“I’d like to thank you for coming down here.”

	Ten individuals, most nondescript, but a few with differences obvious even to a casual observer, sat in a large meeting room. They were there on the request of the man who had been speaking, one John Mendolsson. His white skin and blazing red eyes marked him as an albino, but the Energy X coursing through his system had given him a vitality that others with his affliction lacked. In addition, his wealth funded the Mendolsson Memorial Hostel for Displaced Metahumans, the edifice in which they all now sat.

	“Some of you may have heard scattered rumors about what happened last night. All I will say is that we encountered a metahuman, who seems to have done something sinister to my brother.” He paused, to convince himself of the half truth he had just uttered. “Calvin, Brian, and I fought him, but he escaped.

	“Therefore, I’d like to ask all of you to help me, here. This entity seemed to have some sort of grudge against me, and may attack me wherever I may be. So, I have two choices. I can close this hostel down, or I can organize it to defend itself, if need be.”

	Calvin, nursing bruised rips, raised his hand rather painfully at this point. At a nod from John, he lowered his hand. “So, does that mean we’re gonna make a team like Freedom Force?”

	Another man piped up. “An’ what about us what don’ got no real powers, jus’ stupid ones?” As if to prove his point, he extended his prehensile nose, and idly scratched his eyebrow with it, then returned it to a normal size and position.

	John sighed. “For right now, this ‘team’ will exist only to defend the Hostel and its inhabitants in case of emergency. And Cyrano,” he continued, referring to the man by the only name he had given them, “this ‘team’ will be on a strictly volunteer basis.”

	A woman slowly raised her hand. “Will you guys be wearing the spandex and using those names, too?”

	John rolled his eyes. “I, for one, will never wear spandex.”

	“But you gotta have the code-names,” insisted the woman. Many voices, mostly the inhabitants with minor or useless powers, raised in assent. Calvin and Brian, however, looked ready to fold into themselves, and John closed his eyes, and sighed.

	“Alright. For the sake of the morale of the Hostel, any volunteer will also get to choose their... ugh... superhero name.” He looked out on the crowd. “Anything else before I ask for volunteers?”

	“Yeah,” said an older man, puffing on his cigar. “What’s your name gonna be?” He then exhaled the smoke, blowing smoke rings... out of his ears.

	As a deafening series of suggestions roared out from every throat, John raised his hands to try and quiet people down. Eventually, the noise subsided into a dull murmer. “I’ll do it this way. I’ll ask for three suggestions, then decide the one I like best.”

	“What are your powers?” asked Rache, the gorgeous desk clerk.

	Brian stood up at this. “Go ahead, boss, show ‘em,” he said, and pointed at his massive chest. 

	“Are you sure?” At a nod from the titan, he held out one hand, and fired off a low-powered version of his silver energy blast. Brian rocked back slightly, but didn’t even take a half step back. A chorus of “ooh” and “ahh”, almost choreographed, escaped the throats of those gathered who had not yet seen his abilities. Then, immediately, more suggestions roared forth, to his consternation.

	“RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWRRR!!!” The almost palpable concussion of Calvin’s roar accomplished his intent - it shut everyone up quite rapidly. “Now that you’ve all stopped, how about you raise your hand, instead?” he asked, raising his own hand. Chastened, several hands immediately popped into the air after his. John nodded to him first, however. “Since the guy we fought last night was calling himself ‘Black Blade, or sommat like that, an’ considering how that blast of yours looks, why not ‘Silverlance’ ?”

	A few people put their hands down at this, nodding to themselves. John then pointed to an older woman, whose upper torso was currently rotated roughly three quarters of a circle away from front. “How about...” she began, then suddenly spun to face forward, “Shaft?”

	A third person was recognized, Anthony, who had the ability to control the length of his hair. “How about Blaster?” he asked.

	“Okay, that’s three,” John said. “Tell you what, you guys raise your hand if you like one of the names. Blaster?” Looking around, he noted that Anthony and one other person raised their hands. “Shaft?” Three people raised their hands. “And Silverlance?” The bulk of the rest raised their hands. “Okay. Then Silverlance it is. I think that’s all we need to do for the meeting. If you want to volunteer for the security team, just stick around. The rest can go, I think it’s almost time for Bandstand.”

	As expected, Calvin and brian stayed behind as the rest filed out of the room. Unexpectedly, however, Anthony stayed behind, his eyes on Rache as she sashayed out the door. He stepped up to John, saying, “I wanna join the detail.”

	The albino looked at him, noting that the man met his gaze unflinchingly. “Anthony, your powers aren’t really much use if a fight were to break out. Are you sure you want to do this?”

	He nodded. “See here’s what I’m thinking. You’ve got the firepower, Calvin has some muscle, those senses, and those claws, and Brian’s a walking tank. But I got somethin’ of my own.” He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a weathered piece of paper. “A US form DD-214. I served eight years in the US Marine Corps, and did Recon duty back in Korea, right when I first signed up. I’ve been out about five years, but I still got what it takes to help this team, in one way or another, even if it’s just giving y’all some combat training.”

	“Hey, that could be handy!” exclaimed Calvin. “So whatcha gonna call yourself?”

	Anthony grinned. “Why not ‘Jarhead’? I was proud to be a Marine. And I take that name as a badge of pride, not an insult.”

	Brian laughed. “Sounds good to me, Jarhead. What about you, kitty cat? Gonna go by Snowball? Or Cuddles?”

	The feline metahuman growled, and started to drop somewhat into a crouch, but stopped when he felt a twinge of pain. “Nah, I was thinking, why not call myself somethin’ based on what I look like? I look like a two-legged black tiger, so why not ‘Black Tiger’?”

	“Sounds good to me, Cal...err, Black Tiger,” chuckled John. “And what about you, Brian? Tank? Powerhouse? Muscleman?”

	The huge man paused, and ran one hand through his shock of red hair. “Nah. See, I bet there’s other guys as big and strong as me, and they might want to use those names. But I got something I bet they don’t. I don’t know if you guys noticed, but my hands glow a little when I pick something up. And things I shouldn’t be able to lift, because of leverage, I can still pick up. So, I thought, why not ‘Hauler’?”

	“Then it’s settled. But no team name. Not unless we have to have one. Then stall until we can actually sit around and decide on what to be called.” John stretched, his back a little stiff from sitting down so long. “Anthony, or Jarhead, I’m feeling a need to put this new vitality of mine to work. Care to begin the training sessions down in the gym?”

*************************************************

	The next few days saw the members of the security team put through a grueling workout. Every day, they pushed themselves beyond their limits. Since no weight room existed that could even test Brian’s enourmous strength, he was given a series of isometric excercises to perform, as the others were struggling through rounds of weight training, pitting his own muscles against each other. Then, came the first day of actual basic combat training. On that day, Anthony managed to actually toss the one-ton Brian into a wall by dodging a massive punch, then proving the titan was off balance by adding just a little more momentum to his wrist with a simple Judo grip. At that moment, nobody doubted his place on the team any more. 

	Allison, the woman whose torso could rotate a full circle, was a former seamstress. She convinced John to let her and Rache use the Hostel checkbook, and go shopping for fabric one day, then barricaded herself in her room. All that could be heard for two days was the sound of a sewing machine, and occasionally a matronly chuckle.

	On the third day, just as Jarhead had grudgingly decided that the other three were now “passable”, Allison emerged from her room with four bundles. She passed out one to each member, and grinned. 

	“Well?” asked Anthony.

	“Go, scoot, put thim on, silly!” she said. “I’ll get the others.”

	Groaning, and unsure of what to expect, they trudged off to their rooms. When they got back, the remainder of the Hostel had been gathered, which included two new arrivals from the previous weeks. A couple of the ladies wolf whistled, and several of the men burst out laughing when Black Tiger and jarhead came out in their spandex.

	Anthony was decked out in an olive green jumpsuit and cowl, with brown gloves and boots. On his chest, in crimson and gold, was the emblem of the United States Marine Corps. It was also repeated on his forehead. “I feel ridiculous,” he muttered.

	“Oh, yeah, think how I feel,” muttered Calvin. His suit was a simple body stocking with boots, colored a medium grey, with stylized tiger stripes on it. “It’s almost like wearin’ nothin’ but my fur. And is almost the same color, too.”

	Allison pursed her lips. “Calvin, why aren’t you wearing your mask?”

	“Why would I?” he asked. “Just how many human-like black tigers are walking around nowadays anyway? My father’s in jail for murdering my mother, and I’m John’s legal ward now. It’s not like I have a secret identity to protect or anything.”

	“He has a point,” piped in Anthony.

	“Humph. And it was a pretty one, too,” she complained. Then she paused, recognizing the shaking floor as evidnce of Brian’s approach. He was wearing tight green trousersand brown boots,with thick leather cufs wrapped tightly around his calved, and a thich leather belt. however, his upper torso was bare.

	“Sorry, Allison, but the shirt was a little too small. It ripped when I bent over to put on the boots.” He shrugged. “I think you might have gotten my measurements a little wrong when you made me the regular clothes when I first got here.”

	“Oh, that’s okay. I have an idea for some leather chest straps and bracers, anyway, for that ‘Hercules’ look, like Steve Reeves,” she said. “And where is our dear Silverlance?”

	“Right here,” came a voice from down the hall. He was not wearing a typical superhero costume, but his outfit was definitely not one that would normally found on the streets. He wore slightly baggy leather pants, cuffed “cavalier” style black boots polished to a high sheen, and a white Errol Flynn - styled “swashbuckler” shirt that laced from the neck down for six inches. “Bless you, you remembered that I refuse to wear Spandex.”

	Calvin looked at the albino, then over at Brian, then raced back into his room, the door slamming shut. Ripping sounds could be heard, followed by other noises. Eventually, he came back out. He was now wearing the remnants of the costume as a sleeveless tee-shirt, on top of black pants and boots, and under his long black trenchcoat. “Yannow, I think this is more my kinda look.”

	Allison’s face was white with shock, at the tattered remnants of her beautiful costume she had made. She then turned and wandered back to her room, but stopped before she got to the door. When she turned back around, there was a glint in her eyes, and a grin so broad it threatened to crack her face in half. “THAT’S IT!” She cackled a bit, then dove into her room. The sewing machine was heard again, and Calvin simply shuddered.

	Rache, the desk clerk, walked up to Anthony. Those present rapidly noticed the signs of a soon to come total lockup on Anthony’s part, as his nervous scowl and obvious embarrassment of being in the spandex rapidly turned to a goofy grin, with his chest puffed out, and his eyes slightly unfocused. “So, Anthony... I didn’t know you were this... muscular.” She then began running her hand along his bicep.

	“Er, heheh, well, I um....” He paused, closed his eyes, and counted to ten. “I am former Marine Corps Recon.”

	She grinned. “However... somehow, the green just doesn’t look as good on you as, say... Dress Blues might?”

	From down the hall, they could hear Allison call out, “I heard that! Good idea, Rache!”

	As the others laughed, Anthony thought to himself, “What have I gotten myself into now?”

	Fortunately, he did not have to wait long. Apparantly, she had a single, mostly blue garment in her arms, and shoved it into his hands, whispering something. “But...” he objected.

	“No butts, except the one you’re about to get out of the spandex, and into what I just told you!” she demanded, shoving him towards his room.

	Calvin chuckled. “Wow, that was quick.”

	She swiveled her torso halfway around, with no awkwardness whatsoever. “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten you, mister Kitty! YOU will go take off the remains of my beautiful costume, and present them to me as soon as possible, young man!”

	John turned to her. “What did you make for him, Allison? And why was it only one garment?”

	She just smiled, as Calven trotted off to his room to change shirts. Sure enough, right as Calvin walked out in a red shirt, holding the tattered tiger striped remnants, Anthony strode out. He wore no mask, apparantly becase none of the rest of them did, but he cut a sharp figure. He was wearing his United States Marine Corps Blues trousers, though they had apparantly been dyed a slightly darker shade of blue than the norm, with the red “bloodstripe” brightly visible down the outside of his thighs. They were tucked into his combat boots, which were polished to a mirror sheen. His belt was gleaming white, with a polished brass buckle, and he wore a medium blue jacket, which folded over his chest and fastened at his right shoulder, and had red poping on all of the trim. He had pulled his hair back into a USMC “High and Tight”, a very short hairstyle indead, revealing a widow’s peak at the top of his forehead.

	Rache just stared. To the others, it looked like somehow, the tables were turned. “Wow... you look... WOW!”

	John scratched his head. “Okay, fashion show’s over for now. Security team, meet in my office... IN your new costumes... in ten minutes.”

***************************************

	Shadows drifted, and parted, as the vision of the scene faded from view. Only darkness of varying levels and degrees could be seen... but a portion of that darkness was alive.

	“Let them enjoy their dress-up games,” rumbled the black shape. “Soon, all too soon...”

	From behind a shadow, the lone bit of color moved into the line of sight of the first entity. It was a hint of reflection, a shock of sandy hair barely visible under black armor, a sword with blood red runes upon it, and a face. A human face. By watching carefull, it was onbious that this was a human, bearing this sword, clad in black, shimmering armor. “My Lord, should we not attack them now? And destroy them utterly?”

	“Relax, Black Blade,” said the first speaker. “I know how eager you are to destroy the other descendant of the Binder. But you have other tasks. How do they fare?”

	Black Blade sheathed his blade, despite its whine of protest. “They fare well, milord. Soldiers of Fortune and those whose sould drift towards the dark have heard our call, and have begun to present themselves before our agent.”

	“You mean my agent,’ corrected the figure. “You may be my general, but do not ever forget, you are my slave.”

	“How could I ever?” asked the sword-bound warior. “I am yours to command.”

	“Then begin the next step. Let the Doom Guard be born!”