Part 3 of Helga’s Weapons Mastered series. This time with a rifle.
BIRDS OF PREY #12
Written by DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
Art by TRAVEL FOREMAN and JEFF HUET
Cover by STANLEY “ARTGERM” LAU
On sale AUGUST 15 • 32 pg, FC, $2.99 US • RATED T
• Shock follows shock as the team learns that the plant monsters were the creation of POISON IVY!
• With deadly toxins in their bloodstreams, THE BIRDS have six months to live – and they’ll be given an antidote only if they help IVY punish those who are despoiling the planet.
Oh, Ivy, you sneaky sneaky thing, you.
I wish she looked older here, I love her looking experienced and strong. Definitely not the worst cover I’ve seen from the Birds (David Finch, David Finch *cough*) but there could be improvements.
Katana looks absolutely awesome as usual. I don’t think I’ve seen her otherwise.
No! I really, really hoped she’d stay an anti-hero with the birds! I hope to god she isn’t betraying them willingly, maybe something to do with suitcase-man ;_____;
More Harley- Ivy paper children, this time in I drew Ivy in her BOP outfit. I love it, I really do ;u;
Mistakes
The sun had fallen from the sky hours ago.
Frieda stood at the doorway to the study, fingernails clutched into her palms at her breast, her crossed arms reflecting her tempestuous thoughts.
“Well?” She whispered, containing her anger the best she could.
“Is something wrong?” His voice was distant, detached. He continued reading the papers in front of him intently, not bothering to make eye contact with his wife.
“Are you going to explain yourself?”
“Do I have something to explain?”
“My daughter.” She had grown accustom to calling Helga “her daughter”. Her only daughter. He had his sons, she had her daughter. And even though she was more fond of fighting than dancing, she was still a lady, and the growing number of scars and injuries she was gathering inexplicably was enough to send any mother into suspicion. She had tolerated the ones that decorated her body; she knew Helga brawled with her siblings and had an afinity with weapons, content with avoiding the truth of it, but today she had come through the door ten minutes after her father, a bruised hand over her jawline. Her hands were embedded with sharp mounds of gravel, bleeding profusely, blue eyes red, and her face dark with bruises. Her left ear was bleeding badly. Having been a medical officer for a short time on the field, Frieda had recognized the tell-tale signs of a dislocated jaw immediately.
“You struck her hard enough to give her permanent damage.”
“I fixed it afterward.” The ludicrious statement nearly sent her into a rage.
“She is you daughter. How could you do such a thing?” He raised his gaze to meet her’s for the first time, and stood to his full six foot seven inches.
“Her left eardrum ruptured when you hit her. She has blood pouring out of her hands, nose, and ear. How can you be so brutal?” She approached him with loud, angry footsteps, shoving a finger in his face. “What could you possibly be trying to accomplish? Had you hit her any harder you could have broken her neck.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“
Blödsinn,” she spat. “You are obsessed with proving your worth. You could not even-“
“Do not say it!” He lured over her, his black shadow swallowing her whole. There was an opressive pause between them for several moments. “She is not my daughter. She is the first born child of this family. And I vowed that my first born would be the strongest, strong enough to outmatch even myself.”
“You are destroying her. She has enough scars that I could count them for days and never repeat myself.”
“Scars are the product of experience. Every time we spar she grows stronger,” he hissed. “I’ve seen it.”
“Sparring?” There was a sarcastic, pained laugh laced in her words. “This that how you justify yourself? Sparring? You are her father. You. are. beat.ing .her!” She pounded her flat hand against the desk to the rhythm of the syllables. “I cannot stand by and watch this anymore. I am going to stop this. I will send her back to Frankfurt if I have to-“
At that moment he grabbed his wife at the shoulders and shook her, his grip crushing. “You will NOT interfer with my business! She is not your daughter. She is the military’s daughter. And no matter what kind of damage she sustains, if she is alive, she will continue to fight!”
A fire blazed behind her irises in that moment, and she fell into her overwhelming urges. She yanked away from his grip and backhanded him across his cheek, sending wires of electric pain through his jaw. “You dare tell me she is not mine? She is not yours. She is not your personal weapon. She is not your pet project! She is your blood!”
There was no second to react to his movements. With reflexes honed over decades of training, he lurched forward, shoving Frieda from balance and forcing her to the ground, each of his fists gripped around her wrists. His enormous form towered over her menacingly. After that last time she had promised herself she would not invoke his wrath again, but this was different. This was her child. She clenched her eyes shut and readied herself for the strike that was sure to come, waiting for the pain.
But none came. After several moments she peeked through her eyelashes to find her husband frozen on top of her, eyes wide. Behind him stood the toned frame of her sixteen year old daughter, her blonde hair wrapped in a loose bun, blue eyes full of static anger. A click echoed through the small study, and Frieda suddenly became aware that Alexander had a loaded weapon pointed at the back of his head.
“Get off of her.” Her voice was dangerously low, and she put no effort into hiding the rage in her features. A grin spread across his face, and Frieda realized that he was not afraid. Not afraid, but…
He looked almost disappointed.
Slowly, he released her and got to his feet under the pressure of the gun barrel against his skull.
“A gun? How cowardly. I’ve taught you better than that.”
“Shut up,” she snapped. “I’ll kill you, I swear to god I will put this entire clip in your brain.” With the position of power her’s at last, Helga let her tongue go for the first time in years. I hurt terribly to speak though, so she kept her words brief and biting. “I’m not your dog. I won’t tolerate your jowls around my neck anymore.”
Frieda couldn’t force her legs to lift her. What had happened to them? Her family? Her daughter was holding a gun to her husband’s head, and by the look in her eyes she was actually debating whether or not to shoot him. Alexander’s lips fell into a small line as he turned to face Helga slowly. Barrel now positioned at his forehead, his features hardened.
“Would you though, sweetheart?” He knew her hatred for the pet name. “Would you kill your father? Could you stand to do such a heinous thing?”
“Maybe not.” A small smirk angled her lips, a motion Alexander had not expected. Her eyes looked on like a predator, not the hunted animal he was used to seeing. “But I could think of a few reasons why losing your legs would be a much harsher burden on you than I.” Her hand lowered to his abdomen, the weapon now positioned strategially external to his spinal cord. Fear flashed through his face for the first time she’d seen, and it was certainly gratifying.
“Alright, sweetheart. Just relax.”
“Don’t.” She looked over to her fallen mother, and knelt down to help her. She took her eye off him for the moment it took for his leg to flare out into her lowered side. The gun went off as he grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her and lifting her to her feet. She growled in pain and surprise, and countered the movement with a swift blow from her elbow to his chest.
A series of creaks went unnoticed as Thomas, the oldest brother (still a young fourteen years) of Helga’s and the one whom she had been talking to a moment ago, ran down the steep steps at the sound of a gun being fired. Upon seeing the action taking place in the study, he ran to his mother’s side and lifted her to her feet, leading her out of the room.
“You have to stop them,” she cried. “You have to stop them. They’re going to kill each other.”
Knowing well the mental pressure Helga had been in when they spoke, he didn’t doubt her words. He forced his way between the two of them and tried desperately to get them to seperate, but the hard hand of his father corrected his mistake. Thomas went tumbling to the floor, slamming his head against the wood slates. Helga stopped, watching and waiting for him to rise. When he didn’t, she roughly pushed her father away and went to him, placing hand on his chest.
“Thomas?” He groaned quietly, small pearls of blood rolling from his mouth. He hunched over on his hands and knees and spit out a mouthful of saliva, blood, and one white tooth.
Before he could protest, Helga launched herself at Alexander again, this time with eyes thick and clouded with fury. With a frustrated series of screams she slashed at his face with her fingernails, leaving trails of flayed skin across his eyes and cheeks, and kicked him squarely in the chest. He stumbled back, surprised, and brought his line of sight back just in time to see her fist connect with his nose. There was a sharp crack that echoed through his skull as he again lost his balance. She was fast. Faster than she had ever been during their spars. He made a move to her throat, open palm flying forward, but she was hardly caught off guard by the action. She dodged, grabbing his forearm as it passed her face, and pulled, forcing all of his body weight rolling over her shoulder. The sheer weight of him nearly made her collapse, but pure adrenaline gave her strength she hadn’t yet possessed. His back slammed against the floor with a sound that shook the entire house.
She dove for the gun, which she had dropped in the struggle, but as she came inches from it Alexander swept her legs out with a swift floor kick. She fell, rose, and fell again as she was tripped by a strong hand on her ankle.
Her legs were much stronger than her arms were. It was the mistake that ended their violent brawl. Helga kicked back, slamming her bare heel into his already shattered nose. His grip went slack and his throat went silent.
She sat on the ground for a long time with labored breath, staring at her father’s limp body. When she was sure he would not insight such madness again, Frieda ran to her bleeding daughter’s side, taking hold of her tightly in her arms. “Mein got, mein got…” she whispered, shaken too badly to say anything else. He shifted slightly, groaning through his unconcsiousness. Thomas crawled over to his mother, and she took him in as well.
“Mutti, mutti…Es tut weh. Ich verlor einen zahn. Es tut so weh.”
There were tears in his eyes as he spoke, jaw swollen and sticky with blood.
Helga examined her father from a distance, her arms wrapped around the body of the other woman, if only to give her comfort. The shadow that had lorded over her for so long was but a sad little puddle now, in which he himself was forced to lay.
“Come on, get up sweetheart. You’re gonna have to hit harder than that to stay out of the dirt.”
The older man’s voice was gruff and unfeeling. The term of endearment stung in her ears instead of being the calming word it should be. Dry dirt swirled around her head as she hit the ground,…
Oh my life. This is absolutely wonderful. I’ve never read anyhting this powerful regarding Helga before. I love it. 
