Ten year-old Cassie Lang cowered on the floor beneath the gaze of a cosmic being named Plasma. Scattered around Cassie's bruised form were five unconscious collie puppies, each of them with three heads.

"You... you're his child. The spawn of Aeon," Plasma breathed. The herald's body was vaguely feminine, and made up of a blue-gray liquid substance, and now Cassie saw teeth bare behind those liquid lips, the herald's liquid hands clenching into fists.

There was an intense flash of light, and Cassie threw her arms up over her head, sure that she was dead. There was a crashing sound from somewhere above her, grunting, as of somebody struggling. After a few seconds of this, it became clear to her that she had somehow survived. She opened her eyes.

Plasma was trapped in a crimson bubble of light, pounding on the inner surface impotently and probably shouting bad words too. Not that Cassie could hear them. No sound was getting thru the bubble, which looked curiously like an oval gem.

Standing next to her was a young red-haired man, probably in his mid-twenties, a sprig of hair on the point of his chin. He wore blue jeans and a black jacket with a stylized 'C' patch on one shoulder.

"Looks like I got here just in the nick of time," the newcomer said, hooking a thumb at the jewel trapping Plasma. "Good thing she's still a little weak, or I wouldn't have been able to trap her so quickly."

"Who--who are you?" Cassie ventured. Around her, the Cerberus puppies were slowly coming to their senses.

"Oh, sorry." The red-haired man laughed self-consciously and put out a hand to help her up. After a moment's hesitation, Cassie took it. "My name's Greg Wallander. I'm from the future. And I'm looking for

"HA. HA. HA," the 50 foot-tall Mecha-Bozo chortled as it stomped the Arizona State Fair's rodeo tent flat. Bonita Juarez, aka Firebird, hovered nearby, struck dumb by the sight.

Below her, the mad doctors, Bousquet and Plexico, cheered and whistled. "Did you see that look on her face, Dr. Plexico? That was worth all our work right there!"

"I wish I'd had a camera," Plexico agreed. Then, realizing he did have one, he turned to the camera newsman they'd hijacked earlier in the day. "Did you get the look on her face?" Plexico demanded.

"I -- I was filming the 50-foot tall robot clown... sirs. I thought... maybe that's what you wanted." Derrick the cameraman gulped audibly.

"You're right." Dr. Bousquet considered for a moment. "Okay, look, we'll let you off the hook this once. But it's all about the heroes, got it? We want to see the Mecha-Bozo too, of course, but your focus should be on the heroes -- the looks on their faces when we surprise them, the way their bodies contort when they get hit, the sounds they make when our constructs tear them limb from limb. Things like that. Got it?"

"Zounds!" Hercules exclaimed as Mecha-Bozo began to slowly plod across the Fairgrounds, wreaking destruction wherever his feet came down. Along with Cerberus and Guinea Pig, the son of Zeus had only just arrived, and the sight of the 50-foot robot clown had stopped his headlong charge dead.

Cerberus, however, wasn't inclined to wait around. With a growl from all three of his throats, the hellhound leapt forward, making a bee-line for Mecha-Bozo's right ankle.

"Verily," Hercules pronounced, "'Tis a challenge worthy of the Lion of Olympus! Prepare, festive one! Prepare to receive the Gift!"

And with that, he charged the robot, one fist cocked back, leaving Guinea Pig to wonder what in the world he could do against the behemoth.

"Moooonnnnnn dddiiiieeeuuuu," he heard from above, and looked up just in time to see Batroc the Leaper go flying off the robot's elbow. The Leaper arced gently overhead before smashing into and through the roof on the Hall of Mirrors.

Firebird spun in mid-air, the civilians she'd been herding out of the behemoth's path temporarily forgotten as her teammate flew through the air. No way she could reach him in time, not from here.

She reached out with her power, exciting the air molecules above the Hall of Mirrors, creating a stiff updraft just before Batroc smashed into it. Hopefully that had slowed him enough to prevent him getting killed.

There was an enormous CRACK from nearby, and she turned in time to see the Mecha-Bozo's swinging elbow -- the same one that had just dislodged Batroc -- knocking over the Ferris wheel. The ride had been emptied long ago, but the entire structure began to topple onto some of the civilians Firebird had been herding moments earlier.

The wheel stopped, tilting threateningly at a forty-five degree angle above the fleeing fair goers. Bonita didn't understand at first, but then she caught sight of the bearded man standing below, his hands gripping the ride's metal spokes and his shoulders bearing the weight.

"Fear not, Fair Bonita! The Son of Zeus shall not let these mortals come to harm!"

"Thank God," Bonita muttered, turning back toward the Mecha-Bozo. She had no idea where the Black Widow was -- or Flash either, for that matter -- and that seemed to leave her in charge. Unfortunately, she hadn't a clue what to do.

The Black Widow flung herself up the fire escape and onto the roof. Moments ago, she'd faced a man claiming to be her dead husband in his seedy hotel room, and now the imposter

She caught sight of him, sprinting to the other side of the roof. He was wearing the scarlet pants of the Red Guardian costume, and carrying the tunic and mask wadded up in one hand. When he'd shimmied through the hotel window, he'd been wearing only a towel. Whoever he was, he knew how to get dressed on the fly.

She set off after him, firing a warning shot from her widow's bite that sliced past on his left.

<"You'll have to do better than that, wife!">* he cackled, then dropped over the far edge of the roof.

Natasha followed, and reached the edge just in time to see him snag a power cable that stretched between the building she was standing on and the next. The cable snapped with a shower of sparks, and the Red Guardian swung toward the street on it.

The Red Guardian hit the pavement right in the middle of Phoenix's 5th Avenue. A Buick convertible laid on its horn and swerved out of the way as the Russian man rolled with the momentum of his swing and sprang back to his feet. He'd managed to get the shirt on while he was rolling, but left the mask hanging loosely at his back as he darted back to the Buick, seized the cursing driver by the collar of his shirt, and yanked him out onto the street.

Natasha let herself freefall for five stories before shooting a grappling line from one of the golden bracelets on her wrists. She swung downward, planning her landing carefully, hit the pavement, rolled, and shot back to her feet right behind the Buick just as the Red Guardian stomped on the gas. Leaping, she just managed to catch the convertible's back seat as it roared down the avenue.

<"If only you'd shown this much determination to see me during the years I was recovering from my injuries, Natalia!">

The Widow ignored him, concentrating instead on holding on. Her wrists were positioned so that she might be able to shoot him with a widow's bite without releasing her tenuous grip on the seat, but...

Her thoughts were interrupted as the Guardian whipped around in his seat and pointed a Ruger at her. She had no time to wonder where the gun had come from, whether it had been wrapped up in his shirt when he'd leapt off the building, because in the next moment, he fired.

But Natasha was already moving out of the way, releasing her hold with her right hand and rolling to the left, her left wrist groaning in agony at the mistreatment. The bullet plowed through the air so close she felt the wind of its passage near the tip of her nose.

Not bothering to aim, she fired her widow's bite with the hand that was still attached to the back seat. The leather upholstery of the driver's seat absorbed the shot, but it did force her opponent to take cover for a moment.

She knew it was the last chance she was going to get. Rolling back onto her stomach while the Guardian swerved the car madly through traffic, Natasha took aim with her right bracelet and fired.

Her widow's line arrowed between the front seats, burying its mini-grapple in the Buick's stereo. There was an explosion of sparks from the console, and the Guardian cursed, losing control of the Buick as it cut across three lanes of traffic and roared up onto the sidewalk.

Hauling herself up hand over hand, the reeling feature in her widow's line helping her along, Natasha managed to climb up into the back seat. When the Guardian came around with the Ruger again, she grabbed his wrist and turned it, making him drop the weapon with a howl.

"Who are you?" Natasha demanded, the widow's bite aimed at the Guardian's face. "Why are you doing this?"

<"I've told you, Natalia."> the Red Guardian said. <"I am your husband!"> And then he plowed the Buick through the front window of a department store. Natasha was flung from the backseat, and the last thing she remembered before darkness took her was the Red Guardian's mocking laughter.

"We should have thought of this ages ago!" Dr. Bousquet crowed as he watched Mecha-Bozo punt Cerberus through a ride called the Zipper. "Robots are so versatile, none of those pesky implant rejection issues you get with animals, and they're much easier to control!"

"Not to mention they're often much more aesthetically pleasing," Dr. Plexico agreed. "You can make them look however you want."

The doctors turned and looked in astonishment at the cameraman, who had never talked except when directly spoken to before this point.

Derrick the cameraman licked his suddenly dry lips. "I mean, look at your other creations... the Monkey-noids--"

"-- the Platypusinator, the Beaver Grendel.* Maybe they couldn't merge into one giant cyborg, but they each had personality, y'know. They were--" Derrick paused, considered his options, figured he was probably pretty much dead anyway, and pressed on. "They were more interesting than a giant robot clown."

The doctors stared in open-mouthed awe at Derrick's audacity for a moment. Then, without a word, Dr. Bousquet raised his gun.**

(* See various early issues of Champions -- Russ)
(** Remember how he ordered that clown to go find it for him last issue? Well, it happened off-camera -- Reaching-for-it Russ)

Plexico grabbed his arm. "Wait a moment, Bousquet. I think this camera goon may be onto something. He's got a valid outsider's viewpoint that I think could be valuable." He turned to look at Derrick. "Have you ever considered a job in mad science?"

"Well, that could be a problem," Plexico agreed. He considered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "I know... you could be a mad cameraman! The first villain to use his camera skills for the advancement of evil and the destruction of all that's good!"

"And think of the possibilities this could open up!" Plexico cried, obviously warming up to the idea. "Why... every profession could spawn an evil practitioner. Pretty soon, we'd have mad plumbers and mad system administrators!"

Derrick crumpled to the ground, while Bousquet tucked the gun back into his labcoat and stooped over to pick up the camera. "You'll thank me for that later," he told the stunned Plexico.

"Wha -- bu--" Plexico sighed and deflated just a bit. "Ah... you're probably right. It's not like our previous attempts to make our duo a trio have worked out."

"Come on then," Bousquet said, smiling with new energy as he hoisted the camera onto his shoulder. "We're missing the show."

Finally, the bystanders were clear. Guinea Pig was ushering the last of them to safety while Hercules was trying to minimize the robot's collateral damage. Cerberus had been kicked halfway across the park. Batroc was out of commission, and the Flash and Black Widow hadn't arrived yet.

Which left Firebird hovering all alone in the behemoth's path as it stomped down the midway.

"HA. HA. HA," it bellowed, crushing a corn dog stand with one over-sized shoe. Firebird focused in on the clown's head, reminded herself it was just a robot, and sent a wall of flame charging down the midway at it.

The clown met the flame head-on, turning its face at the impact. Bonita held the flame on the monster, allowing its combusting clothing to feed her own power. The robot thrashed around for a few moments, and then paused as a very loud DING sounded from somewhere inside of it.

Still burning, the robot reached toward the paisley front of its costume, and peeled the burning cloth back. Inside its chest was what looked like the inside of an oven, and sitting on a rack in its center was a cream pie the size of a Volkswagen. Before Bonita could finish processing this information, the rack flipped and shot forward, sending the pie flying straight at her.

She never had a chance. The cream pie swatted her out of the sky and sent her careening downward into the petting zoo. She and a hillock of sugary goo hit the ground with a plop, and Bonita lay very still.

"HA. HA. HA," Mecha-Bozo gloated, the flames across its form guttering out without Bonita to keep them going. It continued stomping across the grounds, its obvious goal the fair's front gates and the metropolis that lay ripe for the pillaging beyond it.

The first thing Barry Allen saw when he came back to his senses was the face of a young man in a fur-covered mask.

Barry shook his head and sat up. He was half-buried in the remains of a ring-toss booth, and there was quite a bit of commotion coming from nearby. He put his hand to his aching head.

"Flash," Guinea Pig said next to him, "we really need your help out there, none of us can fight that thing."

"Fight what thing?" Barry turned in the direction of the commotion, and saw the answer to his question before Guinea Pig could point it out. In the distance, Mecha-Bozo towered over the remains of the fair, its booming laughter setting Barry's teeth on edge.

"Where are the others?" he said, getting shakily to his feet. That clown with the water bottle had really knocked him for a loop.* Good thing for him it hadn't been a real gun.

"Mr. Hercules is trying to contain the damage; Mr. Batroc is in the hall of mirrors, I think he's hurt pretty bad; Cerberus got thrown somewhere over there" -- he pointed vaguely in the opposite direction of the giant robot -- "and Firebird just got taken out by a giant cream pie."

Considering the mad doctors were behind this, that last statement didn't even make Barry blink. His first instinct was to go find Bonita, but he couldn't allow himself that luxury just now. "The Widow?"

Barry considered the plodding clown for a moment, his brain working at super-speed, and then he nodded. "Alright. Go find Herc and Cerberus and tell them both to standby for instructions. When you're done with that, make sure Batroc and Bonita are alright."

The Black Widow awoke amid the remains of a blue jean display, entangled with a vacant-eyed mannequin. Remembering suddenly how she'd got there, she sprang to her feet, watched the room do a sudden pirouette around her, and then toppled back into the pile of clothing.

"Careful, ma'am," a voice said, and a young police officer moved into her line of vision. "You took a pretty nasty tumble. It's a good thing for you these Levi's were here to break your fall."

"Lucky me," Natasha agreed, feeling anything but lucky. "What about the other man in the car? Did he get thrown too?"

The policeman looked uncomfortable for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, then he shook his head. "Well... he seems to have gotten away, ma'am. There were so many conflicting reports from eyewitnesses, were weren't even sure there really was someone else in the car with you until you just confirmed it."

Natasha felt her blood run cold at that. He'd gotten away. Again. And now she might never know what this had been all about.

With that black thought came an accompanying darkness of unconsciousness, and the Black Widow plunged gratefully into it.

It took half a minute to find two sufficient lengths of chain, and ten seconds later, Barry Allen was rocketing toward Mecha-Bozo's feet.

While he was waiting for Hercules and Cerberus to get into position, he made a quick sidetrip to the petting zoo. Bonita was conscious, though just barely, and just now beginning to pull herself out of the pie filling she'd landed in. Barry didn't stop to let her know he was checking on her.

Hercules was in position, and Cerberus was on his way. Barry gave Herc his instructions, along with one end of a length of chain. Then the Flash turned and headed back towards Mecha-Bozo.

"Ooh, here it comes," Dr. Bousquet said, zooming the camera in on the Mecha-Bozo as it reached the massive wall surrounding the fairgrounds. Beside the camera, Dr. Plexico rubbed his hands together and cackled with glee.

The Flash zipped up to the robot and, without stopping, ran straight up the side of its leg and up its torso. When he reached the clown's shoulder, he began vibrating at a rate that effectively made him immaterial, and then he ran right through its skull, dragging the other end of the chain he'd given to Hercules along with him.

When he'd passed to the other side, he released the chain, letting it become solid inside the clown's head. The robot lurched at this unexpected attack, then shook its head and steadied. The fact that it had a length of metal through its face wasn't going to stop it from knocking down that wall, but it was momentarily confused, uncertain.

Barry, meanwhile, pumped his legs at superspeed, creating a cushion of air beneath him as he dropped to the ground.

"Now, friend Barry?" Hercules trumpeted, holding onto the chain that was stuck in the Mecha-Bozo.

"One more second," Barry called back, and then he shot towards Cerberus, who was just arriving with Guinea Pig riding on his back. Barry held out one end of the second chain, waited for the dog to seize it with all three heads, and then ran back toward the robot.

Running up its leg again, he vibrated through it one more time, this time through the center of mass in the torso, and left Cerberus' chain imbedded there.

"Bad form! Bad form!" Bousquet cried, though he was too far away for any of the Champions to hear.

With Cerberus holding the robot in place, Hercules curled his chain once around his fist, steadied his feet, and yanked sharply.

Mecha-Bozo's head popped off like a cork. Still laughing menacingly, it flew gently through the air and landed in the arms of the Prince of Power.

"Away with thee, varlet!" Hercules said, spinning the painted head in his grip so it couldn't bite his arms off. Then he pulled back and pitched the head back at its tottering, confused body.

The missile punched a ragged hole through the clown's body, and landed neatly in the jaws of Cerberus, who proceeded to tear it to pieces with his three jaws. Beside him, the Mecha-Bozo's body crashed over onto its back.

"And now, mirthful one..." Hercules proclaimed, climbing up onto its sternum, "... the Gift!"

He brought both fists down on the robot, and the Mecha-Bozo seemed to explode in all directions, its remaining parts transforming back into their smaller clown forms before falling in a hail of red hair tufts and face paint.

"Oooh... they found it!" Dr. Bousquet pouted, dropping the camera to the hard-packed dirt with a crunch.

"That Flash person must have done it while we weren't looking," Plexico said, kicking sulkily at the ground with one foot. "We did mark the emergency release that turned the Mecha-Bozo back into its component parts with a big red button, after all."

Bousquet sighed and shrugged philosophically. "If only the rules about such things weren't so strict..."

"Article 37, paragraph C of the Mad Scientist's Handbook of Deviltry and Destruction (copyright, 1952): 'Leave a self-destruct or deactivation device out where the hero can find it with little effort'."

Bousquet brightened. "Why, yes. I've got some marvelous ideas for that 'killer tomato' thing the Flash-guy mentioned.* Can't wait to--"

The doctors turned, looked up, and shrieked in horror as a pudgy teenager in a fur-covered guinea pig suit leapt down on them from atop a ride control booth. The teenager let out a triumphant roar as he descended, and his cheeks flared out to impossible proportions. Bousquet and Plexico reached for each other, but it was far too late. Guinea Pig, the Expandable Cheeks Warrior, engulfed them.

"Verily, friend Guinea Pig! Yours was the role best played!" Guinea Pig stumbled as Hercules pounded him heartily on the back.

Several yards away, police officers were loading the mad doctors into a waiting van. "We would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn't for that pesky kid!" Plexico shouted just before the van door slammed on his foot. He cursed something loud and imaginative, but the door slammed shut before the Champions could hear all of it.

A crimson-yellow blur solidified into the Flash and Firebird. Barry was carrying Bonita, who still seemed a little dazed as the Flash set her down. She had to put out a hand to steady herself against Barry's shoulder, but then stubbornly stood upright on her own.

Guinea Pig's self-satisfied grin fell away and his eyes went wide. "Ohmigosh... he never came out of the Hall of Mirrors! I'll--"

But Barry was already gone, zipping back toward the wrecked funhouse and searching it in the time it took Guinea Pig to finish his sentence.

"He's gone," Barry said, reappearing at Bonita's arm. "I can see where he came through the roof, but as far as I can tell, he just got up and walked away. Stay here for a second and I'll--"

"Barry," Bonita cut in, putting her hand on his arm, "wait. I... don't think you should."

"I think he's embarrassed, Barry. And ashamed. He was drunk when he showed up here and he said... some things to me after I saved him from one of the smaller clowns. I think we should give him some time to himself."

"Nay, lad," Hercules responded, laying a hand on the teen's shoulder. "Rarely do I find myself in agreement with fair Bonita, but this be one of those times. Batroc possesses a true warrior's heart. We must allow him space to consider his recent troubles."

Guinea Pig was unconvinced, but the others all seemed to be agreeing with Bonita. He sighed and backed down.

"Let's go home," Barry said finally. "Batroc knows where to find us when he's ready."

As the Champions left the fairgrounds -- the Flash disappearing in a blur, Firebird taking to the air, and the other three beginning the long trek back to the Black Widow's Fiat -- Batroc the Leaper watched them from the interior shadows of a snack stand.

They were good people, all. Even the teenager had a true heart to belie his silly powers.

"And Georgez Batroc eez left to wonder eef he belongz among zem any longair," he muttered. First he had been defeated by the Toad,* and then he had fallen easily to that insane construct. What next? Would the Living Eraser, perhaps, come to town to finish the Leaper off? The Ringer? Humbug?

How had he fallen so far, so fast? He had battled Captain America to a standstill several times. Captain America. And now he had become little more than a brightly-garbed punching bag for the most ridiculous of opponents.

How could he face the world in this condition? How could he stand tall, proclaiming "I am Batroc ze Leapair!" in his most strident voice?

The Leaper descended from the cart and set off in the general direction of the west gate. Perhaps there would be a place nearby where he could drink until he forgot who he was supposed to be. At this point, it was the only way Batroc could imagine himself happy.

Cassie gave the red-headed stranger an 'eeeww' look as she handed him a can of Pepsi, and he laughed. "Don't worry about it. When your Champions returned from their time jaunt,* they pretty much negated any chance of your world turning into mine. Your future boyfriends are completely up in the air."

"Give it another year or two, you'll change your tune." Greg Wallander popped open his soda and took a slug. "You know, your future self is the reason I'm sporting this red hair and chin-weeds now. She said she likes this look."

Before Cassie could offer her 10 year-old self's opinion on it, the front door opened, and Greg sprang to his feet beside her. "You think that's them?"

"Cassie?" A familiar, concerned voice drifted in from the foyer -- obviously the new arrival had seen the mess Plasma had made of the entry area. A moment later, Firebird, accompanied by the Flash, Hercules, Guinea Pig, and Cerberus, strode into the livingroom. The Flash looked at Greg, looked at the herald trapped in the energy-jewel on the other side of the room, looked at Greg again, moved forward with his hand out.

The gathered Champions turned and looked uncertainly at the hunched, almost gasping form of the Black Widow. Natasha stood in the archway between the entry foyer and the livingroom, a storm brewing behind her eyes.

Hercules cleared his throat and chuckled nervously. "Er... fair Natasha, the Lion of Olympus must admit that perhaps thou were correct in suggesting he seek an instructor in--"

"You know what... never mind, forget it." Natasha stomped into the room, waving a dismissive hand in Hercules' direction. "I don't have time to deal with this. Firebird, where's Batroc?"

Natasha nodded. "Okay, we'll make do with what we've got. We're going to canvass the city, Champions. We're looking for a dangerous man by the name of--"

The crowd of heroes parted, and Natasha immediately recognized the young man wearing the leather jacket.

Greg nodded. "It's the Shaping, Widow. Just like Aeon foretold. You guys are needed." He looked meaningfully at 10 year-old Cassie Lang. "All of you."

"What?" the Flash demanded. "No, Greg. No. Even if we had time to deal with this right now, there's no way. Cassie stays here."

"With who?" Cassie snapped, startling everybody. "You always run off and leave me all alone in this house! But where would I be more safe than with you guys?"

"This is about my dad, I know it." She snapped a look at Greg. "I want to see him."

"Honey, it's not that easy," Bonita pressed. "Scott isn't... how you remember him."

"Maybe not, but she's right," the Flash said. "It makes more sense to keep her with us than to just leave her here."

Everyone stopped and looked at the Black Widow, their eyes wide at her outburst.

"Ma'am," Greg Wallander said softly after a moment of silence, "this is bigger than you think. We're talking the fate of a universe here. Her universe." He pointed at the floating jewel still holding Plasma. "Maybe a couple others. Maybe this one."

That did the trick. Natasha's accusatory glare dropped from Greg Wallander's face and found the floor. "You're -- you're right. I'm sorry. I've had a hell of a day."

"Wait a minute," Firebird said as Greg withdrew a tiny white wafer from his jacket pocket. "That time travel thing isn't going to steal our clothes again, is it?"*

"I left a note for Batroc... Oh! One more thing!" Cassie ran from the room, returning a moment later with a stylized silver helmet under one thin arm. The helmet her father had worn as the second Ant-Man.

Greg slipped his thumbnail into the wafer's activation slot, and all of them vanished into the timestream.

The man known as Mondo Kane peered into the mirror, watching the stars in his own eyes as they swirled through their milky orbs.

Mondo was an anarchist. A believer in entropy and the inalienable right of every human being to do whatever the hell they wanted, whenever the hell they wanted. To prove his point on this matter, he'd used the cosmic awareness granted to him by the stars in his eyes to kill a lot of people and injure even more. He had fought an interim group of Champions to a standstill, though he possessed no physical meta-abilities. The stars made it easy.

"Wondering when you'd get here," the black man said, turning to face his visitor. Draped in the evening shadows of the filthy apartment (Mondo was squatting in this rathole, and so had no electricity), another man stood concealed by a blood-red robe and a cloak pulled down over his face.

"Every possible future I see tells me you'd just whoop my ass and drag me along anyway. Come on, Lang. Let's do it."

Nodding, the man once known as Scott Lang, and now wearing the mantle of Aeon, made a discrete gesture, one hand darting quickly out of and back into his robes. And then the apartment was empty, nothing remaining to note the passing of the two demigods who had occupied it a moment before.

NEXT: This is the big'un, folks. "Aeon Flux" kicks off, and the build-up to this title's 50th issue begins! Be there!

BEWARE

OF

DOG

Expect the next 3 issues to be a little longer than usual, as this one was.

One letter this month (you guys must have thought I was spoiled after all those letters last month... and you were right :-), from Champions guest-star Derrick Ferguson, posted to the MV1Talk list.

You just have to sit back and wonder how Russ does it.

Amphetamines, mostly. That's my secret.

Funny is hard enough. Being funny on a consistent basis is harder. But Russ Anderson manages to do it every time in CHAMPIONS and not only does he manage to be gut-bustingly funny as hell, he can jump from comedy into a scene full of serious drama such as the Black Widow/Red Guardian confrontation and then jump RIGHT BACK into the comedy without mising a beat or fumbling a line.

I'm glad the flip-flop of styles works for you, as it's always been a point of concern with me. I've always been more comofortable with the straight-ahead action, whereas I have to work for the humor.

Even the letter column is a superior example of what fan fiction should be. No meaningless 'YOU ROCK' or 'YOU SUCK' here. Instead, there are a sizable number of well written and wonderfully clear headed comments and thoughts.

That's because Champions readers are the most intelligent, well-spoken readers in fan fiction. :-) (yes, even you, James Hickson)

CHAMPIONS is good stuff all the way around. I like reading ever new issue. It puts a smile on my face and there's not a lot of series out there that I can say that about.

Derrick Ferguson

Thanks, Derrick.

Derrick's own balls-to-the-wall action work can be found in the pages of Justice Squadron at DC Legends, and in his original work, Dillon & the Voice of Odin at Frontier Publications. Go read 'em, then write Derrick and ask him why he isn't doing a Master of Kung-Fu series for MV1...

- Russ Anderson
15 December, 2001