, a modern mecca for the urban consumer. That was one hundred and seventy years ago. As time passed, the formerly monolithic three story structure had become dwarfed by the high rises erected around it. By the Great Depression it had become too small for its original purpose as a department store, and was converted into offices for the growing retail empire. Thirty years later it was too outmoded for even that, so the reigning patriarch of the Wooster clan had it declared a national monument and turned it into the “Wooster Geneaology Center”: a depository of three hundred plus years of documents relating to the noted family. However, its real importance to them lay not in the reams of correspondence, legal papers, and press clippings housed within. The true value of the building was hidden, and was known only to a select few. Today is the day this number goes up by one. Michael Wooster, age eight, shifted uncomfortably in his seat, handkerchief in his grip, as he watched another ropy strand of saliva begin to droop from Ronnie’s intimidating maw, “Father, he’s slobbering again,” he called to the front of the car. “Well, dab it up, son. We can’t have him leaving any stains on the upholstery, can we?” The youth warily eyed the Rottweiler with whom he shared the back of his father’s Mercedes, “N-no?” he replied as he patted down the beast’s muzzle. The dog demonstrated his gratitude by lunging its huge head into Michael’s, “Oof!” “Ha! Ha!” Malcolm Wooster looked into the rearview mirror as the animal pinned his son to the seat and lapped at his face with his long, sandpapery tongue, “No good deed goes unpunished, eh Mikey?” “According to mother, yes,” Michael answered as he tried to push the dog away off of him. “Ronnie, come.” The Rottweiler clambered over the headrests of the Benz, coming to a halt in the passenger seat next to his master. Michael noted the welts Ronnie’s paws and left in the cars leather interior but said nothing. There was plenty of precedent Father would find a way to shift the blame onto someone else anyway, and had probably wanted Michael on ‘Drool Patrol’ as he had so colloquially put it, out of something Mother had said at dinner the night before. “Why did we bring Ronnie to the city with us?” “We’re going to walk him in Off Central Park.” The lad coughed politely, “Father, the park is the other way.” Malcolm turned back to consider his son directly, “Good eye, son. You’re right. I’m afraid we told your mother and the girls a little fib. No, where we’re going we need Ronnie to stand guard over the car while we conduct our business. Can you do that, Ronnie? Let me see your war face!” Ronnie responded by rasping his tongue repeatedly against his owner’s face, producing a sputter, then a guffaw, from Malcolm. Michael just winced. ***** Malcolm Wooster III parked the car in the alley way behind the Genealogy Center. Michael had been here before, though never in back of it, and certainly not on an early Sunday morning when the streets of Paradopolis’s Financial District were deserted. His father lowered the windows enough to give Ronnie fresh air, and took Michael up to the building. The two stopped at a brick wall that was nearly concealed to the alley by a jutting abutment. “Now, Michael, before we continue, I want you to promise to never, ever tell your mother or sisters about anything we do today.” “Why not?” it was unlike Michael’s father to tell him to lie, or even obscure the truth.” “You are about to begin an important journey, as both a Wooster and a man. And while girls play a key role in the advancement of those designations, this must forever remain a secret. Understood?” “Yes, sir.” Malcolm smiled, “Good. Go to the cement pillar. I want you to count over nine bricks, then up nine bricks.” The young boy complied, putting his hand on the stone work, “This brick is a lot smoother than the others,” he noted. “You’re right. Now, grab it with both hands and pull down, like you’re turning the handle.” Michael did as he was told, yanking on it with all his might. After a seemingly interminable struggle there was a soft click, and the red masonry tilted down to the left. “I did it!” Michael was exhilarated despite having no idea what he had managed to accomplish, “Now what, father?” “Push it into the wall.” He pressed his fingers into the brick. Stone grinded against stone and then the wall shifted. There was another click and a portion of the masonry swung slowly back as if on hinges. “A secret door!” Michael turned back to his father and exclaimed, “Just like in the Heterodyne Boys!” Malcolm Wooster broke into a wide grin, “There’s a switch on the wall to the right. Flip it and see what’s inside.” ***** Now Michael Wooster pressed the sequence of chemical symbols tattooed on his bicep to assume his flesh and blood form, “This is a raid. You are all under arrest,” he announced to the uniformed BALD agents before dropping one with a textbook right cross. “It’s Alcheman!” one of the fallen criminal’s partners shouted as he scrambled to unholster his neutron disruptor, “We’re under attack by the Lair Legion!” “No. I came alone,” the Molecular Marvel corrected before kicking the renegade scientist in the stomach. He wrapped an arm around his neck and fell backward, driving the criminal ashcan shaped helmet first into the concrete floor. For his next trick he swept an adjacent attacker’s legs out from under him. “Then you are a fool!” a fourth agent picked up the conversation as he popped open a crate he had been carting across the supposedly abandoned warehouse, “there’s enough firepower in these boxes to take over a small country!” “Which is the reason I could not allow them to fall into Alumniati hands,” Alcheman pummeled another BALD minion he had caught in a headlock. He seemed unconcerned as the other villain produced a heavy blaster rifle and targeted him, “and why before interrupting your exchange I seeped into the boxes and shorted out the weapons.” The gun hummed ominously when its trigger was pulled. Then it sparked wildly; then silence. Mister Sparty turned to glare at the BALD leader he had been negotiating with, “These weapons aren’t waterproof?!” “Sir, I assure you- ack!” the rogue scientist clutched his throat after Sparty slashed at it with his broadsword. “Pledges, fall back,” the Hellacious Hoplite calmly wiped his blade on the downed man’s uniform. The black robed soldiers that flanked him began laying down suppressive fire as they retreated towards the docked Alumniati hovercraft. Alcheman reached for his bicep, but a steam shovel hand clamped down on his wrist and flung him into a stack of crates. An armored BALD agent stomped over to him and easily tossed the containers aside, “This exoskeleton gives me the strength of fifty men, more than enough to crush the likes of you!” he reached down and put the Elemental Adventurer in a bearhug. “Nrgh!” Michael struggled in his foe’s grasp, watching in vain over his shoulder as Mister Sparty and his men boarded their escape vehicle. He could feel the air being squeezed from his lungs. His ribs creaked from the strain, and he began to see bright flashes before his eyes, “Not… again,” he groaned as the hovercraft’s thrusters ignited and it blasted through the warehouse’s skylight. The Chemical Crimefighter made a last, desperate gambit; craning his neck in a painful angle and extending his tongue, Michael pressed the letter C etched on his skin, transforming himself into the hardest substance on the Periodic Table. RRRRREEEENNNNNDDDD! The hero used his newly attained strength to pry apart his attacker’s arms. He slammed his diamond head into the BALD agent’s, knocking him to the ground. “Got to act fast,” he muttered, preparing to transform himself into a state that would allow him to pursue his escaping quarry. The moans of the wounded criminals made him pause though. The Alumniati had tore a wide swath through them, and the one personally attacked by Sparty sounded especially dire. Alcheman resumed his normal form and limped over to help him, and the rest of the injured; circumstances once again forcing him to delay his pursuit of the costumed cabal. ***** “How does that feel?” Grace O’Mercy asked as she tightened the bandages she had wrapped around Alcheman’s torso. The pair were in a curtained off area of the PhantomHawk Memorial Hospital Emergency Room. The Transmutative Titan exhaled, and winced, “It only hurts when I breathe.” “Pity you don’t have the ability to come back from the dead like your new teammates: some bruised ribs wouldn’t even slow you down,” the Night Nurse stepped back to admire her handiwork. “I am only aware that CrazySugarFreakBoy! and Hatman are in fact, ah, resurrectable. And that is because they are the Champions of Chaos and Order, respectively,” Alcheman slid off the examination table and gingerly pulled on his sleeveless tunic. “Well, that sounds like the gig you should sign up for,” the pale brunette smiled up at him, “Maybe you could be the Champion of Good Manners.” Alcheman shook his head, “Lately I’ve been the Champion of a Day Late and a Dollar Short. This will be the second time I have allowed the Alumniati to escape.” “After stopping them with making off with an arsenal of high tech weapons, and saving the lives of those injured BALD goons,” Grace put a gloved hand on Michael’s forearm, “I’d chalk that up as a win, Alcheman.” Michael felt the back of his neck grow warm. He nodded, “One can look at it that way. Gr- Miss O’Mercy, I need to ask another favor. I would like to question the agents who are currently here at the hospital. The problem is they are under police guard.” “Why is that a problem?” The Molecular Marvel watched as Grace peeled off her surgical gloves and made a note on his chart. Then he realized, “Oh, that’s right. I’m a member of the Lair Legion.” “With all the perks that go with it,” the nurse added, “except being able to come back from the dead. Which returns us full circle to your ribs. I know I’m, ah, wasting my breath telling you this, but you need to take it easy for the next few days. Keep the bandages on, and let somebody know if the pain worsens.” “I will.” Grace’s dark eyes narrowed, “Will what?” “Do some of that,” he grinned slightly, “Thank you again for all your help, Miss O’Mercy. Have a good rest of the evening.” ***** It was nearly 1:30 when Michael finally made it back to Carrington. He did not wish to further injuring his ribs by assuming a gaseous or aqueous state, and thus had been denied the ability to travel rapidly across Paradopolis. Instead he took on the properties of vulcanized rubber and bounced the distance; a compromise that worked well until he returned to his flesh and blood state, and the rigors of his journey caught up with him. “Argh!” he clutched his sides as he dropped down into the alley behind the Wooster Genealogy Center. Hunching over, he counted nine bricks to the right, nine bricks up, and pulled on the stone. The task proved to be just as herculean for Michael tonight as it had twenty years prior. Finally, there was the familiar click. The last scion of the Wooster clan grunted and pushed the brick in. The hidden door swung open, and he was home. To Be Continued

...like that bouncing down the street is painful when you're injured. And also that he can get help from the Lair Legion if he needs it. Even if he wants to keep his battle with the Aliminati secret, he can still find people in the LL willing to keep it quiet for him.