Post by mauvelantern on Mar 7, 2012 18:10:03 GMT -5
DOC SAVAGE in THE MAN OF BRONZE
CLARK SAVAGE, SR., DEAD AT 63
The reclusive, world-renowned explorer and father of equally-enigmatic Clark "Doc" Savage, Jr., was reported dead on March 3rd, 1933. Authorities were informed by Hidalgan officials that Savage was killed along with an entire exploration team while on an unspecified project. Savage had visited the Central American nation frequently in recent months, staying for lengths of up to three months at a time, according to sources close to the deceased.
"He said that he was working with the indigenous tribes first-hand," states an assistant of Savage. "Something about settling a dispute."
Another assistant claims that it was "a foreign sickness," and that the explorer was called in to "develop a cure before…every person in the state was dead."
Officials have yet to reveal the information of Savage's mission or the cause of his death; all information has been withheld from anyone save for authorities. Speculation as to Savage's enigmatic job remains high, and the Daily Star will do its best to report the news as soon as it is revealed. Some say that the only one who will know the true nature will be Savage's son, the reclusive "Doc" Savage. "Doc" was unreachable at the time of this printing.
With the death of his father, Savage, Jr. stands to acquire his father's organization, Savage Enterprises, now the sole successor to the title. Arronaxe Savage, Savage Sr.'s wife, died at childbirth and Savage Sr. never remarried, leaving his son the only one to inherit his father's work. Many wonder how the young recluse will deal with the news and what he shall do with his father's company; some believe he will steer it towards a new direction, away from exploration. Though Savage Jr. was unavailable for comment, several associates leaped to his defense.
"Doc knows what he's doing, trust me on that. He'll keep his father's company afloat; on that, you can trust me," one Andrew Mayfair claimed.
"Mr. Mayfair is right," agreed Thomas Brooks. "In all the years I've known him…he has yet to fail at any endeavors he assigns himself."
The future of Clark Savage Sr.'s company has yet to be decided, though, with no one responsible for it, save for Savage himself, it would appear that the decision lies square with "Doc" Savage. No one knows when the enigmatic son will return to claim Savage Enterprises, but those associates closest to him report that he will return to the states soon.
CLARK SAVAGE, SR., DEAD AT 63
The reclusive, world-renowned explorer and father of equally-enigmatic Clark "Doc" Savage, Jr., was reported dead on March 3rd, 1933. Authorities were informed by Hidalgan officials that Savage was killed along with an entire exploration team while on an unspecified project. Savage had visited the Central American nation frequently in recent months, staying for lengths of up to three months at a time, according to sources close to the deceased.
"He said that he was working with the indigenous tribes first-hand," states an assistant of Savage. "Something about settling a dispute."
Another assistant claims that it was "a foreign sickness," and that the explorer was called in to "develop a cure before…every person in the state was dead."
Officials have yet to reveal the information of Savage's mission or the cause of his death; all information has been withheld from anyone save for authorities. Speculation as to Savage's enigmatic job remains high, and the Daily Star will do its best to report the news as soon as it is revealed. Some say that the only one who will know the true nature will be Savage's son, the reclusive "Doc" Savage. "Doc" was unreachable at the time of this printing.
With the death of his father, Savage, Jr. stands to acquire his father's organization, Savage Enterprises, now the sole successor to the title. Arronaxe Savage, Savage Sr.'s wife, died at childbirth and Savage Sr. never remarried, leaving his son the only one to inherit his father's work. Many wonder how the young recluse will deal with the news and what he shall do with his father's company; some believe he will steer it towards a new direction, away from exploration. Though Savage Jr. was unavailable for comment, several associates leaped to his defense.
"Doc knows what he's doing, trust me on that. He'll keep his father's company afloat; on that, you can trust me," one Andrew Mayfair claimed.
"Mr. Mayfair is right," agreed Thomas Brooks. "In all the years I've known him…he has yet to fail at any endeavors he assigns himself."
The future of Clark Savage Sr.'s company has yet to be decided, though, with no one responsible for it, save for Savage himself, it would appear that the decision lies square with "Doc" Savage. No one knows when the enigmatic son will return to claim Savage Enterprises, but those associates closest to him report that he will return to the states soon.
On Antarctica, harshest of all lands on Earth, a lone rider crossed the tundra atop a dog sled pulled by eight powerful hounds. His body was bundled tight in thick clothes to stave off the frigid winds blowing across the wintry wasteland. Only the goggles on his face betrayed any sign of a man underneath all the layers, revealing a pair of eyes with irises blue as the oceans themselves. The sled he rode upon contained hiking supplies and equipment, for earlier that day, he had crossed the southern-most continent in search of unseen areas. He had been readying himself for a special, personal mission, one that he knew his whole life had been built towards.
The rider guided the dogs through the snow and over the ice, pushing them no further than needed, until they reached what looked to be a frozen mountain. He stepped down from the sled and crossed over to the mountain's side, stopping when he reached a large, metal door, sealed shut by a hatch system. With a spin of the locking wheel, the masked rider unlocked the door and opened it for his dogs, allowing them the chance to run inside. The man followed soon after, sealing the door behind him.
Inside the mountain was a marvel of science and architecture. There was a massive room, as big as a grand ballroom, built into the ice and was split into two floors, both joined by two sets of stairs. One each floor were three rooms linked to the main foyer, each with their own doors like the entrance. On the bottom floor was a room for the dogs, one for the sled, and the last was a lab filled with chemicals and technology unlike any on Earth. The top floor held a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom for the rider; everything he needed for his basic needs. This frozen fortress was perfect for the rider and acted as his home away from home.
Once he unleashed the dogs and guided the sled into its storage, the man drew back his hood and removed his goggles and face mask. Underneath was a handsome face chiseled out of stone, as if by some artist of the Renaissance, with piercing blue eyes and a head of short, golden hair. The man's skin was tanned to the point of bronze, though hints of scarlet filled his cheeks as he adjusted to the cold temperatures. He rubbed his hands against his cheeks to get the blood flowing back in while he strode to his laboratory.
Inside the lab, itself half the length of a football field, were wonders of science and technology. Modern machines reserved only for the top-most scientists were at his disposal; chemicals of all kinds could be found within. What the man focused on first and foremost though was a machine near the back of the lab, one that received incoming messages from around the world so he might keep on track of current news. Radio signals and Morse messages were tracked and recorded as a special code that the brilliant man had designed himself. Though the fortress was meant to be one of solitude, he used the machine to contact his friends back in the states in times of emergencies.
As the man neared the machine, he found that it had already printed out a message, a lengthy one, judging by the length of the paper. The man reached down and tore the paper where the message ended. It came from his cousin, one of the few who knew how to reach him, and she delivered with her the worst news.
Her message, decoded, read:
Clark,
It pains me to tell you this, but I felt you should hear it from me first. Your father and my uncle, Clark, is dead. They say they do not know how he died, but the reports are saying he was in Central America when it happened, some place called Hidalgo. I do not know much more than this as they have not said anything more. I know that you are busy, Clark, doing whatever it is you do down there, but you must hurry home as soon as you get this message. We need you here to settle your father's estate.
-Pat Savage
Doc read the message again and again, hoping it would change somewhere, but it was all real: his father, the man responsible for shaping his entire life, was gone. Though he never interacted with his father much at all, the pain was still there, still sincere. What hurt worst of all was that he was nearly finished with his plan, the plan he had created after years of training to the point of perfection; the plan that would change the world for the better. The man had wanted to his father to see his plan put into action, all the old man's hopes and dreams realized, but it was too late.
As he had trained himself to do, Doc kept his emotions contained, controlling them with every fiber of his being. An ordinary man might have broken down, but not Savage, not the man who had raised himself to the peak of humanity. He set the message down on a nearby table and walked the length of the lab, keeping his breathing and the rhythm of his heart measured and subdued. His walk took him from the lab, up the stairs, and all the way to his bedroom, where he stripped off his layers till he was down to the long underwear beneath. Once all the weight was removed, the man set into various yoga poses, stretching his body and working his muscles to sink into a meditation. A trilling sound escaped his lips, echoing through the empty halls of the fortress. He was alone, no one but himself to keep his emotions in check, and that was what he intended to do.
Not two days later, Doc Savage arrived in New York on his personal plane. It was a fairly small aircraft, big enough only to hold him, the crates that held his dogs, and the supplies he needed to take with him back to the city. He had a small airfield sectioned off solely for his own usage; only his friends knew of its location. And, when the bronzed man stepped out of the plane, they were waiting for him with a two cars, one a dated antique and the other a large truck.
Three men stood by the black automobiles, each of them different than the other. The one closest to the plane was Andrew "Monk" Mayfair, an ape-like man, shorter than the rest and stouter to boot, who had a face that seemed to be a gorilla's. Behind him was Thomas "Ham" Brooks, a taller fellow dressed in his finest and walking with a fine black cane. The one by the car was John "Renny" Renwick, a giant of a man who towered over the other two and looking like he could easy lift the two men high in the air. The shorter men gave Doc a sad smile as he descended from the plane while the large man in the back grimaced.
"Hey, Doc, sorry you couldn't come back under better circumstances," said Monk. "I mean, we all know how much you were looking forward to meeting with your father when you got back in town."
Ham, glared at Monk. "We agreed we would try to avoid the topic, didn't we, Monk?" he asked through gritted teeth.
"It's all right, Ham," Doc assured his friend. "I do wish that I had been able to unveil my plan for Father, not out of pride, but to show him the fruits of his labors. This was his plan from the beginning, you see, the one that I was raised to complete; like showing a producer the finished film, I wanted to see what he thought."
"I'm sure he'd be proud, Doc. Here: let me help you with your stuff."
"Thank you, Monk. I'd appreciate the hand. Renny, do you mind?"
"Not at all, Doc," the large man said as he walked over to the plane and began to unload the luggage. The dogs inside were starting to get antsy in their cages, so they began to bark up a storm when Renny opened the door.
"Holy cow! I forgot how noisy these pups can be!"
"They're just tired of sitting around after a long flight," Ham decided as he took a suitcase and brought it over to his car.
"That doesn't make them any quieter," Monk mumbled as he came out with one cage and hauled it over to the truck.
While the men unloaded the plane, Ham said to Doc, "When we get back into town, there's something I need to discuss with you, Doc."
"Is it about my father's affairs?"
"Exactly. He left me in charge because he wanted to leave most everything to you. All his papers, almost all his belongings: they're yours, old friend. You just say the word and we'll get everything over to your apartment."
"I appreciate that, Ham," the bronze man thanked his partner, "but let's wait until we have everything settled before we divide up my father's work."
"Of course, Doc, of course."
The drive back into the city was long and quiet for Doc. Renny was busy driving the truck with the dogs, leaving Doc with Monk and Ham, who were going back and forth, same as usual. This time, they were arguing about a baseball game, swapping blows as to who deserved to win.
"I'm telling you, the Senators performed exponentially better this year than the Giants! Tell me otherwise!" said Ham.
"I will: the Giants had it coming to 'em," Monk countered. "They played a stronger game out there and deserved to win."
"Not only did the Senators have more victories than the Giants, they also suffered fewer losses during the year."
"Which is why they were due for a big win to make up for it!"
Doc tuned out the banter and focused on the rain outside. He thought back on the years of intense study, physical and mental, that led up to this point. What would his father have thought? Would he be proud of what his son had been able to do? Would he listen with pride when Doc would tell him of his journeys around the world? All the inventions he had created over the years, would his father have looked on them with amazement? It was his intent, his design that saw Clark transformed into the man he was today; there was a tragic irony in the predicament and Doc was well aware of it.
His journey started at a young age, his earliest memory being when he, at the tender age of seven, bewildered his teachers by discovering just what his purpose was in life. Vague recollections of earlier studies drifted through his mind, but this one moment was an awakening for him, a revelation; his life truly began in that moment. Clark had been an eager student, working with such determination that it inspired the mentors he was surrounded with. When he was just eleven, he was operating at a college-level, reading and writing material that would baffle men more than twice his age.
But Clark's studies were not solely limited to the classroom. He trained his body with many teachers over the years, starting at just a little over a year old and going up to the war. When he was still developing his muscles as an infant, doctors created a diet that was designed to give the boy optimal health and performance. Once he learned how to move, he was taught how to protect himself, being pitted against boys twice his age most of the time; Clark enjoyed these scraps, though he lost many. He was taught how to control his urges for extreme violence with the help of Indian gurus; he learned to deal with his opponents swiftly and creatively when he studied under circus acrobats. By the time he was twelve, he stood five feet and six inches and weighed in at a hundred-and-fifty pounds, all of it muscle, and he could defeat nearly ten grown men in combat.
When it became clear that America was just too small for Clark, he was sent to travel the world and meet with other mentors and teachers. He learned to survive in the frigid cold while living with Canadian fur trappers, to track and to craft wood while traveling the Amazon with a tribe thought extinct, and to fly from the greatest men in the world, including the fabled Red Baron. He learned the secrets of the ocean from Polynesians whilst sailing the South Seas, practiced the art of stealth in the jungles of Indochina, and became adept at leaping from tree to tree while living in Africa. He practiced ventriloquism and vocal imitations, lock-picking, sign language and lip reading from teachers all over Europe. Tibet carried with it the most lessons, for he learned the arts of yoga, hypnotism, control of his emotions, and how to block the sensation of pain in his mind; he studied various martial arts so as to be undefeated in personal combat. All these lessons left him a greater man, one ready to face the world and whatever challenges lay ahead.
"What do you think, Doc?"
Monk's question pulled the doctor from his nostalgic melancholy. He rubbed his tired eyes and asked, "Sorry, I must have dozed off for a moment. You were talking about a game, right?"
"The national game, Doc," Ham corrected his friend. "The Washington Senators played the New York Giants about a week ago. Monk is erroneous in thinking that the Giants were the superior team, especially when you consider the sort of season they played."
"I'm afraid that I missed that game; when I'm away, I don't use the radio except for emergencies."
"Don't you feel like you're missing out without a radio? All you've got is those dogs around, and you don't even bring them that often," Monk remarked.
"It wouldn't be solitude otherwise, Monk," Doc explained. "If I've got my food, water, and my work, that's all I'll need when I'm down there."
Ham chuckled. "I might have to borrow it sometime; I could do with a little peace and quiet."
"Yeah, and I could use a little break myself. There's too much pretentiousness out in the city," Monk quipped back.
"All the noise…"
"All the stuck-ups…"
"…and it never stops!"
"…and they never shut their yaps!"
Just like that, the two were back at it. Doc tuned them out and went back to looking out the window, amusing himself by calculating the angles at which the raindrops fell on the windshield and tracking their individual paths.
When they reached the city, Renny left to return Doc's dogs while Ham dropped Monk off at his apartment. Doc had business he needed to take care of with the tailored man, so they went to a local restaurant to discuss legal matters over dinner. The two chose to sit near the back so as to avoid being overheard by nearby eaters.
"Now, I know you're tired after your trip, Clark, but I need you to stay with me," Ham told his friend.
"I was keeping myself awake by doing mental exercises on the way over, Ham," said Doc. "I'm alert and ready to talk. So let's talk."
"Well, I was consulting your father in the months before his death; this you already know. I worked with him and got his last will and testament written out, and I already spoke with Pat and her father about their parts. As for you, Clark, your father left you almost all of his business. The office, his papers, control of his tools and everything he managed, it's all yours. Here are the keys to the office, the desks…your father was very thorough."
"He was like that."
Ham passed a key ring with over a dozen keys to Doc, who flipped through all twelve. He recognized the main key, the one that opened the door, but he would find out the rest on his own time. The bronze man pocketed the ring and turned back to Ham.
The lawyer continued, "Also, there was a letter sent to you; we just received it today. It appears to be from your father, but don't worry, we haven't examined the contents. We wanted you to be the first."
"I appreciate that, Ham," said Doc, taking the letter and putting it in his coat. "I'll have to take a look at it later. Now, can you tell me anything about what my father was doing in Hidalgo?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, I'm afraid. He was a very secretive man, as you well know, so the most he would tell me was that he was going to settle a dispute between tribes. Something about government work, I think, but he never went into the details. If there was anything, you might find it in his notes."
Doc pondered this for a moment and then replied, "Then that's what we need to do."
"What's that?"
"I need you to take me back to my father's office, Ham; I want to know everything about the trip and what happened to him down there."
"Don't you want to get some sleep first? You must be exhausted after that flight."
"This requires my full attention, Ham; sleep can wait."
After they finished dinner, Ham drove Doc back to his father's office building, the most majestic building in all of New York. Clark Sr.'s office was of the 86th floor and, from the windows, one could see almost all of Manhattan Island and the Hudson and East Rivers; Doc remembered it well when he last visited the city and his father. Doc was impressed with the building, having helped his father purchase the land and aided Renny in designing the spectacle. It was completed just a little less than two years ago and Doc had only seen it a few times, spending most of his time elsewhere in preparation for his mission. On any other day, he might have stopped to marvel at what he had built with his own hands, but tonight, he needed to ease his mind and find out what had happened to his father.
"Don't bother waiting, Ham. It could take me a long time, the way my father held onto everything and gave up nothing," said Doc as he climbed out of the car.
"All right, Clark, but if you do need anything, you know how to reach me," Ham replied.
Ham drove off while Doc strode into the building, his footsteps heavy but fast. He did not notice, having grown used to it, but he started to make a trill sound, not unlike a bird; it was a habit he had picked up while in Tibet. When stress and anxiety began to wear on him, the man would make a trilling sound as if to distract himself. The trilling continued as he rode the elevator up to the 86th floor, walked down the hall and reached his father's door.
Before he opened the door, Doc noticed there was a light on in the office. He thought it might just be a janitor doing some cleaning, but, as he listened through the glass, he could hear the sounds of rustling papers and the slam of a drawer. Whoever was in the room was searching through his father's work, information that was for no one's eyes but his own. Doc checked the doorknob and found that it was already broken; it was just placed so that no one could tell it was damaged. The powerful man backed up and slammed his foot against the door, knocking it open and revealing the criminal inside.
Standing just outside the light was a tall, gaunt man with dark skin and wrapped in a long, black coat, his hands holding onto a small stack of papers. He stared wide-eyed at Doc for an instant before pulling a large knife from his coat and charging at the bronze man. Doc dodged away from the knife and grabbed the man's arm, twisting it around in an attempt to catch him. The dark criminal was flexible though, as he followed Doc's move by contorting his body and spinning around, allowing him a shot at his captor's rib cage. A gloved palm struck Doc's ribs and he was forced back, letting go of the man's arm.
Free, the man lunged at Doc with his knife, but Doc was ready for him. He grabbed some loose papers off a nearby desk and hurled them at the assassin's face; blinded, he stumbled and missed his target. Then, as he spun to face Doc, the bronze man clapped him on both sides of the head, discombobulating the attacker, causing him to grip his head in pain. While he was distracted, Doc got behind the man and wrapped one arm around his neck while the other held his head straight. He felt the man struggle as he choked the air out of him until the man went limp, at which point Doc let the man go; he was not dead, just unconscious.
As he regained his composure, Doc dragged his assailant into the light and propped him up in a chair so he could get a better look at him. The man's skin was a dark brown, hinting at a Latin heritage, and the tattoos around his face verified this. Doc recognized the marks from when he was traveling through Central America as a teenager and, though he was almost certain of it, he needed to check the man's chest to confirm his hypothesis. He tore the man's shirt open and found that the tattoos continued all down his torso, all done in an indigo ink that shimmered like oil in the light. They were a special kind, a symbol belonging to a single tribe located in Hidalgo.
"Father, what did you get yourself into this time?" Doc mumbled as he tied the man to the chair. He had no idea of this at the time, but now he was embroiled in his father's work; if he was not careful, he would meet the same fate…