Where There's a Will, There's a Way - part 2
by Viking

"Sued?" asked Minute Man incredulously. "By whom?"

"The citizens of Patriot City," answered the well-dressed stranger. "This is a class-action lawsuit demanding compensatory and punitive damages for the wanton destruction of their private property."

Minute Man and Alche-Miss stared in stunned silence at the complaint, trying to make sense of it. Too bewildered with shock to comprehend its contents, Minute Man focused on the oddly familiar letterhead of the attached cover letter.

"McCabe, Morrison and Crowley," he murmured to himself. Realization suddenly dawned.

"Wait a minute!" he exclaimed. "Weren't those the law offices that were destroyed by the Judge and Jury?"

"Very astute of you to notice," remarked the visitor. "I myself am Mr. Crowley, pleased to make your acquaintance. I don't normally engage in the practice of personally delivering summonses to opposing parties, but the unfortunate... accident at our offices left us rather short-staffed, I'm afraid. Still, the work carries on. Where there's a will, there's a way, and all that."

With a tip of his hat, Mr. Crowley turned and left.

"I'm beginning to get tired of that phrase," Alche-Miss grumbled as she and Minute Man returned to the Freedom Fortress to peruse the complaint.

Meanwhile, in an abandoned office building on the south side of Patriot City, a black-robed figure walked silently through the shadows, appraising the surroundings. The movement of his robe sent swirls of gray dust billowing up from the worn wooden floor.

"These will serve our purposes more than adequately," noted the Judge in satisfaction.

"Well, they beat the old digs, that's for sure," remarked the Jury, ever close behind. He flicked a bit of dust away from his new, sharply pressed suit. "And I'm sure glad finally made your move, Judge. Prison issues just don't suit me."

"Then you would do well to choose your actions carefully," instructed the Judge. "Our mission is too important to risk capture at the hands of Freedom Force at this stage. While I have made sure that they will be... distracted in the coming months, our absence from the prison will soon be noted. And should we find ourselves incarcerated once more, I cannot guarantee being able to free you. You would be wise to learn from my example and plan in advance for future escapes."

The Jury considered the Judge's advice, wondering just how far in advance the robed man plotted his actions. "So... just how did you manage to find this place?" he asked. "It's in pretty good shape, for an abandoned building."

"The owner kept it well-maintained, in the hopes of selling it. I simply convinced him that his financial interests would be best served by donating it to a charitable organization." The Judge gave a mirthless smile that was hidden beneath his featureless mask. "I even prepared the forms so that he could claim the tax exemption."

"Charitable?" asked the Jury in disbelief.

"For the rehabilitation of criminals, particularly those wishing to establish businesses within Patriot City," answered the Judge. "A worthy characterization of our quest to bring new purpose to Pinstripe's organization, and an appropriate facade for the public. Thus is born... the Wellness Foundation."

The Jury considered the Judge's words. He realized that long range, complex plans were not his strength. He was more of a "get the job done now" kind of guy, so he didn't consider them for long. "Let the boss keep track of the big picture," he decided, and tried to change the subject. "Um... I'm sure you've got this covered, but shouldn't we be looking into springing the Executioner as well?"

There was a moment of silence, and the Jury was certain that the Judge was smiling under his mask.

"That situation is already well underway," the Judge responded at last.

Far upstate from Patriot City, in the Stonegate maximum security prison, an execution was being prepared. It was a rare occasion for the old prison, as most executions were now carried out by the newly developed gas chamber used in other, more modern facilities, while Stonegate maintained an aging, but still serviceable electric chair. But due to the unique nature of the condemned, the courts had decided that the gas chamber was unlikely to be effective in this case.

The prison doctor stood by while the two burly attendants buckled the heavy leather straps around the condemned man's chest. The men were on edge, nervous sweat trickling down their faces as they fumbled with the thick buckles. It wasn't often you had to execute a man twice. And "Clubber" Johnson had already met one appointment with Death and walked away a super powered menace as a result.

The prison guards assigned the task of strapping Johnson into the chair knew that if the huge man wanted to, he could have easily torn free and killed them all. But the black clad convict was strangely quiet and gave no indication of resistance. He even shifted in the chair to make it easier for the two guards to finish their ominous task. They looked back and forth between each other in silent commiseration. They couldn't tell if Johnson was unaware of what was happening or actually welcomed this, his second date with execution. But they knew that ever since Freedom Force had captured the escaped convict, Clubber Johnson had shown no sign of resistance. He had apparently accepted his fate at the hands of the court without comment or complaint.

The doctor stepped forward and gave Johnson a quick examination. Johnson watched him, his eyes placid and free of malice.

The doctor nodded and stepped back. One of the guards placed a dampened sponge on Johnson's bald head, and then secured it in place with a steel cap. Johnson shut his eyes and sat back with a soft sigh, the faintest of smiles upon his lips, further unnerving the guards.

The prison warden stood in the adjacent room, watching the proceedings through a thick pane of reinforced glass. He glanced down at the gold pocket watch in his hand. The minute hand had nearly marked the end of the hour and the phone had not yet rung. It looked like the execution was going to take place. The small room was actually crowded, between the official visitors and the members of the press who had gotten permission to cover the news making event. This would be the first execution of a so-called ‘super villain'.

One of the reporters, a remarkably pretty young red haired woman seemed to be studying Johnson's face as if looking for some secret there. The warden thought that having a lady witness the grisly sight of an execution in the electric chair was far from appropriate. This wasn't a quick way to kill a man. The voltage would be increased in a series of steps. And you never forgot the smell...

The minute hand clicked to the final point and the phone was still silent. There would be no last minute reprieve. "It's time," the warden announced. A black hood was pulled over Johnson's head, and the warden signaled for the first switch to be thrown.

Over 2000 volts of electricity surged through Johnson, causing him to involuntarily clench his fists as his body went rigid. Twenty seconds later, as steam was evaporating from the sponge on his head, the power was shut off. After a few moments of silence, the warden nodded to the executioner manning the switches, who proceeded to throw the second switch. A lesser charge of 250 volts was sustained for nearly two minutes to finish the job.

Several reporters had since pulled handkerchiefs over their mouths as the sickening smell of burnt flesh carried through the room. Cautiously, the doctor approached Johnson as the guards nervously kept their guns trained on his motionless body.

"He's... dead," confirmed the doctor, hardly believing the words as he said them. A low tide of relieved murmurs swept through the crowd, and the guards relaxed as they holstered their weapons.

A dull creak from Johnson's chair cut off the rising conversation instantly. The apparently deceased Johnson was stirring once more, his restraints snapping away as he flexed and shifted. The warden frantically signaled for the lethal electricity to be turned on again, and the switch was hastily thrown. Sparks danced across the metal cuffs and cap, searing the man's clothing but leaving the skin untouched. Johnson twitched, not with the spastic movements of an electrocution victim but with the controlled action of someone emerging from a deep sleep.

Johnson tore free of the last of his bindings and stood up, the fierce crackle of electricity audible even over the panicked shouts of the reporters and guards. He slowly removed the steel cap from his head, the arcing electricity illuminating the room. Johnson crushed the cap in a massive fist before letting the twisted lump of metal clatter to the floor. He then gently brought his hand to the black hood that obscured his vision, and sparks from his fingers burned a set of eyeholes in the fabric. He spat the thick leather gag out of his mouth.

The Executioner looked briefly at the unfolding chaos, and then began paced slowly and deliberately towards the door. After a moment of hesitation, the prison guards drew their sidearms and opened fire on Johnson's massive frame. Bullets thudded into his body, the only noticeable effect being that they attracted his attention. The Executioner stretched out his hands, and crackling bolts of electricity shot forth towards his attackers. In a matter of moments, all of the guards were collapsed on the floor, their uniforms smoldering from the discharge. Johnson turned resolutely to the exit once more.

He had almost reached the door when he was interrupted a second time. "Why did you kill those men?" asked a female voice that strained to keep fear at bay.

The Executioner turned towards the pretty young journalist, her hair no longer pinned neatly in place. "THEY ARE NOT DEAD," he answered in his hollow voice. "THEIR DEATHS WOULD HAVE SERVED NO PURPOSE."

Surprise registered on the reporter's face, though it was impossible to tell whether it was due to the answer, or the fact that she hadn't been turned into a charred corpse by now. Her journalistic instincts were not dampened, however, and she plunged ahead with a final question. "Where are you going, Mr. Johnson?"

Even though a hoarse whisper, the Executioner's response still carried across the room. "CLUBBER JOHNSON IS DEAD. JUSTICE DEMANDED THAT HE DIE. WHERE JUSTICE DEMANDS THE SENTENCE OF DEATH, THE HAND OF THE EXECUTIONER SHALL CARRY IT OUT."

Unopposed, the Executioner calmly opened the door to the death chamber and walked out, trailed by coils of smoke.

In the Freedom Fortress Situation Room, Minute Man and Alche-Miss pored over the language of the complaint, trying to make sense of it. A fear crept over both of them, different from that inspired by any of the foes that they had ever faced. This was a tangle of logic far beyond anything either of them had faced before. The Ant found them at the table and tried to lend a hand, but even his mind couldn't fathom the arcane language full of phrases like "Party of the First Part," fragments of Latin, and run on sentences.

The Ant pulled up his mask for a long drink of coffee. "There is no way around it, people, we have to admit we are outgunned on this one. We need an expert."

He was interrupted by the door alarm again. Alche-Miss looked at the monitor, dreading what she might see. It wasn't Captain Kraken, or Mister Mechanical with another swarm of robots. It was another middle-aged man in a well tailored suit and carrying a briefcase, which she suspected was even worse.

"You better go answer the door," noted the Ant. "I have a feeling we'll be needing to call in the rest of Freedom Force on this one."

With an alternating sigh and grumble, Minute Man and Alche-Miss headed down to meet their latest visitor. This lawyer had a polite, almost apologetic expression on his face.

"Minute Man? Alche-Miss? May I presume that you are duly appointed representatives of the organization known as Freedom Force?" he inquired.

Alche-Miss frowned at the formal words that she had heard only a few hours ago.

"Yes," answered Minute Man warily. "Are we to presume that we're being sued again?"

Minute Man's response took the lawyer by surprise. "Again? Well, I can't say I know anything about that, but..." Reaching into his briefcase, the lawyer pulled out an all-too-recognizable envelope and presented it to them. "I can't say that I'm happy about this, you understand."

Minute Man silently shook his head as Alche-Miss unceremoniously ripped the envelope open. "Who is suing us, and what are we being sued for this time?" he asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry," answered the lawyer, who hastened to introduce himself. "Bob Cranston, on behalf of Patriot City."

"Excuse me?" asked Alche-Miss disbelieving. "I thought we were already being sued by the citizens of Patriot City."

"Not the citizens of Patriot City," corrected Mr. Cranston. "The government of Patriot City."

Now it was Minute Man's turn to be stunned. "But... we work inside the law!" he protested.

"Well, I'm not referring to your acts of heroism, which are quite laudable," answered the city attorney. "This action regards the Freedom Fortress."

Seeing that his explanation was being met with blank stares, he continued. "The land upon which you built the Freedom Fortress is the property of Patriot City. You obtained no permits before constructing it. Furthermore, judging by the height of the structure, I'd say it's in violation of some of our zoning laws. We can't just let people appropriate city land, it would set a very dangerous precedent."

"Hmph," sniffed Alche-Miss. "No one ever objected to the presence of the Freedom Fortress before now!"

"Yes, well, ordinarily development plans have to be presented before the City council before construction begins," explained Mr. Cranston patiently. "Your Freedom Fortress appeared practically overnight. And while the mayor was willing to afford you some leniency while Patriot City itself was under siege, well... he couldn't very well ignore the situation forever.

After an uncomfortable silence, Mr. Cranston shrugged apologetically. "Like I said, I'm not happy about this. Hopefully we can work something out between yourself and the city. I'd be more then happy to suggest a number of compromises."

Giving a slight nod, he left Minute Man and Alche-Miss to wonder just how much worse things could possibly get.

On his prison cot, Pinstripe tossed and turned through a sleepless night. He was certain that his boys would stage a breakout any day now, but he'd been telling himself that for weeks. Pinstripe only considered it the smallest of mercies that the typing in his neighbor's cell had finally stopped earlier that day, still oblivious to the fact that the Judge had long since freed himself.

A low hum drew him out of his frustrated musings. In the prison hallway, a shadowy globe was descending from the ceiling. As it touched the floor, it rippled faintly before fading away. In its place stood two men, one of whom Pinstripe instantly recognized.

"Sammy!" Pinstripe called out as he grasped at the bars to his cell. "What the hell took you so long? How many boys do you have on the outside?"

The rail-thin lieutenant grinned cockily, and nodded to his new-found friend. "It's just me and Joey the Jackal, Boss. He came along as a gesture of solidarity in the Alliance. We'll have you out before you can say Aunt Lucinda's Antipasto."

"Pleased to meet you, Mister Pinstripe," the foxy faced young man in the leather jacket said as he stepped up the cell door, seemingly unaware of the security camera focused on them.

"The guards are going to see you mugs on the damn camera!" Pinstripe exploded.

Joey smiled, showing very white, slightly pointed teeth while he slipped a slender piece of metal into the cell's massive lock. "Nah. Sammy and I spoofed the camera circuits on the way in. I figure the guards are trying to figure out why they're getting the NBC test pattern right about now."

After only a few quick movements, the cell door unlocked. Pinstripe doubted he could have opened it any faster with a key.

Sammy did the honors of opening the door wide. "Even better, I know where all the guards are gonna be, and the best way to avoid them."

He flashed a cocky grin to Joey, and then back to Pinstripe. "Hope you have your dancing shoes, ‘cause it's time for your stepping out party, Boss."

For a moment, Frank Stiles fervently wished he were back teaching civics to uninterested high school students. This was getting far out of hand.

Alche-Miss and The Ant were arguing over how to find the best possible representation for Freedom Force. Mentor was carefully reading each of the complaints that they had received this morning, his brow furrowed in concentration. Supercollider was lumbering around in the back ground, mumbling about smashing ‘something' and Man-O-War was talking maritime law and how they should claim the wrecked cars were all some sort of ‘salvage'. To make matters worse, Eve had just informed him from her post at the situation monitors that there had been a string of possibly related prison breaks of late.

"I wonder what will go wrong next?" he thought.

El Diablo answered the unspoken question. He walked into the conference room and tossed another sheaf of papers in front of the Sixty Second Sentinel then took a seat and put his boots up on the table.

"What is that?" Minute Man asked, regretting the question even as he asked it.

"Looks like a civil suit to me, something from Delta Labs about the willful destruction of property. Some weasel of a lawyer caught me as I was on my way in and stuffed it in my hand. I sent him on his way with the help of a little tongue of flame. Caramba, you should have seen him run!" El Diablo smiled a cocky, self-satisfied grin.

Alche-Miss graced him with a wintry stare. "Just wonderful. I'll bet you we have an assault charge leveled against hot head here before sundown!"

As if in response to her prediction, the door alarm announced the presence of yet another visitor. Not even bothering to look at the screen, she fled the high-pitched wail of the alarm to greet their latest visitor. The rest of the assembled members of Freedom Force exchanged glances and then followed her lead, curious as to how this encounter would play out.

Outside the Freedom Fortress, a bespectacled young man waited patiently, looking appreciatively at its splendor. He smiled brightly as the doors opened.

"Good day, Alche-Miss!" he greeted cheerily. He paused, noticing that the leader of Freedom Force was right behind her. "And Minute Man too, of course. And El Diablo, and Man-o-War, and... er... does all of Freedom Force normally turn out to greet visitors?"

"Only when they're lawyers," answered Alche-Miss flatly. Behind her, Supercollider growled, clenching and unclenching his armored fists.

"I'm... uh... not that kind of lawyer," the young man answered hastily as his face blanched. "Definitely not that kind."

"But you are a lawyer, are you not?" asked Minute Man. "Are you not in fact here to serve us with a summons?"

Relief flooded the young lawyer's face. "Oh thank God, no," he answered. A collective round of sighs came in response, followed by a moment of awkward silence.

Man-o-War was the first to break the tension. "All right, laddie," he said, "if ye haven't come to tell us we're being sued, then why on Earth are ye here?"

The young man slapped his forehead at having lost his train of thought, and reached into his briefcase. The assembled members of Freedom Force looked at it nervously, as if it were a bomb that might explode. Nervousness changed to curiosity, however, as a single sheet of paper was produced.

"This is in reference to a Mister Ted Taylor," he answered. "It seems that Freedom Force is the sole beneficiary of his fortune, and this letter is a notice of invitation to the reading of his will."

To be continued...