IT’S ONLY WHEN the four of them are kitted out once more in their garish costumes that I stop for a moment to really question what the fuck I’m doing. You know, for a guy with the power of x-number of light bulbs or whatever it is, that doesn’t mean I always have the brightest ideas.

Ill Centurion’s armour adds six inches on him and that doesn’t include the ceremetal coxcomb that adorns his stylised Greco-Roman powered plate. The dusk-coloured cloak – so reminiscent of the Crimson Cowl that I often wondered if they had the same tailor – sways gently with each step from his pneumatic boots as he hefts the fey-bladed power spear unearthed from the White Nine catacombs in a move that makes even me question whether they should really store the bad guys’ gear in the same place they entomb the villains themselves.

Raveness wears a fetching skin-tight blood-red body stocking, hands bare, feet clad in someone’s black leather fuck-me boots looted from an employee locker. Tragedian wears his ragged cloak and moth-eaten, dust-covered theatre costume, out of storage from when he was interred, and Crescendo as seemingly happy to be back in his reddish costume as he is to be following the Ill Centurion’s orders. I trust him about as much as I trust a Doberman on LSD.

Negator is with us, making this a party of six, but I have just one more little stop to make. A quick phone call behind me, I explain the location to Ill Centurion in a tone that makes it clear I’ll let him play leader provided he sticks to the overall game plan – except for this once.

“Think of it as a little test,” I say to him. “We’re the ones who’ve got to step into your teleportation field. Trust has to cut both ways.”

“Technically, the trust is only one-sided, at present,” the masked maniac calmly replies.

“OK well, fuck, earn my trust in you.”

I can practically hear the Centurion suck his teeth in disdain beneath the helm. A discreet nod is about all I’m gonna get. Negator sidles up next to me with a concerned look. I’m about ready to tell him to take off the mask because his expressions have become disconcertingly transparent to me, secret identities be damned.

“What’s going on?” he hisses.

“Be cool. Stay badass, OK? That’s what we need here.” I look back over my assembled goon squad. “We’re not playing by the rules any more.”

Appeased, Negator nods and backs off and I give the location to Ill Centurion, noting a moment’s hesitation I will take as surprise, then a moment later he taps his spear on the ground and Tchaikorvsky watches as every mite and crumb and follicle of dust the cleaners never reached suddenly levitate into the air as a circle of expanding force caresses our molecules and we are whisked away from the sterile prison’s confines.

THE ROOFTOP IS under attack from an early afternoon breeze. I disengage from Ill Centurion’s space-time warp with the deflating realisation my chance to catch some zees has departed along with the previous night. Day is galloping along like a horse without a rider – a pale horse, I fear.

As the villains break formation, Crescendo sucking in great lungfuls of air, Raveness sniffing the air like the feral escapee she is, Hallory O’Hagan and a guy wearing a tweed jacket and a nervous look come out from hiding behind the rooftop elevator unit. Hallory takes in the famous faces and pauses mid-step, eyes rounding on me, face fetchingly drawn pale, accentuating her already accentuated red hair as she eyeballs me and conveys by feminine telepathy along the ludicrousness of my situation.

“What am I meant to do?” I ask by way of her silent rebuke. Tsk. “You got him?”

“Yeah. He’s just getting changed,” Hallory replies.

“This the egghead?”

Hallory nods. “Your Doc Prendergast didn’t return my calls. I just got this weird buzzing noise from his machine. This is Professor Ben Kingsley. He’s ex-NASA. Should be able to tell you everything you were after.”

Hallory backs away, leaving the jittery-looking professor to brush a hand over his bald dome as he shoots looks at the rogues gallery of uber-bad guys sprung to life. I step in front of him, literally occluding his view so he can focus.

“Appreciate you comin’ up here like this, Prof,” I say. “Did Hallory talk to you at all about. . . ?”

“Yes. Yes,” the scientist says and points, drawing my attention to the moderate-sized tripod-mounted telescope on the far corner of the roof. “It’s angled on the international space station’s general location right now. The visibility could be better for you, but –”

“Na, that’s fine,” I say and turn back to Ill Centurion standing on the spot with the ominous noise of his suit’s respiratory system all deliberately Darth Vader and shit.

“That telescope’ll help you home in on our location,” I tell him.

Centurion nods like it’s just any other day and wanders over that way trailed by Crescendo, all disconcertingly puppy-like and whatnot.

Walking back, I nod to the egg-head, basically dismissing him unless this plan has more wrinkles than I can imagine, and I find Hallory trying to cheer up my boy around the side of the fire escape.

“Are you sure about this, Zephyr?” Hallory asks.

She steps back to reveal the Pal-mart Punisher.

“I SAID I was going to get you some publicity and tell me, hon, if this isn’t better than some fitted up street combat with me pretending to be El Diablo or something.”

“El Diablo. That’s the name you chose?” Hallory asks.

“Um . . . no comment.”

I turn to the kid, a respectably six-four slab of muscle in the most atrociously designed costume you’ve ever seen. Bandoliers criss-cross his chest and Pal-mart logos adorn his biceps. A mask not unlike the type you’d normally see on a sex offender covers his face, and given he’s hyperventilating at the moment, it’s not a good look and probably not great for his health either.

“Hey buddy. How’re we doing?” I ask.

“I don’t know about this, Mr Zephyr,” he says. Australian accent.

“Seriously, drop the ‘mister’, OK?”

“I don’t think I’m up to this,” the Predator, er, Punisher says.

“I don’t know how you thought this was going to go when you signed the consent form and took Pal-mart’s moulah, pal, but the time is nigh. Get your shit together because we’re rolling out of here before these devils know we’re coming.”

“I didn’t sign up to be going on any missions with . . . supervillains.”

“Jesus, man. They’re people too.”

“They’re bad guys!”

“At least they’re not fucking sell-outs. What happened to you?”

The young guy stammers, then pulls off his mask to reveal one of those tawny-haired, ridiculously handsome faces guys who end up with super powers so often have – at least in the comic books or after a few rounds of Photoshop.

Fucking Australians.

“I can’t do this,” he says, starting to blubber.

I look at the young guy long and hard. He’s maybe 25, bigger and better looking than me, but right now I know he’s just a kid still. I know what he needs – and I know I’m not it.

“You can do this,” I answer him softly.

“I can’t. I can’t. I gave up before because my girlfriend –”

“You are going to do this. Should I get Tragedian over here to explain it to you?”

The Punisher gulps. Looks at me. Slowly puts the mask back on. I nod approvingly, about as close to a father figure as this poor prick’s going to get today.

“What’s with the bandoliers? You don’t have a gun.”

“I . . . have no idea,” he says.

“You raised that already?”

“I did.”

“OK. Let’s go.”

And practically leading him by the arm, I nod to Hallory and Prof Kingsley and we move back across the rooftop and to the villains waiting to come into my huddle.

Zephyr 14.13 “Rogues Gallery” is a post from: Zephyr - a webcomic in prose