Titan City 1935
Craddoc Brogan stood at the edge of the Smithburg dock, smoking a Lucky Liam cigarette, deep in thought. A clear, full moon illuminated the night sky. Its pale light shined over rows of shipping containers, loading equipment, and a dozen armed members of the Kelly Gang. Having his toughest boys all in one place made his palms itch, but he couldn't be too careful tonight.
His boss, Kiernan Kelly, leaned on a cane beside him. A thin, white mustache sat on his lip, matching the slicked hair under his fedora. His slate grey suit was worth more than three month's rent at Craddoc's slum apartment. It was too bad all that money couldn't buy civility. A thug in a monkey suit was still a thug.
Craddoc flicked the butt of his cigarette into the surf and looked over his shoulder. His fingers flexed on the grip of his pistol.
"Settle down, boyo." Mr. Kelly's voice cut through the chill, lowering the temperature in Craddoc's heart. "What's got you so jumpy?"
"It's too quiet, boss." Craddoc swallowed hard and turned back to the harbor.
"That freak doesn't know we're here." Mr. Kelly coughed and spat. He wheezed through his nose. "We've got the place to ourselves for the evening."
"It wouldn't be the first time he attacked out of nowhere." Craddoc scowled and cocked his head towards their triggermen. "Who's to say we don't have a rat feeding him information?"
Mr. Kelly laughed, the phlegm in his throat gargling with each peel. "These bastards know better. We're family in this outfit."
"It's not just them." Craddoc leaned over and whispered. "What about that...little creature you hired?"
"He works for us."
"How can you be so sure?"
"It's simple." Mr. Kelly snuffed his cigarette beneath his wing-tip shoes. "My nan used to tell me stories about his kind when I was a lad. She spoke of otherworldly things: banshees, leprechauns, unicorns, and the like. I used to think that was all nonsense; fables to trick kids into walking the straight and narrow and all that. But then, boyo, I saw Professor Mysterium turn a truck of bootleg whiskey into a swarm of bleeding bees. That's enough to make anyone believe in this mystical bollocks."
Craddoc shook his head. Magic made his eyes itch. "I wasn't asking if he was real, boss. How do you know he isn't playing us?"
"I was getting there. Sorry you know how old men like to ramble." Mr. Kelly raised his cane and cracked Craddoc across the knee.
Sharp pain rattled up his leg and dropped him to the ground. Craddoc thought to himself, "Nice to know kneecapping is still in the boss' arsenal."
Mr. Kelly knelt down, coming to eye level with Craddoc. He draped the cane over one knee and grabbed Craddoc by the cheeks. "If you ever interrupt me again, your corpse'll be fertilizing my wife's flower beds."
"By all means." Craddoc winced in pain. "Continue.”
"Good lad." Mr. Kelly smacked Craddoc on the cheeks and stood. "Where was I? Oh yes. Creatures like our new friend, Mr. Drake, are beholden to a lot of strange, archaic rules. Rules that can be used to manipulate and control them. Did you really think I'd take us for a tumble without checking the bed for bugs?"
"I trust you, boss." Craddoc eased to his feet, keeping his weight off the injured leg. "I just don't want to lose any more good lads to that nut case."
"Have a little faith, Mr. Brogan."
Craddoc suppressed a chuckle. Faith was all well and good, but who was he supposed to worship with all of these gods and monsters walking around?
Fifteen minutes ticked away on Craddoc's pocket watch before a steamer came into view. The Greek vessel they'd been waiting for. Its lights danced on the horizon, twinkling against the black, velvet sky. Craddoc's stomach joined his chilled heart in a nervous dance.
The ship glided into place, mooring in the harbor. Eurydice was written in gold letters along its port side. Several gangplanks protruded from its belly and top deck, settling on the concrete dock. The night grew colder. Sailors emerged from the steamer and set about unloading cargo. A strange breeze whipped through the gathered crowd.
The gangsters moved closer, stopping before the central ramp. Craddoc scanned the yard one last time and joined the others. A few moments passed before the cluster of crewman pulled a massive crate into view. They struggled to ease it down onto the dock. More than once it threatened to topple into the sea. They planted it on the ground ahead of Mr. Kelly. The ship's captain, a portly Greek man with greasy black hair and apelike forearms followed behind.
"Angelo my good man. Thank you for your haste in this matter." Mr. Kelly tipped his hat. "And your continued discretion."
"Always happy to help my best customer." The captain crossed his arms atop his belly. "Where's my money?"
Mr. Kelly tapped forward with his cane, placing a gloved hand on the wood. The box vibrated, and steam rose from its cracks. Mr. Kelly smiled and snapped his fingers towards Craddoc. "Pay the man."
Craddoc stepped forward and unfurled a roll of ten dollar bills. He thumbed out a hundred bucks and slipped it into the captain's hand. He smelled like stale liquor and old salt.
The captain bared his yellowed, crooked teeth. "Pleasure doing business with you." He then scuttled off with a couple of his crewmen. No doubt to drink and shag their bribe away.
Not that the expense seemed to matter to Mr. Kelly. Craddoc caught the wicked gleam in the old man's eyes. He hadn't seen him like this in damn near three years. Back when there were still Russians to fight.
A crowbar was brought forward, and Mr. Kelly slammed it into the seam. The lid slammed down against the dock, sending an eerie clatter across the warehouses and piers. Green smoke billowed from the crate. Mobsters swore and coughed. Some stepped back, pulling their shirts over their faces.
Craddoc however, was pulled forward. An instinct deep within him drew him along like a lure on a line. He waved the cloud away with his fedora, and gasped at the box's contents. There was a bronze basin, about the size of a car, from which an emerald cloud rolled forth. Intricate carvings of people were etched around the bowl. Primitive figures huddled in caves, cowering from terrifying creatures beyond their walls. Primal terror covered their chiseled faces. Four clawed feet kept the whole affair standing. Sitting on the lip of the bowl was a bronze loop set with a shining black stone. Glowing letters, Greek from the look of them, radiated along the metal. It looked like some kind of fancy fire striker.
Dread pervaded Craddoc. He felt as though he was seeing something he shouldn't, peering behind the curtain of humanity's soul. This wasn't the magic of fairy tales, this was something beyond his rational understanding. Something in the recesses of his ape brain recoiled. Was it too late to run?
Mr. Kelly's deep voice pulled Craddoc back to reality. "Bring the truck around and we'll finally deal with..." The old mobster's final thought was cut short by a length of rebar that sailed through the black sky, impaling him in the neck. The force of the blow pulled Mr. Kelly clean off the top of the crate, and nailed him to the wall of the shipping office. He gurgled, blood pouring down his pin-stripes.
Craddoc screamed and drew his pistol. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! He's here boys."
An explosion of sound answered the gangsters, as a figure landed amongst them. Concrete dust flew into the air, kicked up by the sudden impact. The man calling himself, Atlas rose from the crater. His powerful form cutting through the cloud of debris. His skin was darker than the night around him, and partially covered in a white and gold toga. A black leather belt, with a massive golden buckle concealed his midsection, and a golden half cape was draped over one shoulder. A shining circlet of laurel leaves sat on his head, and a long, black beard covered his chin and chest. He stepped a sandaled foot onto the dock, and tensed, coiling like a viper to strike.
"Boys, we cannot let him get his hands on this thing." Craddoc's voice wavered, but he drew his pistol.
Atlas' eyes roamed from man to man. Craddoc saw something ancient and resentful within those eyes. "I have seen the wickedness in your hearts. Men like you are my burden. You will not be permitted to live." It sounded like his throat was shredded.
Craddoc leveled his weapon and squeezed the trigger. His bullet found its mark, but it might as well have been a marshmallow for all the harm it caused. Craddoc gestured to his men. "What are you bastards waiting for? Fire."
The rat-a-tat-tat of Tommy Guns erupted, a symphony of typewriters clacking out a deadly manifesto. Hundreds of rounds ricocheted off Atlas. Craddoc's ears rang and his hands throbbed from the repeated shots.
Atlas stood, unflinching. Soon the Kelly Gang's weapons were spent. Each began a mad dash to reload. But it was too late. Atlas charged forward, a sonic boom thundering from the speed. He pulled the gun from his target, splintering the metal and wood in one massive hand, and splintering sternum with the other. The mobster spat, looking down at his ruined torso in disbelief before dropping.
Several of the mobsters broke and ran, discarding their weapons in terror. The brave ones took cover and reloaded the drums on their Tommies. Craddoc stepped back and grabbed the fire striker. He dropped it in his pocket. This was a fool's errand. Some invincible god was going to kill all of his men over some magic doodad. Unless he tried something reckless.
Atlas moved to the next criminal, snatching him by the leg and yanking him upside down. The mobster grabbed a handgun from his shoulder holster and shot the Titan in the face. "I'll see you in Hell."
Atlas scowled and slammed his target into the concrete, decimating stone and flesh. "I've been somewhere worse." His assault was relentless, moving through three of the gangsters at high speed. He tore and ripped any body part he could get his hands on. Atlas wheeled about at the end of the dock and launched himself into the air, landing on another group of triggermen.
Craddoc snuck into one of the dock's crane shacks. He inhaled, trying to steady his nerves. The stench of blood and the screams of his friends overwhelmed him. He grabbed the controls and swung a shipping container over Atlas.
Craddoc thought to himself, “Let's see how you like this, you bastard.” And he let the container drop.
Crunching steel on concrete filled the air. The container found its mark. Craddoc wasn't expecting it to be full, but sacks of grain spilled out of the twisted metal. A stillness filled the night. It was short-lived.
The shattered walls of the container flew away from the impact zone. Craddoc swore as Atlas rose from the wreckage, enraged, but otherwise unharmed. They locked eyes.
Craddoc thought to himself, “Bollocks.”
Atlas was in the crane shack before Craddoc could move. Shattered glass and spinning was all Craddoc knew for a few lucid moments of free fall. His whole body was agony. Shrapnel protruded from the hot, bleeding spot in his thigh. He waited for the final blow to come. For death to claim him.
But nothing came.
Craddoc chanced a glance. The carnage was coming to an end. His men were dying or scattered. Atlas was gone, probably chasing off the survivors. The golden brazier stood vigil in the dust and debris. Discretion was starting to look like the better part of valor.
He rolled over onto his stomach. Crawling was going to be absolute agony, but anything was better than being murdered by that monster. The screams of dying men and the crackling fire echoed through the sky. "That wee bastard's not going to like this." Craddoc gritted his teeth and began his slow retreat.