JLA Watchtower (Archive)

“We are approaching Tiger Bay momentarily, sir.” The pilots voice was nearly drown out by the ancient Hueys protests over its unnatural load.

“Very good…uhr… proceed as planned soldier.” Although his military etiquette was as sharp as ever, Eiling still had trouble making his body articulate. Half a ton of plastalloy engineered muscle will do that to a man. 

“Tiger Bay,” Eiling mused “I never would have thought…” The idea of having to conduct business in such a place disgusted the military man in him but times, like bodies, have changed and his needs overtook his ego. The Monster Society was for all intents and purposes disbanded; Light was in no shape for actions, there was no word on Prometheus, and Sivana has crawled back to whatever hole vermin like that hide in. 

Known to the West only as Tiger Bay the Malaysian port was a notorious harbor for mercenaries, pirates, smugglers and generally the dregs of the world. The flow of illicit activities made many nations take notice but the untold millions that flow out of this obscure cove make many an eye blind. And this cesspool is where Eiling would begin to enact his plans. 

As the Huey made is decent into an unoccupied helipad the pilot signaled The General. The ancient helicopter groaned in relief as The General disembarked. Even in this hellhole it was impossible for him to go incognito. Although stealth was not a priority on this particular mission. The usually teeming alleys were cleared in the path of the giant. The warehouse his contact gave him was not hard to find. 

A reinforced steel garage door is not much of and obstacle when you can crush titanium with your little finger, no matter how many locks you put on it. As he made his way into the warehouse he was greeted with a familiar sound of automatic rifles being readied. 

“Kalashnikovs, very warming.” He thought reminiscing of a past life. 

“Gentlemen I am looking for your commanding officer!” His voice booming in the hollow building. 

“Who the *@#! are you. Better yet what the *@#! are you?” a thick Russian accent retorted. 

The man it belonged to stepped from the shadows. His silver hair cropped close to his skull, classic Spetznaz. Clearly this was the authority of this band of miscreants. 

“Your…urh…fixer Mr. Zhou, said I could find you here. I have a proposition for you.” The General said almost charmingly. 

The mercenaries had their weapons beaded on his head, even though many were clearly shaken. 

“Good soldiers.” He thought. “Even terrified their resolve doesn’t waver.” 

  “And why would we listen to you? We don’t work for freaks, especially American Freaks. Zhou knows this!” The Russian military man barked. 

“I can be surprisingly persuasive.” Eiling smirked. 

“Kill this piece of…akk!” The Russians words were interrupted by a gigantic hand enveloping his head. 

Eiling lifted the man as if he were a paper sack. The wet pop of his neck was an unnecessary, if not enjoyable gesture to discourage any other objectors. The dead man crumpled to the floor, his men astonished at the unabashed brutality. 

“Men,” Eiling boomed “you are now under my employ. I am your General; you will take orders from me and only me. I will not tolerate dissenters. As such I can promise you either a fortune or a warrior’s death. Serve me well. After all what is a general without his soldiers…”