Dawn just broke over London when the call came through.  In the shadow of the trees and heathers of the Royal Arsenal Gardens, a low steel and glass compound jutted out into the Thames River.  Deep within the compound, a council of military heads and politicians sat gathered around a conference table, watching a grainy holographic image of a pale, lanky humanoid.  The image was of Zodiac, acting chair of the Protectorate, and he sent his greeting to the council, apologizing for the seemingly prolonged decision to contact them.

"It seems the Monolith has been experiencing some transmission difficulties," Zodiac said, static punctuating his claims.  "But Paragon is doing what he can to rectify them."

"What exactly is the situation in Ireland?" the Prime Minister asked.

Zodiac frowned, his ridge-like brow furrowed.  "What has unfolded in Ireland is quite overwhelming."

Suddenly the alien's image faded, leaving only the dilated glass lens on the center of the tabletop pulsing.  "I again apologize," came Zodiac's voice, "but the picture quality of what you're about to see came from one of the Outsider's remote camcorders.  There was a high frequency of magnetic disturbance during his recent reconnaissance mission in Ireland."

The table lit back to life as a translucent diorama materialized before the council.  The hologram displayed a shaky image that seemed to come straight from Hell.  Framed by demolished brick walls, the image showed a company of British soldiers standing by what looked to be a downed giant.  The monster's face had been horribly burned, revealing bone and scorched muscle, and his ribcage had been torn open by the explosive blast of a grenade.

As the British Prime Minister and the council watched, bolted with awe, the company of soldiers marched onward, hurdling through the holes of a shattered building.  But then, as if out of nowhere, a squad of hideously armored warriors materialized and surrounded the building.  The British soldiers were boxed in, pinned back by a barrage of plasma fire that spewed from oddly shaped weapons.  The soldiers could do nothing, as their protective walls of brick and mortar were quickly turning to slag, and so they surrendered to the mechanical monsters.

Zodiac's voice seemed to crackle.  "We were unable to properly survey Ireland during this attack and the many others that swept through."

The image froze, only to be abruptly replaced by a long, slow, aerial pan of a marred and ruined cityscape.  "This is the present state of Dublin City, as recorded by the Outsider.  It will take us some time to filter out the static interference, but we have other recordings of other cities, and we believe they have all met the same fate.  Due to the magnitude of this destruction, we have refrained from releasing this footage for general broadcast until authorities can more fully prepare the public."

The hologram cut back to Zodiac.  He solemnly looked at the council, his eyes shadowed by the ridge of his brow.  "Obviously you all agree that those responsible for this atrocity must be dealt with.  Some five million people have been abducted, placed in internment camps throughout the country.  And thousands were killed."

A lieutenant-general of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders spoke up.  "Our preliminary investigations concur with yours.  My infantries indicate that there are camps in Londonderry and Belfast--"

"And in Wicklow and Wexford," added a field marshal of the Coldstream Guards.  "But we can't breach their defenses.  These bastards got technology I've never seen before."

"All right, I've heard enough."  A member of the House of Lords slammed his fist down on the table.  "What kind of opposition are we exactly contending with here?"

"The Royal Elite," answered Zodiac matter-of-factly.  "First off, you have to consider the level of deception they're capable of.  They were able to jam all ground-link and satellite communications coming in and out of Ireland.  And although the idea seems highly improbable, that doesn't mean it's impossible.  With the right intrusive countermeasures, an elaborate string of computer viruses, and most likely some form of telepathic persuasion, the Royal Elite was able to take over Ireland without us knowing it."

"Just a moment, Zodiac," the Scottish First Minister said, feeling uneasy in interrupting the alien.  "What exactly should we do here?"  Questioning him made him feel even more uneasy.

"I tell you what we do," an admiral of the British Navy offered.  "We line our subs and warships along the coastline and by the bays closest to these encampments.  We show these bloody assholes who they're dealing with."

"Don't go flying off half-cocked," Zodiac said.  "This is the Royal Elite we're talking about, after all.  Your best bet is to priority alert the Ensigns.  They're more prepared to deal with any confrontation from the mutant or high-tech forces."

Zodiac then looked down and away from the council.  It looked as if something caught his eye, perhaps on a computer screen that was out of picture.  Zodiac frowned.  "I really should be getting back to the matters at hand.  Be careful, gentlemen."

Barely half an hour later, the council dismissed themselves, save for the Prime Minister and a general in the Royal Air Force.  Both were standing by a floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the Thames.

"I wonder..."  The Prime Minister left his words hanging for a moment.

"Yes?" the general finally inquired.

"I wonder," the Prime Minister continued, "if the Ensigns can really stand a chance against the Royal Elite."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, all those metahumans.  All those mutants with powers and abilities far beyond ours..."  He paused for a moment, sighing.  "Do you suppose there is anything, anything at all that the Ensigns can do to help our battalions?"

"Help them?"  The RAF general shook his head.  "The Ensigns were designed to confront the Royal Elite.  They bloody well help or we're going to screw the pooch."

"My point exactly," replied the Prime Minister.  He looked out at the river, as if looking for answers about its ebbing current.  "We need help, especially against that armored bloke -- Autocrat."

"Any ideas?"

"Hmm.  I've heard of this band of American metahumans, Exotics they call themselves.  They apparently disbanded, but sources in MI-6 tell me otherwise."

The general scratched his head.  "What?  A little bird told you or something?"

The Prime Minister smiled.  "Nighthawks actually."

In his office within the Tyrian Project, General Gardner pulled off his radio headset and sighed.  For most of the evening, the special bands set aside for United Nations and Defense Department transmissions had been warbling with enciphered emergency bulletins.  A chain of incidents -- some verified, others not -- had been reported, most notably in Ireland.

Gardner grimaced as another bulletin hummed in.  He tapped in the appropriate encryption sequence in his keypad, decoding the message.

A harsh crackle of static punched through the speakers.  "This is Zodiac of the Protectorate.  I know reports were sketchy, as we're experiencing a nation-wide communications shroud, but it's now confirmed that Ireland is gone."

"What do you mean gone?"

"I mean the entire island has been compromised -- devastated."

"Oh my god!"  Gardner didn't like the rumors that there was a war brewing over in the Emerald Isle, but this was far worse than what he had heard.  And a communications blackout explained the multitude of encoded messages he was receiving.

"It seems that the Royal Elite have turned Ireland into a massive beachhead, with internment camps situated throughout it.  Conventional forces would be helpless before such a threat."  There was a pause, and more static crackled over the speaker.  "The Ensigns are currently en route, and the SAS and MI-6 have managed to contact the Nighthawks."

"And you've contacted me because you need additional assistance," General Gardner added.

"Yes," Zodiac replied.  "But as I've said, conventional forces would only prove to be cannon fodder.  Who we need is Old Glory.  He has the tactical experience, the strength to go toe-to-toe with Mastodon, and he has aerial capabilities.  Old Glory is a military asset, as his professional profile clearly shows, but he's a powerful individual that could only prove to help remedy the turmoil in Ireland."

Gardner let out a hard breath of air as he patched his cell phone into the computer.  "I'll put out the priority alert now.  And I'll have him meet up with the Nighthawks."

"Thank you, General Gardner."

"No rest for the wicked...," Gardner said, his voice trailing off.

A sleek aircraft hurtled across the benighted face of North America towards the United Kingdom.  The craft was actually a transonic transport of a highly sophisticated design.  Its creator, Salvage, sat in the pilot's seat, his face masked by a visored helmet -- his body covered in an armor-plated, micro-mesh jumpsuit.

"Next stop, United Kingdom!"

"Could you hold it down?" Moonbeam raised her hand to stifle a yawn.  "I mean, it's too early for all this noise."

"Well, we're racing across time zones, hon."  The dark-haired man seated beside her gave Moonbeam a gentle nudge.  "You might as well get ready for the standard issue jetlag too."

"Echo, c'mon!  Don't remind me."   Moonbeam put her hand over her mouth to cover another yawn.  She then ran her hand through her tresses of blonde hair.  "Anyway, is there coffee on this flight?"

"Ask and you shall receive."  Salvage flipped a switch along the semicircle of consoles that ensconced him, and a plastic coffee cup retracted from the armrest of Moonbeam's seat.

"Ick!  This coffee is little on the tepid side."

"Sorry.  I'm still ironing out the kinks with the dispenser.  I can try to reheat it for you."

Moonbeam shook her head.  "Don't bother."

"Cold coffee?" Old Glory finally piped in.  The Nighthawks almost forgot that the patriotic super-soldier was onboard with them.  But then again, the Nighthawks tended to do all the talking, and this left Old Glory taking the role of idle listener until now.  "Mind if I have a cup?"

"Coming riiiight up," Salvage said, and a coffee appeared before the aged war hero.

"Mmm."  Old Glory smiled.  "That's what I call coffee."

"Gross," Moonbeam gagged, placing the coffee back on the armrest.  "Have we received any further word on the Royal Elite and the situation in Ireland?"

"Not so far," replied Salvage.  He paused as he entered a code into his computer.  "...We should be getting something from the SAS soon... hopefully before we arrive."

"It's been a while since we've worked together, Old Glory," said Echo.  "How long has it been since we backed you up?"

"Beruit, 1986," Old Glory answered.  "And I didn't need back up -- I just needed to hitch a ride."

Krios huffed from the co-pilot's seat.  "Just like now, eh?  Whatever, Boy Scout."

"Hey, I'm America's foremost hero," Old Glory quipped, twirling his forefinger to point out his sarcasm.  "As long as the U.S. of A. is gonna be every country's big brother, yours truly is gonna be working overtime.  And, just to let you know, the patriotic symbolism loses its selling power if I get back-up."  Old Glory favored the special operatives a mock smile.

"Yet here we are, giving you a so-called 'ride' again," Krios said.  "Funny how history repeats itself, eh?"

"Real funny," Old Glory tried to verbally parry.  "It's even funnier you came out of hiding.  What, didn't save up enough from your mercenary days?"

"Whatever, Uncle Sam."  Krios' voice was like crushed ice.  "You're the only geriatric has-been that has to work for his old-age pension."

Old Glory smiled.  "A six-digit pension, you might wanna add."

"Hey, everyone," called out Salvage.  "SAS has finally given us the latest report.  It's sketchy, but it sounds like we're contending with an army of mutants and high-tech soldiers."

"Sounds like tough hombres," added Echo.

"How about this British team of supers -- the Ensigns?" asked Moonbeam.  "Any word on their situation in Dundalk?"

"Nah," answered Krios.  "They're probably too busy having tea and crumpets to even answer their radio-links.  Goddamn beefeaters..."

"What's the story behind these guys anyway?" Moonbeam asked.

Old Glory shook his head.  "Actually, the Ensigns are two guys and a girl."

Echo laughed.  "A ménage à trois -- my kind of team."

Moonbeam slapped the back of Echo's head.  "And what do you call this team then?"

Krios laughed.  "I'd call it a friggin' gang-bang."

Old Glory put on a slight wry smile.  "Funny stuff, fellas.  Anyway, the Ensigns aren't to be taken lightly.  They're metahumans, extensively trained in combat, espionage, survival, and technology.  There's little that they can't do.  And they've been knighted, which means England's Monarchy is behind this team all the way."

Krios sighed.  "Like I said -- friggin' beefeaters."

The jet bucked.  "Strap in, cowboys," said Salvage, without looking around from the digital display currently glowing above his instruments.  "The turbulence is only going to get worse."

On the main A2 Coast Road outside of Portrush, County Antrim, a military fuel tanker lay twisted and burning around a Hotchkiss jeep.  The drivers of the two vehicles were barred within the wreckage, and both had lost consciousness.

The soldiers were not aware of the two figures floating down into the wall of flames.  They did not hear the moaning of armored plates as the vehicles' chassis wrenched, metal paneling ripping open by powerful hands.  In an instant, Old Glory lifted the unconscious trucker from the cab of his tractor-trailer.

"Salvage, these boys need medical attention."

Salvage nodded, carefully scooping up the driver of the jeep as he extended the force-field about his armor to cover them both.  "Let's get the hell out of this furnace."

As they rushed the injured British soldiers to safety, Krios raised his arms and a pulse of cold air began to rush from his hands.  The air thickened as moisture condensed, then a barrier of ice formed around the perimeter of the blaze, halting its spread.

Echo hovered silently overhead in the high-tech aircraft, eclipsing another jeep.  An Argyll and Sutherland Highlander wiped the beads of sweat from his brow as Moonbeam and Salvage administered first aid to the rescued soldiers.

"Thanks for the help, mate.  My guess is Northern Ireland is a wee bit out of your jurisdiction."

"Not for me, Officer."  Salvage knew it wasn't time to be flippant.  "I tend to go where I'm needed."

"Well, we needed you today.  These bastards we're dealing with..."  The Highlander stopped, pointed at the plumes of smoke spewing from the wreckage, and swallowed hard.  "We're used to seeing firebombs and explosions, but this is different."

Moonbeam looked up from the downed British trooper.  "These men have mild burns and some minor fractures.  They be all right."

The Highlander nodded.  "That's great news considering.  A medical unit should be here within another minute or two."

Old Glory creased his brow.  "Who or what exactly did this to your men?"

"Some squad of mutants, I'd wager," Krios offered.  "That, or a team of robo-goons."

The Scottish soldier shook his head.  "Sorry, no prize, mate.  It was some meta.  He picked up the fuel truck and threw it -- with bleeding one hand!  He was a big bloke, built like Dorian Yates, and tall."  He looked at Old Glory, gulped, then added, "As tall as you."

Krios slammed a fist into an open hand.  "We've gotta find this mother--"

Old Glory interrupted, waving to get the team's attention.  "Everybody back to Salvage's craft and we'll be on our way."

Within the next minute, the air transport was skimming over the area.  "Keep alert, people.  The sooner we spot this bruiser, the better."  Krios glanced from the scanners to the countryside below.  "Well, is that a trail of bread crumbs I see?"

The aircraft flew over a wooded area where devastation furrowed through.  Trees were splintered, some completely uprooted, revealing a freshly hewn path to the east.  It looked as if a tornado had cut its way through the forest.

Echo looked out of the ship, staring down at the destruction.  "If I were a betting man, I'd put all my chips down and say this path will lead us to Giant's Causeway."

The shadow of the vessel passed over a small wooded glen not far from the north Antrim coast.  But the team of super-agents didn't find the lone meta.

He found them.

Just as the aircraft skimmed over a canopy of trees, he thundered into its underbelly. He punched through the hull like a missile, rocking the flying transport violently and sending it spinning aimlessly.

"Damn it!  The gyros have ceased!  We're going down."  Salvage frantically wrestled with the controls.  "Everyone assume crash positions!"

The aircraft was a leaf in a windstorm, whirling, flipping end over end.  The team of super-agents suddenly found themselves in free-fall.

"Wait til I get my hands on that creep for blindsiding us.  And when I do, I'm gonna freeze his eyelids shut!"

"Settle, Krios!" Moonbeam ordered.  "We've got more to worry about than that meta.  We're about to slam into that cliff face.  And when we hit -- !"

"We won't."  Old Glory hovered in the center of the transport, gravity swirling about him in ripples.  As he gestured, the rear loading door shot open and air rushed in.  "Now, get out!"

While Old Glory occupied himself with lowering the vessel, the rest of the team assembled along the shoulder of the highway.  No sooner had they gathered themselves than the ground quaked and a fiery explosion erupted up beyond the adjoining grove.

"After he hit us, I saw him -- !"  Echo took in a deep breath.  "Look, over there at that Bushmills distillery!"

"That's it!" Krios yelled.  "This mother's history."  The Nighthawk ran away from the group, heading towards the blaze.  He quickly spotted a large silhouette emerging from the ruin of a huge tower.  The air crackling about his hands, Krios charged closer to confront the meta.

The meta was a big man, standing well over six-feet-tall, his bulging muscles solid and sculpted like a stone statue.  A black breastplate fit him snugly, accentuating his powerful frame, and a dark skirt of banded leather exposed his tanned legs and sandaled feet.  His jaw was firm and wide, and unruly long locks cascaded out from the back of his black helmet.

"Who are you supposed to be -- Russell Crowe in Gladiator?"

"I'm the Chief Emissary of the Royal Elite," the large man answered.  "And I'm not only here to stop you from breaching our outer perimeter, I'm here to show you just what kind of opposition you're dealing with."

"Emissary, huh?"  Krios' hands turned white with frost as sub-zero temperatures rippled from them. "We expected a warm welcome from a company of mutants, or maybe even some of those cyborgs I've been hearing about."

"I had the normal patrols regroup and assume duties elsewhere," answered the pseudo-Romanic warrior.  "After we intercepted a radio transmission of Old Glory's involvement, I decided to make my presence known instead."

"Well, you got more than Old Glory to contend with here, Spartacus.  You're also dealing with the Nighthawks."

The Emissary pursed his lips, nodding his head ever so slightly.  "Yes, we've heard of your involvement as well.  But that's all moot.  You'll pose little to no threat against me."

"Oh, is that so?"  Krios scowled, tightening his hands into fists.  The air around him shimmered as the moister in it coalesced.  "What'll it be, Conan -- hypothermia or cryonics?  You choose!"

Despite Krios' protective ice-field, the man grabbed hold of the cocky Nighthawk and threw him headfirst to the ground.  A sandaled foot came down hard on Krios' head, again and again.  The Emissary picked Krios up by his hair and shook him.

"As I said, you're really no threat to me."

"Krios!" Echo streaked at the man, his body emitting a high-pitched whine.  He held out his hands, and ultrasonic blasts pulsed from his palms in concentric columns.  The Emissary dropped Krios, staggering a few steps backwards, staring angrily at the attacking Nighthawk.  The Emissary seemed remotely startled by the appearance and superhuman nature of Echo.  But his surprise lasted but a moment, and then he simply turned and walked away.

Echo pursued him, pouring on a concussive sound attack, only rattling him slightly.  "What the Hell -- ?  No matter how much white noise I throw at this guy, I can't seem to floor him!"

"I'll deal with him, Echo!"  Moonbeam dropped from the sky directly in the large man's path.  Armed with a modified flamethrower, she unloaded on the meta.  She directed a searing stream at him, the flames engulfing him, crackling and devouring.  He dropped to his knees.  She continued to spill the jet of fire over him, his clothes smoking and smoldering, and she saw him silently staring at her through the billowing mass of hellfire.

"I think I've got him against the ropes," Moonbeam declared.

But then the Emissary rose to his feet.  An eldritch energy suffused his eyes, covering the striking green irises behind a corona of glowing whiteness.  He raised a hand, pointing a finger at Moonbeam.  "I'm sorry, but you don't," he said.

Suddenly, electrical fury surged from within him, coursing up through his arms and out to his index finger, from which a jagged streak of lightning leapt to strike Moonbeam.  Sparks showered off her as the thunderbolt hit the barrel of her weapon, followed by a roaring explosion as white-hot streamers punctured the gas reservoir attached to her back, and Moonbeam was thrown through the side of a massive whiskey refinery tank.  The noxious smell of napalm and burning alcohol mixed with a trace of ozone in the air.

Krios ran across the distillery grounds, trying to help the downed Moonbeam.  But before he could reach his injured teammate, a hand grabbed him from behind.  The Emissary turned Krios around and slammed him against the side of the metal refinery tank.  The Nighthawk's teeth clacked together and his spine lurched from the impact, then he landed hard on the ground and did not move.

Salvage flew after the Emissary, catching up to him at the edge of the distillery.  "The gig's up!  I don't know what your story is.  But then again -- I don't care!"  Thumbing the controls in his gauntlet, Salvage peppered the large man with high-intensity bolts from the rail gun grafted on his armored forearm.

The Emissary staggered with each shot that slammed into his breastplate, finally falling over.  With heavy grunt, the metahuman warrior lifted himself to his knees, tendrils of smoke spiralling from the fine holes that now pocked his armored chest.  The Emissary touched his wounds and grimaced.

"I'm impressed," the Emissary acknowledged with a slight smile.  "Armor-piercing weapnry -- a smart choice."

"Too bad I was aiming for your damn head," Salvage goaded.

The Emissary scowled then charged Salvage full tilt.  The armored super-agent barely had time to react, diverting power to his force-field just before the meta struck him.  With a punch that caused the ground to buckle, the Emissary sent Salvage somersaulting through the air.  Wind sluiced off of Salvage's personal force-field as he went lopping a mile into the sky.  Even with the cushioning effects of his power-armor, Salvage saw stars.

Jet boosters are jammed, Salvage thought.  I'm gonna be street pizza in a minute...

"Relax, Slavage.  I'll catch you."

"Who -- ?"  Salvage's eyes bulged, but he recognized the low, gravelly voice immediately and did as he was told.  A mighty hand reached out, firmly holding him.

"Old Glory -- it's about time you showed up!"

"Sorry, I had your fifteen-ton winged monkey on my back," the super-soldier replied.  "This guy seems like he's gonna be trouble."

Salvage took a deep breath.  "He is trouble.  I knew we should've come in on foot.  That sonnuva bitch -- it was like he drew us in just so he could take us out."

"No point beating yourself up, Salvage.  Especially when your teammates are getting tossed like rag dolls by that centurion, that Zeus wannabe."

"Chief Emissary," Salvage answered.

"Huh?"

"I think he called himself the Chief Emissary of the Royal Elite."

"Well, let's show this superhuman schmo that he's dealing with the Ambassadors of a Royal Ass-kicking..."

Old Glory, empowered by his aura of gravity, descended from the skies over County Antrim.  Both he and Salvage saw the smoke rising from the horizon, saw the Emissary stride through the burning rubble of the Bushmills distillery, and in turn glided through heaven's eddies towards him.

As Echo tumbled across the grounds of Ireland's oldest whiskey distillery, Moonbeam instinctively threw herself in front of her downed comrade, unleathering her plasma gun.  She immediately sprayed a volley of fiery pellets at their opponent.  But the Emissary's eyes lit with a predatory rage, and a sudden gust of wall-like wind diverted the miniature fireballs to the left and right side of him.

"Haven't you learned already?" he asked the female member of the Nighthawks.  "If you play with fire you're going to get burned."

With that, a tongue of flame lanced out from the Emissary's mouth.  What looked to be a deadly stream of gold and scarlet heat bowled over Moonbeam, its flickering mass overwhelming her.  Instead of incinerating the Nighthawk, the licks of fire forced her head to drop forward and her consciousness to surrender.

Blood seeping from a gash across his forehead, his mouth swollen, Krios blasted the Emissary with a javelin of ice.  A nearby fire hydrant was in the middle of the ice attack and fell over, showering the Emissary with water.  Suddenly the barrage of water froze over, encasing the lone meta in a prison of ice.

"And if you play out in the cold too long you might get frostbite."

Salvage and Old Glory touched down beside Krios.  Echo rose off the ground, but stayed in a combative crouch.  The Emissary pushed on the bars of his crystalline cage.  And with no effort at all, he toppled the icy cell and it exploded about the grounds in a cloud of snow, frozen shards shattering and making a noise like the clanging of wind chimes.

"He broke out of that like it was nothing."  Krios' confidence was almost lost.

"Let's hit him with a concerted effort!"  Echo sounded unsteady, his words muffling from a painfully battered jaw.

Old Glory sized the Emissary, who was smiling at him, as if pleased to see the American celebrity present.  The super-soldier then nodded at his teammates.  "Fire!"

The four had drawn a bead on the Emissary.  Just as Salvage's hands clasped together and converged into a recoilless rifle, the Nighthawk rolled to his left, and a flash roared from his 80mm cannon.  From Old Glory's hands came a tightly focused beam of gravitic force, even as he helped the half-blinded Krios aim an intense ray of coldness.  Likewise, Echo trained the coherent shock waves emitting from his palms, adding its concussive might to his team's collective attack.  The combined force of their attack had thrown the Emissary through one side of the Bushmills building and out the other.  The entire building sagged to one side as he crashed into the hurricane fence in the courtyard.

"Keep pouring it on!" hollared Salvage, squinting as he fired another shot from his massive rifle.

Old Glory peered down the length of his invisible gravity beam as it furrowed through the very fabric of the air.  "He's still moving..."

Brickwork, girders and earth heaved under the barrage, clouds of snow and dirt casting over the war zone.  But as the powerful onslaught ceased, and the mushrooming smoke screen started dissipating, it became all too clear that the Emissary wasn't down.  He stood at ground zero, amidst the demolished rubble and twisted steel, his eyes piercing through the veil of dust and narrowing on his attackers.

Krios began to sway.  "I'm spent, boys.  No more fuel in my tank."

"I'm exhausted too," Echo added painfully.

"My power cells are burnt out."  Sweat beaded from the opening of Salvage's helmet, running down his jaw.

The Emissary laughed a loud, booming expression of amusement.  But as the surprising joviality pealed from him, the lines of his mouth began to twist, his eyes glowered, and his low, mocking laughter changed to a mad, rumbling cackle.  When the dust finally settled, the super-agents saw that that the Emissary's helmet was dented, and all they succeeded in doing was destroying the breastplate that once clung to his hulking frame.

"Shit," Old Glory complained.  "This guy looks pissed."

The Emissary launched himself at his assembled opposition, a living gale, and whisked by Salvage and grabbed him, the violent wind of his action tearing the Nighthawk's visor and pulling at his face as if he were in a centrifuge gone haywire.  Salvage was then used as a weapon and the Emissary swung him at Echo headfirst.  Old Glory and Krios tried to surround the Emissary in a flanking tactic, but he slammed his fisted hands downward, pounding the earth and causing them to leap from the ground and drop.  Stumbling away from the battle, Krios desperately helped Salvage and Echo retreat.  Old Glory scrambled to his feet, a look of determination on his face.

"Ah, Old Glory."  The Emissary mustered a smile.  "It's good to see you still have fight in you."

Old Glory turned to his teammates.  Echo was unconscious, and Salvage was tending to him, holding the back of his neck.  Krios was standing, but his legs were buckling.  Moonbeam was far away, now just recovering from the Emissary's earlier attack.

"Get back to the jet!" Old Glory ordered.  "I'll handle this friggin' maniac."  He returned his attention to the Emissary, but he was no longer there.

"That way," Salvage said, pointing in the sky.  "He went that way."

Old Glory was already soaring miles away from Bushmills.  He caught up to the Emissary, who had just descended feet-first into a crowned and sculpted mass atop an oceanside cliff.  Old Glory touched down about the craggy stack of basalt and now recognized the mass on it as a castle.  The castle had deteriorated to a shadow of its former self.  Holes riddled its stonewalls, impact dents punctuated the two large drum towers that overlooked the eastern waters, and scaffolding reached up to the roof's parapet.  It was a wonder that this sacred fort was recognizable at all these days.

"Welcome to Dunluce Castle," the Emissary said from one of the towers.  "Apparently it was built by Richard de Burgh in the thirteenth century.  Of course it was a simple Irish ring-fort then, but both Vikings and early Christians were drawn to its magnificence nonetheless."

"Spare me the documentary," Old Glory huffed, still riled from his initial confrontation with the looming meta.

The Emissary ignored the super-soldier chiding comments.  Moreover, he now carried himself with a relaxed composure, as if he had just brushed off any recollection of his fray with Old Glory and the Nighthawks.   "It's survived the test of time, and so we're inclined to keep it that way."

Old Glory in turn tried to relax, and thus folded his arms before his chest.  "Let me guess, Autocrat's some sort of perverted connoisseur."

"In a manner of speaking," the Emissary replied simply.  Then he vaulted the serrated stone of the weathered tower, and tumbled downward towards Old Glory.  His sandaled feet hit a clear patch of ground and made it shudder.  "You see, the Royal Elite isn't the only force to ever invade Ireland.  The Anglo-Normans, the Saxons, the Cromwellian army, the Spanish Armada -- history shows that many have tested their mettle by holding reign of the Emerald Isle.  Autocrat has requested that many monuments -- like Dunluce Castle -- remain intact as reminders of Ireland's fate."

"Well, I've gotta hand it to you Royal Elite fellas," Old Glory deadpanned, acknowledging the devastation and ruin off in the distance.  "You did a bang-up job here."

The Emissary didn't sense Old Glory's sarcasm -- or he didn't care for it and simply ignored it.  He merely nodded and said, "Indeed."

"But what about the citizens of Ireland?"  Old Glory dropped his arms, started edging towards the Emissary.  "I've heard about the concentration camps you've got situated within some of the cities."

"Oh, they'll serve Autocrat."  There was almost an amiable tone to the Emissary's voice that made Old Glory's eyes narrow.  "Willing or not, they'll serve."

"Pardon me for pointing this out," Old Glory retorted.  "But these Gestapo tactics won't exactly endear the rest of the world towards Autocrat's goals.  I mean, I don't see people regarding Hitler as the posterboy for Amnesty International."

"Come now, Old Glory."  Even though the Emissary stood eye-to-eye with the veteran super-soldier, he somehow drew himself up, and his gladiatorial presence loomed to an imposing height.  "Such short-sighted and sentimental repartee doesn't become you.  Everyone knows that Adolf Hitler was a fool.  The tenets of Naziism were developed by an egotist that had no logic or scientific knowledge to back his claims."

Old Glory held up his hands submissively, his mask revealing the lines of a wry smile.  "Oh, forgive me.  I must've fallen out of the stupid tree and hit every branch, because I don't exactly see any logic in any dictator's claims.  And that includes Autocrat's."

"That's because you're a commoner.  And what's worse is you're an arrogant American.  Just like Great Britain's Ensigns, you parade in your primary colors, symbolizing self-righteousness and false hopes."

"False hopes?" Old Glory snorted.  "It's called democracy, you moron.  Maybe you and Autocrat should look into it."

But the Emissary waved Old Glory's comments off.  "Democracy indeed has its promise.  But humanity is a weak and sadly limited species that's influenced by self-centered needs.  They're unfit to demonstrate any wanting form of democracy."

"So I guess the world's supposed to just roll over because you transcend humanity's weaknesses, huh?"

The Emissary nodded.  "But we have room for you."

"Ah, the royal 'we,'" Old Glory quipped.

The Emissary smiled.  "What about it?  Are you willing to join our cause?  With you on our side, the people would be more willing to serve Autocrat.  You would be a general, the commander of the world's most powerful battalion."

"Me help Autocrat rule?"  Old Glory shook his head.  "Nah, I never did see myself the upper managerment type.  The only thing I want to do in that respect -- is rule you out!"

What happened next occurred in a blur of red, white and blue.  Old Glory lunged forward, thrusting out a back fist, followed by an explosive side kick.  In the last instant the Emissary blocked the flurry with crossed arms, but then the heel of another kick connected with his jaw.  Old Glory knocked Autocrat's enforcer on his back, and then cartwheeled ten feet beyond him.

The impact of the attack sounded as if it would have shattered solid concrete, but by the time Old Glory stood, the Emissary was already up.

"Pity," the Emissary said, rubbing his jaw.  "You would've been a most memorable addition to the Royal Elite's cause.  But I suppose they shall be content with your head as a trophy."

The roar of thunder had caught Old Glory by surprise, the distortion of the heavens taking his attention off the mace that materialized in the Emissary's hands.  The weapon flashed across the air, fire caught and turned solid, and only Old Glory's battle-driven reflexes allowed him to dodge the steel instrument as it demolished a nearby tree.  The Emissary recovered from his thwarted assault, but had to duck as his opponent reached for his eagle belt buckle, and a blade of plasma suddenly lashed out at him.  The sound of energy on steel crackled and echoed off the nearby escarpments.

Old Glory parried a crushing blow aimed for his temple, following it with the hungry arc of his saber that seemed capable of slicing through entire cliffs.  The Emissary sidestepped, avoiding the downward strike, while bringing his mace back up and directly into the patriot's stomach.  The force should have paralyzed Old Glory, but he rolled with it.

The two moved faster and faster, a frenzied foray of thrusts and counters and impossible feats.  Frustrated, the Emissary slapped the energy saber from Old Glory's hand.  Then, with streak of movement, Old Glory grabbed the Emissary from behind, slapping on a headlock that forced the large man to drop his mace.  Next, another blur, and the Emissary smashed headfirst against the wall of the cliff, while Old Glory sprung forward to position himself for a follow up.  Then, like a gust of wind, the Emissary held a huge boulder high above his head while a dazed Old Glory waited for the chunk of granite to fly.  Then another blearing series of movements entered into the fray, and the boulder flew backwards, as if an invisible force pulled it from the Emissary's grasp.

The two eschewed their tactical contest just to stand face to face and hurl punches at each other.  This was far from being a fight between two bruisers, mindlessly slugging each other until one collapsed in a heap of battered flesh -- this was two forms of nature, battling it out like no human being.  Old Glory was empowered by an overmighty gravitic force, but he wasn't sure what was behind the Emissary's godly strength.  A seismic flurry of blows were traded; there was no telling which ones were blocked, or which ones connected, but it seemed as if the Emissary landed the most hits.  And when they finished, Old Glory staggered back, holding his bloodied face in both hands. The Emissary cocked back a knotted fist for a killing uppercut.

Already drooped forward, Old Glory gave out a gurgling heave as he launched himself into his opponent.  He didn't even budge the Emissary; he might have had more effect tackling a mountain.  But the Emissary's reaction was immediate; his muscles flexed, shifting like tectonic plates, as he slammed his fists downward with a force that dropped Old Glory, driving him into the hard ground, causing it to split open like a bomb-struck crater.

"Uh, o-okay, you w-won," Old Glory pleaded through battered lips, his adrenaline now subsiding and the pain of the Emissary’s almighty assault finally taking over his all-too-human body.  "Now, let's handle this like civilized people."

The Emissary smiled, removing his helmet. Old Glory's face turned pale, as his opponent's face became visible.  He recognized the swarthy complexion, the brilliant emerald eyes, the handsome, finely chiseled features.  He couldn't believe that such a deified being stood before him.

"Sweet... God...!"

"Indeed...," Avatar proclaimed as the air crackled with his presence.  "Now can you truly see the futility of opposing the irresistible force known as the Royal Elite?"

The patriot hero shook his head, but his star-spangled concussion wasn't anywhere near as reeling as his disbelief.  "It's... it's not possible...! Why?"

"A natural progression of my destiny on this world.  Throughout civilization, war and destruction are what have made mankind strong. Without war, civilization cannot exist.  I’m simply fulfilling my primary mission to its logical conclusion."

As Avatar proudly declared his goals, Old Glory tuned it out.  He just didn't want to believe it; Earth's greatest champion, the hero who was the standard all others were measured, and an ally who had fought with Old Glory side-by-side during the alien invasion several years ago and every major conflict ever since, was now an agent of worldwide tyranny.  The words he spoke weren't his; whatever Babylonian wisdom he had possessed was clearly shackled by the
mechanizations of Autocrat and his blue-blooded toadies.

No, he determined.  Don't got time to wallow in doubt and confusion.  The world’s leaders have to know -- and quickly.  Swallowing his pride, Old Glory nodded, saying, "M-maybe you're right...  America's history is shaped by war.  Her greatest victories were won over its battles against her enemies."

"Well, perhaps there is some wisdom in you after all," Avatar gloated.  "Take my hand, and swear allegiance to the Royal Elite for all time."

Old Glory took Avatar's offered hand, and thought his plan through carefully.  "On my word, this is America's loyalty and honor..."

Just then, the impromptu ceremony was interrupted by the sound of the Nighthawk's hybrid jet overhead, the air roiling from its powerful turbines, the grass buffeting.  Avatar looked up with annoyance, as Old Glory whispered his thanks silently. Perfect timing, guys!  With one smooth motion, he jerked Avatar off-balance, then rammed his other elbow across the titan's throat.  Avatar staggered back momentarily, and clutched his neck painfully.

"You... treacherous...!"

"Like I said, America's honor," Old Glory spat. "We don't bow to terrorists or dictators, and we're not about to start now!" With that, the super-soldier turned and flew up, following the jet overhead. Part of him didn't like running away, but he knew now wasn't the time to wrestle with his ego or morals.

Climbing into the jet, Old Glory sealed the hatch behind him. "Shit, was I glad to see you.  A few more seconds and I would’ve been one of Northern Ireland's many landmarks."

"Right," Krios said through his bruised mouth and battered jaw. "Do we go back?"

"No, punch it to London! We've got bigger worries ahead!"

"Bigger than that big bruiser down there?" Salvage asked incredulously.

Old Glory shifted in his seat, stifling a wince.  "That big bruiser's part of the problem. The Elite's so-called Emissary's none other than Avatar himself."

There was a long moment of silence as the looks of disbelief hung in the air.

"Avatar?" Moonbeam said as she shook her head. "The Avatar?"

Old Glory held the back of his head, and sighed.  "You want me to see if I can get the knuckle prints on my skull analyzed just so I can prove it?"

Salvage clucked his tongue. "Well, that explains it.  Now I don't feel quite so bad about our team getting trashed."

"Then you'd better think it over again, Salvage," Krios replied. "Not only has the tactical situation just took a nosedive in Autocrat’s favor, we have to factor in what the revelation's going to do to our side's morale and spirit."

"As if seeing the Protectorate's main man turning to the Royal Elite wasn't bad enough?" Echo agreed.  "Did he say why?"

Old Glory snorted.  "He made all kinds of excuses, but I'm not sure it was him.  His speech wasn't right; I think the Elite's probably done something to him."

"Well, they do have a couple of high-powered telepaths in their camp," Krios admitted.  "There's that, and Autocrat himself having all kinds of tech that could probably do the same."

"Regardless how, we have to warn the world.  Right now, the Royal Elite's holding a royal flush. All we can do is pray for the best."
 

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