Project Northwoods

To my lady friend and an old friend

Even if you did take away my elevator

J
ANUARY
14
TH
, 1965

MORNING

‘
HAPPY 1965!
’

The January air whistled past his limp body. The clear blue sky conspired with the freezing wind ripping into his face to blind him as he barrel-rolled above the mid-morning streets of New York City. The blow had rendered his mind numb, barely cognizant of the cars and fleeing pedestrians below, the towering well of smoke and flame he was ejected from, or the seeming safety he was approaching.

‘
Happy 1965!
’

There they were again; words pulling at him, trying to yank him from his airborne stupor. Printed words, solid and real. Black, hard lettering on a bright, white banner. A call to focus, to force himself to rally against the dizzying attack that had sent him skyward.

His body slammed into the wafting streamer, snapping it free of its restraints and instantly wrapping around him. The man’s mind reeled at the sensation of cloth smothering his numbed skin. Even as he fought to pull himself back to reality, he landed with a crunch. Momentum bounced him off the concrete, once, twice, before he rolled to a stop.

He heard himself breathe, the raspy noise magnified by the banner wrapped around his head.
Get up,
he demanded, his identity returning after the crash landing.
You will not be swatted like a fly
, his brain hissed. Body protesting, he fought to push himself onto his stomach before slamming his armored fist into the ground to push himself up.

The mountain of a man brought himself to one knee, the banner falling to the road as sections tore from the movement of his body. With only a hint of pain, he forced himself to his daunting six-four height. The sunlight glinted off his silver helmet, his face masked behind the metal. A battle-scarred pale chest plate shimmered above his bare mid-section and arms. A shredded blue cape wafted gently in the morning air, terminating where his silver greaves began. The man wobbled as he became aware of the blood thundering in his ears, a side effect of his unplanned flight.

A few terrified civilian neutrals ran by him, their morning clothes providing no protection from the frosty air as they slipped on the icy streets. A child stopped to stare at him in wonder, eyes flitting over his imposing frame before the earth shuddered. Shrieks of panic erupted from the fleeing crowd before an adult scooped the little one into their arms and disappeared.

“Arbiter!” he dimly heard a civilian cry out. He turned as a police cruiser rocketed toward him, hit the ground, then went into a spin. The man – the
hero
– known only as Arbiter, Lord of Justice, sprinted toward the vehicle. He leapt, arms outstretched, and barely skimmed over the top of the hurtling car. His fingers ripped into the metal frame as his momentum carried his body into a somersault, bringing the cruiser over and above him before he slammed it into the ground.

The sound of metal crunching had barely faded when another car hit the ground and rolled into a heavyset civilian before continuing to a stop a dozen yards farther. Arbiter walked around the automobile he had smashed into the pavement and faced the source of the chaos.

Sirens flashed as police ineffectively fired their guns into the pluming dust. Several were backing up as they discharged their weapons. Occasionally, someone would dart through the haze, much higher than a human could jump. Others ran in at ground level, heedless of their safety. These figures were ejected erratically, hitting buildings and the road, some stirring afterwards while others lay motionless. With a flash of movement, a giant, gun-grey metal leg – akin to a human’s but distinctly alien – pushed forth from the miasma and crashed down on a cruiser. Arms, equally massive, shot out and gripped the buildings on either side of the avenue. The fingers flexed and dug into the mortar, sending bricks tumbling below. In a swift movement, the buildings’ facades were pulled down, crushing the line of police cruisers. The leg bent low, then propelled the hidden mass upward. Human figures were expelled from the dust and cast off in all directions.

The thing landed with a terrible crash, splitting the pavement beneath it as tremors rippled through the city. The mechanical creature hunched for a moment before straightening to its full, four-story height. A metal battle suit, larger than anything Arbiter had ever seen before, glinted despite the thick layer of dust and the few humans who had managed to hold on during the jump and landing. Vaguely anthropomorphic in outline, the machine’s back bristled with cannons and antennae while the head whirred and twisted, cameras feeding visual data to whomever was commanding the steel terror. It hunched forward and roared, a cross between metal twisting and a man shrieking. Flames and smoke erupted from the cannons on its back, volleying shells high into the air. The echoes reverberated into the distance, leaving a ghastly quiet in their wake.

Arbiter’s arm instinctively shot up to cover his face as the explosives plummeted to the earth behind the beast, razing buildings and shattering the street. The entire battle had lasted for hours, increasing numbers of heroes throwing themselves into the fray as more and more of New York City was leveled in this thing’s wake.

What does this villain want?
The walking tank had appeared out of nowhere in the dawn sun, mere minutes after a thunderous crash had brought down the Statue of Liberty. As onlookers were drawn to the plume of smoke offshore, a metal hand erupted from the water. Within seconds, it pulled itself up as screams were drowned out by a twisting roar. Minutes later, it began a slow march, firing rockets that gutted distant buildings while other armaments and its metal fists tore apart those within its steely reach. Hundreds of the Bestowed, granted abilities beyond other men and women, had been slain in its rampage. Countless neutrals, civilian, military, and police alike, had been slaughtered. Tanks were cast aside, the newest fighter jets blown to cinders by the shoulder-mounted flak-cannons.