Legion World Forums LEGION OUTPOST Bits o' Legionnaire Business Solomon Grundy, Jr. - Origin Story (Legion Applicant)

On one side, Slaughter Swamp is bounded by a tributary of the Greater Massachusetts Bay.

On the other sides, it borders other places.

Magick. Faery. Tír na nÓg. The Dreamtime. The Dreaming. Death. Hell. The Other Hell. Order. Life.

Wonderland. Never-Neverland. Looking-Glass Land.

Narnia. The Hundred Acre Wood. The Willows. And more.

Like all swamps, its borders shift and change.

In the late 28th century, Jordan Zahab fell into it.

At first Jordan couldn’t breathe. Then Jordan didn’t need to.

First came quiet. Then came deafness.

First came darkness. Then came blindness.

A portal of brilliant light opened above, then slowly faded away.

The sticky mud at the bottom of the swamp held Jordan’s soul fast.

It was dark. It was quiet. It was very peaceful.

“Is this Heaven?” though Jordan. And after an immeasurable time, “Is this Hell?”

Vines replaced ligaments. Moss replaced muscle. The heavy mud seeped in everywhere, crushing and binding the new body together.

Sometime in the late-3Oth century, a new creature emerged, trudging unsurely out of the swamp. Skin white as birchwood, hard as stone.

Vegetable and Mineral it was, with no trace of the Animal left. But Memory and Intellect and Wit and Will and Soul intact. Or mostly so.

There was only one thing to do.

Head for civilization.

That meant Metropolis.

It was a long walk. Nearly seven weeks of continuous walking to get to the City center. But the undead are good at walking.

“That’s a nice suit,” said the winged ape. “Purple Slacks with a razor-sharp crease. Matching Morning Coat. Lavender Derby. Tangerine Dress Shirt with lime-green Vest and String Tie. Very dapper.”

“It sets off the colorlessness of my complexion,” said Solomon Grundy Jr.

“I especially like the two-tone shoes,” said the winged ape, who was dressed as an organ-grinder’s monkey, complete with fez.

“They gave it to me gratis,” said Solomon Grundy Jr. “Said they couldn’t have a six-foot-tall man running around the City naked. Quoth a caterpillar, ‘Who are you’?”

“Peter Pan Troglodytes,” said Peter Pan Troglodytes. “Of Planet Goodall. Your Caseworker. You can call me Pete. You’re a hard man to find, Mr. Grundy.”

“You can call me Sol,” said Sol. “No permanent address. Don’t really need one. I don’t sleep. Don’t seem to need to eat. The weather doesn’t bother me. I don’t really feel the heat, or the cold. The rain only makes me stronger. The sun only makes me stronger. I do have to keep moving, though. More than twenty minutes in one place, and it’s technically vagrancy. The SP’s ask me to move along. So I walk another mile away, out through the City, and find another place to sit down.”

“Well, Sol,” said Pete, “If I’m sitting with you, it’s Official Government Business. So mind if I share your Bench?”

“I promise I won’t call you a winged monkey,” said Sol.

“Wouldn’t mind if you did,” said Pete. “True, I’m not a Monkey, but I’m not a Chimpanzee, either. Nor a Wingor, although there is a resemblance there, too. Convergent Evolution, you know. Just like you. Except for the coloring, you look pretty Human.”

“I am human,” said Sol.

“Do tell?” Pete raised an eyebrow. “And what colony world produces humans like you?” He took a PAD out of a pocket.

“Earth. Late 28th century. My name used to be Jordan Zahab, but I fell into bad company. A bad swamp in the region of Greater Massachusetts Bay, actually. I lay there for over a century-and-a-half, and came out looking like this.”

“Do tell,” said Pete. He tapped away quietly at the PAD for awhile. “What do you know. Jordan Zahab, born April 1, 2774. Missing person report filed in the Summer of ‘89. Says here you were a nice-looking Human Female, olive skin, dark hair, dark eyes… say, you’re kind of boyish-looking now, aren’t you?. Thus the name change?”

“I’m not really who I once was,” said Sol. “Also, Slaughter Swamp produced another Solomon Grundy a thousand years ago or so,” said Solomon Grundy Jr. Thus the ‘Junior’.”

“You seem to be taking it well,” said Pete. “Most fifteen-year-old girls would be a little freaked to find themselves a grown man.”

“I’m not fifteen anymore, am I?” said Sol. “Nearly two hundred years old, by my count. And I may look like a tallish human male, but I’m not really, not in the particulars, if you know what I mean. Neither male nor female. More tree than flesh. Asexual as a stack of lumber.”

She examined her hands.

”Fingernails, but no fingerprints. Eyes, but no tear ducts. I think Slaughter Swamp needs a refresher course in anatomy.”

“Must be awkward fitting in,” said Pete. “What are you planning to do? You undoubtedly qualify for the Stipend, if you plan to continue to make Earth your home. But then, you don’t have much use for Credits, you said?”

“Well, I’ll need some new clothes eventually, when these wear out,” said Sol. “And before that, I’ll need to wash these with more than rainwater, I guess. I’ve spent the last several decades learning to be happy doing nothing, It’s hard to get used to the idea of doing something again. I guess I ought to go to the library, read up on history. Looks like the war is over, and things have been rebuilt.”

“Very often, People in your position-- with unusual Abilities, I mean-- become Superheroes,” Pete suggested.

“What’s a superhero?” asked Sol.

“You know, Heroes. Only… Super,” Pete elaborated.

“You mean like Hercules, or King Arthur, or Gilgamesh, or Frunt?” said Sol. “Doesn’t that require a quest laid on you by the gods, or something like that?”

“There’s actually a Legion of Superheroes out on Weisinger Plaza,” said Pete. “I understand they sometimes take applications.”

“Maybe later,” said Sol. “First, I need to sign up for this stipend, then spend a few Credits at the library.”

“Just need to scan your Biometrics,” said Pete. “And the Stipend is yours. Also, the Libraries are free these days.”

“Thanks,” said Solomon Grundy Jr. “After you go, I’ll sit here another twenty minutes, then get up walking again.”

It was some time before Solomon made it to Legion Headquarters. Weeks, at least. This new Metropolis captivated her interest. There was so much history she had missed. The United Planets had grown and spread, human and non-human colonies alike. So many strange worlds and customs to learn about… and, possibly,
in the future, to explore.

Still, she decided Pete was right. First, she wanted to see if she could make a difference.

Legion Headquarters was a tall spire at the end of a long avenue of heroic-looking statues. The door seemed unguarded, but she could not see a bell. It did not seem amenable to knocking. After standing a few minutes, the hologram of a dark-haired man clad in pale scarlet appeared.

“Welcome to Legion Headquarters. Tours of unsecured areas are held on Saturday mornings. Please contact Flynt Brojj at his web address.”

“Oh, I know you,” said Sol. “You’re Cosmic Boy, the Braalien. Are you really here, or is this a recording?”

“Oh, no, I’m really here,” said the hologram. “In the building, at least.” His eyes unfocused, seeming to look past her. “I have the board this morning, and I disagree…”

“I have the board this morning, and I disagree… Glorith’s the meekest new Legionnaire I can recall-- she wouldn’t go AWOL. I’ll send…”

There was a voice from beyond the immediate confines of the hologram.

“The election for new Team Leader isn’t until tomorrow, Rokk. It’s still my call. Besides, didn’t Gym’ll prescribe more bedrest while your magnetism heals?

“I can…” the hologram began.

“I’ll take the board.” A second dark-haired man, considerably broader and more powerful-looking, stepped into the hologram, and took the chair.

“Right.” said the now-invisible Cosmic Boy.

“That must be Mon-El, the centuries-old Daxamite,” thought Sol. “I’d like to talk to him. I might live as long… if I’m actually, technically alive.”

“Let’s consider the possibility…” Mon-El was saying. There was a loud *Breep* from beyond the area of the hologram.

“Science Police request Legion assistance! Apparent timestorm in Barcelona, Earth.”

With a *Whoosh*, the chair was empty again. Sol looked up to see a red-and-blue blur speed from far atop the top of the headquarters, followed by a half-dozen other colorfully costumed figures, moving more slowly.

“As you can see,” said Cosmic Boy, getting comfortable in the chair again, “Things can get rather lively here fairly quickly. What can I do for you? White skin. Tough-looking. Are you a Zwenite?”

“More wood than stone,” said Sol. “I’m actually from Earth proper. It’s a long story. I understand you have tryouts, sometimes?”

“Not so much anymore. We would prefer you spend at least a year at the Legion Academy on Montauk Point, first. You can submit an application at any Science Police station. Classes begin again August of next year.”

“Oh, I… I’m sorry to have bothered you,” said Sol. “I’ve been out of touch for a while, and someone recommended…”

“No, really, if we weren’t so busy right now…” said Cosmic Boy. “Come back for the tour on Saturday. And fill out that Academy application. I’ll look at it personally. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Sol. Solomon Grundy, Jr.” she said.

“Really?” said Cosmic Boy. “That must be an interesting story. I’ll look forward to perusing your resume. Good luck. ‘Bye.”

The hologram vanished.

Before Saturday came, the city of Metropolis descended into chaos.

Sol heard words bandied about like ‘quantum circuit failure’, and ‘worldwide catastrophe’. The Dominion was blamed, or the Dark Circle, or somebody named ‘Mordru’. It was speculated thate the Magic Wars had returned, or even the Legion themselves.

All Sol knew was that whole blocks of buildings were collapsing around her, and people needed help.

She was not did not have infinite strength, only that of two or three dozen men, but her stamina seemed without limit. She was like a blade of grass. If she pushed or pulled or hammered on a door or wall or roof long enough, it would give way.

It was better away from the city center, where apartments were only four or five stories high. Sifting through the rubble of collapsed hundred-story buildings seemed hopeless.

She found one old woman sitting in the ruins of her home with baskets full of omeka-fruit, which the two distributed to hungry urchins roaming the streets. The old woman had recently harvested the trees in her backyard, gone now.

She was a little afraid of the fires at first, but discovered that she only scorched, rather than burned.

She counted as she walked from house to house. If she rescued one person per hour, on average, that one two-billionths of the City’s population. Two nano-Metropolises. In only three million years, she would rescue everybody.

She met a teen-aged girl who reminded her of herself. Her name was Jasmin, an immigrant from Xanthu. Jasmin was as engaged in the rescue process as anyone Sol had met, but Sol feared for her safety.

“My father invented this stasis-belt,” Jasmin explained. “If I utilize it properly, nothing can hurt me.”

They worked together for a couple of days, until power was restored. Then the CD corps and PEMA took over. Jasmin was exhausted, and needed sleep. Sol did not.

By the time she got back to Legion Headquarters, the rubble had been swept away. There was nothing there but an empty lot.

She found an SP station, but discovered that the Legion had been disbanded, permanently.

When the clothing shops opened, she bought some new clothes. She rented a locker to keep them in.

She made her way to a reconstructed and reconnected library, and sat down to think about the future for awhile.

...and then what happened?





Here are a few Hero Machines of Solomon Grundy, Junior: