In Memoriam

Local TV Network News - Fawcett City

" And in other news, a memorial service was held today in Fawcett City for Jack Weston, a decorated World War Two veteran shot by neo-nazi anarchists last year. The shooting incident is reported as being connected to the attempt to frame the veteran masked hero, Bulletman, as a nazi collaborator. Mr Weston was decorated for his work in the European arena and has acted as an advisor to various presidents for the last five decades. And now the weather, with Jeanie..."

The Red Light District, Central Amsterdam

One step at a time Minuteman-13, one step at a time. Get through this door and into that brothel. Grab that silly shapechanging son of a bitch, slap on the brain-drain and get out. Simple, no frills Veggie job. Sixty seconds - in and out. No problems.

The operation had seemed like a perfectly simple case when he was allocated it. Grandfather had always suspected that after the Invasion there might still be one or two aliens left on the planet. They were pretty certain that the Chinese had access to a Khund and there had been at least three confirmed sightings of Thangarians in Canada. The rumours that someone in Europe was using a Durlan agent seemed ludicrous but after the boys at lab had finished their analysis of the corpse of Minuteman-29 they were certain that the assailant was Durlan.

So he had been allocated the mission. Grandfather knew he was the best tracker in the Minutemen - a skill they would need to corner a shapechanger. Pedigree they called it. Heritage. It took him four weeks to get a hook on the sucker but now he had him.

The lock on the door slides open. The lock-pick is retracted and Minuteman-13 slides the equipment inside his wrist sheath. He presses a grey button on the same sheath and his body suit changes from urban camoflague to non-reflective stealth mode. He slips his left hand into his belt pouch and fits a small curved metal sheet into his palm. In his right hand he nestles his gun.

Pushing the door open, he slips into the corridor. These old town houses used to be connected together and no doubt both building are owned by the same cartel that runs the brothels. So much simpler to glide from one house to the other than just walk through the front door.

A dark skinned woman dressed in only a skimpy thong comes out of one of the rooms. Minuteman-13 presses himself against the wall and the chameleon circuitry kicks in, hiding him from her tired gaze. As she leaves he re-emerges and jogs down the corridor. The tech in the suit is good, but that sort of thing drains the power cell and he can't risk it again.

A firm kick shatters the lock on the door as he strides into the room. Lit only be a soft orange light, it is a textbook example of a high class brothel - all reds and gold. In the huge bed that dominates the middle of the room, a woman shrieks and pulls the red satin sheets up to cover her breasts and begins to half scramble, half fall out of the bed. The man, a rather overweight, balding middle-aged specimen raises himself on his hands and begins to bluster. Minuteman-13 leaps onto the bed and slaps the metallic patch onto his forehead. The man's eye's glass over and he slumps back onto the pillow.

Suddenly Minuteman's chest explodes in a gout of blood and bone. His innards are sprayed across the wall behind the bed, fragments of bone shredding the curtain with the force of the explosion. His body falls forwards onto the inert form of the fat man, shudders and then falls limp.

Behind him the arm of the naked prostitute lowers the snub-nosed blaster and shifts into the shape of the still-dazed man. " Stupid human. Stupid, ignorant, dead human..."

An Undisclosed Location in the Ukraine

" <Alexi, it has taken us half a century to complete our experiments. I would expect you to be a little more enthusiastic? Our foresight will protect Mother Russia long past our deaths. We will become heroes.>"

" <Ever the dreamer, eh Yuri? The Russia we knew is dead now, split into a dozen squabbling farmsteads all trying to become American faster than the other. All our sacrifices, the lives of millions of our brothers on the Eastern Front wasted. Weakness Yuri, weakness and cowardice. Do you blame me for being so melancholy?>"

" <Still, we have the clone, and that will make all the difference. Let the Americans strut and pose with their Superman and their Green Lanterns. We have the secret that will unlock the world to us. What say we get on with this and meet destiny head on?>"

The two elderly scientists shake hands and turn towards a vast shining view screen showing them the innards of a sealed chamber. In the centre of the room stands a padded tube, tilted at an angle. Under the translucent viewing panel on the tube, a human form lies dormant. The two old men begin to press practiced sequences of buttons, checking the multitude of screens that scroll and blink around them.

" <Are you ready Alexi?>"

" <I am Yuri. Insert the probe.>"

A long slender metal rod slides from a robotic arm positioned over the chamber and penetrates a tiny tube just about the occupants forehead. As it slides in the shadowy body shudders and then lies still.

"<Commence final download sequence: 21st century idiom database and final personality adjustments>"

A few seconds later the probe retracts and everything seems to stand silent - as if the world is holding it's breath - and like a sigh, the pneumatics on the chamber release and the tube cracks open with a torrent of white fumes. As the fumes clear, a naked man clambers from the tube, shaking his head.

" I .. we... where am I?"

"< The language conditioning was successful Alexi!>" The scientist presses another button and his voice echoes around the sealed chamber. " You are with friends. You have endured terrible wounds and we have healed you. This is your home now."

" Yes..yes.. this is my home, and you are my friends." The naked man stands and stretches. His body is trim and toned, like an olympic athlete.

" Yes, we are your friends. It is so good to have you with us .... Parsifal!"

The early hours of the morning: The Oval Office.

" I'm afraid it is still essential, Mr President. Despite the plethora of metahuman resources we have at our disposal, there are some missions and some issues that it is better we keep covert. Our disasterous attempt at a Suicide Squad are well documented and the Knightwatch/Checkmate organisation is rather the smiling face that we like to present to our allies. Sometimes we need secrets." Dark-suited, with regulation short dark hair, the agent adjusts his tie slightly and takes a sip of water.

" It just seems so ... well, so 'cold war' - I thought these days were long behind us?"

" We like to let the public think that the so-called 'cold war' is over. In reality that term was a cover for the harsh truth of the situation. The United States and it's enemies have been fighting on a higher level for decades. Any news of detente we have slipped to the media was simply a boost for our allies in the Soviet Union. With all due respect Mr President, even the Russians have been a smokescreen for years - the true threat comes from other areas - the Chinese, the Arabs and the Europeans."

" The Europeans?"

" A trading block that defies US sanctions? A federalist movement towards a single army with fingers on our missiles? Our so-called 'special relationship' with the United Kingdom maintained by our 'guest' in Kentucky? Oh yes sir, the Europeans are the enemy as well."

" I never realised. None of my briefings have ever mentioned this. So you say you need this sanction now?"

" Yes sir. Sadly we have lost one of our agents in the Netherlands and we need a replacement. The Minuteman Protocol has existed since the days of the O.S.S. The United States must be capable of reacting to any threat to her borders, her interests or her people within one hour. We maintain a network of sixty agents - the Minutemen - to act as a first strike option against perceived threats above and beyond the capabilities of our more public agencies. We currently have fifty-nine agents..."

" This is a lot to take in, Agent ...?"

" Agent Maxwell, sir."

" Agent Maxwell, yes." The President reaches across and scrawls his signature on the electronic notepad. " You have your permission. Activate the Minuteman Protocol."

" Thank you sir." Maxwell gathers up the notepad, stands, salutes and leaves the Oval Office. In the corridor outside he presses a key on the pad and the screen changes, showing a blurred digitised face.

" SECURE LINK ESTABLISHED. So how did it go?" The voice is distorted.

" The President enacted the Protocol. Shall I inform the Regional Director?"

" No. Leave Bones to me. We're poaching one of his best agents, I doubt he would take kindly hearing it from a common-or-garden agent. How was the President?"

" He seemed convinced of our rationale, although his level of ignorance could mean that he starts a snoop."

" That's only to be expected. Alert Minuteman-3 of the possibility. She will have to get closer to the President. Grandfather out. LINK TERMINATED"

Toronto, Canada

Wetwork.

Her target is enjoying a quiet holiday north of the border with his grand-children. A grey-haired old man spending some of his savings on treats for two freckled kids whose ability to consume ice-cream verges on the meta-human.

Unfortunately, the information in the briefing Minuteman-11 received paints a different story altogether. That old man down there is called Dr Isaac Benson. Dr Benson, formerly of the US Army Centre of Superhuman Studies. It was Dr Benson who lead the team in the 60s that helped the US spearhead the world's drive towards the creation of a 'super soldier' - using alien and metahuman DNA to create a booster to the genetic make-up of foetal tissue. The children would grow up to be faster, stronger and more intelligent than any normal human on the planet.

The first children were born between 1967 and 1971. There were eight in total, one of whom was stillborn. The remaining seven seemed to perfectly normal children until they reached the age of six. The advances in their physical genetic signature caused havoc with some of their other functions. Two had complete immune system collapse and died from a common cold. One developed extreme photosensitivity. Another two were diagnosed as being severely mentally 'retarded' (God, how she hated that word...so 70s) to the point where even as adults they would never grow beyond the capabilities of a three year old. One was reported to have torn his own heart out in a fit of self-loathing. The last two were terminated before they could develop their full range of abilities for fear that they would actually bring harm to the scientists. The project was ended and all details filed with the Minutemen.

Dr Benson seemed to be 100% behind the move but it was a sham. Like any father, he fell into a period of extreme grief and then retirement. More recent reports from agents in Canada confirmed that Dr Benson was indeed enjoying his retirement - as a chance to use todays ultra-science to rectify the mistakes he had used in the formula for the super-soldiers. He was booked today to meet with a Mr Hargreaves, a representative of TideTech, a multinational group specialising in finding cures for diseases and then selling them at exorbitant prices. Dr Benson, it seemed, was going to sell TideTech his knowledge and spread his legacy of a super-race far beyond American shores. This couldn't happen.

Already this morning, aggressive drone viruses had been uploaded into his PC and all information had been stripped. Broadband cable wasn't delayed in it's rollout because of technical problems. The Minutemen needed a method of getting into your PC without you knowing and this was the way. His apartment would be gutted by now, and a new family moved in by this evening. His family would be a problem, but for them Grandpa would just disappear on his way back from Canada and the missing persons report would fall into Police Department limbo.

The children run over to their mother and Dr Benson kisses his daughter on the cheek for the last time.

Downtown Metropolis, Alberto's Diner

" Hey Weston? How much did you lose on that game?" Alberto hollers across his half-empty diner from the kitchen, his jowls wobbling as he tries to supress his laughter.

A man sat in a booth reading a paper doesn't look up but raises his hand, giving the Italian proprietor the finger. "More money that you'll make in this dump in a week. I should have known better than put money on those losers."

" Your coffee." The waitress sits a steaming cup down on the table and smiles.

" Thanks." Jeff Weston turns back to the newspaper and continues reading the obituary for his grandfather. A war hero. A great American. Honoured with all the bells and whistles the US military could muster. If only they knew.... Grandpa Jack lived with his secrets buried deep. Jeff had only found out when his rise through the Department had broken the red tape. Grandpa Jack worked for the OSS as a co-ordinator of the mystery men on the European front. He was the guy that sent the men that stopped the War Wheels and Flying Battleships and all the other crap Hitler had thrown at them. The Minuteman, they called him. A star-spangled figurehead of US defiance. Grandpa Jeff viewed it differently though, after the war. All those men sent to their deaths on his signature. His friends, his comrades, his fellow 'mystery men' - Red Wolf, The Marauder, Yankee Doodle and Gyro-man - all lost to history in the fields of Europe. Grandpa stayed with the government after the war, but as an advocate of peace and diplomacy. They listened to him, but only enough to placate a idealistic old man and keep his mouth shut about the things he knew.

" Mr Weston. Mr Jeffrey Weston?"

" Yeah. Who wants to know?" Jeff still doesn't look up. A leather walleted badge slides under his nose.

" Agent Maxwell. Grandfather requires your services. The Minuteman Protocol has been authorised."

Weston shakes his head and looks up. His short black cropped hair frames a face horribly scarred down one side. The fire took his looks and his eye, the scarring twisted his mouth. " You can stick your protocol where the sun doesn't shine. I work with the DEO and no one else. If you want me, take it up with Waller."

" Your grandfather.."

" My grandpa hated everything that the Minutemen stand for. You had him, you had my father, you've even got my brother. I am not one of your Minutemen!"

" The DEO have signed your release papers. We need you as an immediate replacement in the European Sector."

" I..."

" I am also afraid to tell you that your brother has been killed in action. Grandfather is missing a Minuteman-13. You are the replacement."

" Bobby ...." Jeff Weston folds his newspaper and stand up slowly. He steps out from the booth and lays a five dollar bill onto the table. He lashes out and catches Agent Maxwell with three straight fingers in the solar plexus doubling him over and then lashes out with his foot, cracking his head back and sending him tumbling over a table and crashing to the floor. Clutching his stomach, Agent Maxwell writhes in agony, vomiting across the polished floor. Weston stands over him. " You want me? You got me - for one mission - I get Bobby's killer and then you get yourself another Minute, OK?"

Next Issue: Minuteman#1 - The new Minuteman-13 arrives in Europe, Grandfather makes his presence felt and Parsifal begins to investigate his new world. More secrets, more intrigue and more <classified>

Sixty Second Sound Off!

OK, just so I don't get accused of keeping new readers in the dark about the references in this issue, here's the skinny.

Jack Weston was the original Minuteman, who fought alongside Bulletman and Spy Smasher in WW2. As for the rest of his activities, well, you'll just have to keep reading! The Bulletman conspiracy I mentioned was the centre of the 'Stars and Lightning' crossover between Starman and Shazam a few years ago. Parsifal was a nazi villain during WW2 whose power was rumoured to be the ability to negate other metahuman powers - alongside the Spear of Destiny, this was used as the reason why the JSA just didn't go over and stomp on Hitler during the war - a depowered hero captured and paraded before the cameras would have been too much of a blow to morale. The Invasion refers to the crossover story in the late 80s when an armada of alien races tried to invade Earth.