{Message from the Author: Before reading this chapter, please scroll/swipe down to read the Author's Note first! It will explain something that could be seen as contraversial and/or racially inclinded, so I want that cleared up first before y'all jump to conclusions. ~The G of O.}
As International Dick returned, three individuals fell out of the portal this time around. As the song Shepherd of This Flock by JT Music began to play all over the studio, International Dick introduced the trio.
"Please give the rest of Team Decades a warm welcome! Now introducing... The Reverend Vigilante with more blood on his hands than the Romans who crucified his Lord and Savior from the 1980s... REVEREND PSALM!" Yelled out Dick, all while the Reverend slowly got to his feet and dusted off his vestments. Flat's colorblind-eyes couldn't mistake the bible in his hands, the bloodied stole garment anround his neck, ten-gauge shotgun slung on his back, extremeness of the Reverend's white hair, caucasian-colored skin pigment, and the aura of a killer surrounding the preacher.
Once the Reverend took a seat, Richardson continued. "Next up on deck! Introducing our first hero of lost American history, he is the American Racing Legend from the 1960s and his name had lost within the hefty annals of history... UNTIL TODAY! Please give him the warmest welcome... Charlie Wiggins! The Legendary Negro King of Speed! Flat and Psalm looked over to see this King of Speed. Charlie looked to be about 63, dark in his complexion, a fire in his eyes, and an early racers suit from 1930 with accompanying racing goggles on his head. As Richardson moved over to the next member of this retro-styled team, the last member of the team stood up and smiled nervously.
"Now my dear viewers! Please welcome in our second hero of history! From the training grounds for experiemental Pilots in Alabama during World War Two, to the Skies above Berlin with a plane that strike pissed off Nazis and had American Bomber crews breathing sighs of relief, please welcome in the last member of Team Decades, give it up for... Grey McCleary! The Black-Irish mixed race, RED-TAILED TUSKEGEE AIRMEN ACE!"
As the various broadcasting networks displayed Team Decades and their names with added skills/stats, the audience and viewers erupted into cheers and applause as the trio signed the contract. They were then ushered into to a tram-car that spend them to the island, where International Dick's secretary, Lindy Birdie, was awaiting them.
"Team Decades, welcome to Entertainment Isle. I'll be going over a couple things so pay attention. When the games begin, you will start at your claimed base of operation location known as "Abandoned Airfield Sierra". When the games begin, you will need to survive for till the very end to win. Consider it a life or death challenge, as your lives are on the line, just as the prize money of 19.9-billion Dollars as stipulated in the contracts you all signed. For now, you will be staying in the Competitor Training Facility. Each of you has large four bedroom condo, you will report to training every morning at 0800 hours. Meals and other things shall be provided for you. Best of luck." As Lindy Birdie finished speaking, armed guards escorted Team Decades to their condo... with black bags over their heads.
Once they were all inside, the guards uncuffed them, removed the black bags from their heads, and left them alone, but locked them inside until their morning training. Flat, Psalm, Charlie, and Grey all exchanged a glance at each other, but said nothing. However, Charlie broke the silence. "Well, might as well get used to this and get to know each other." Grey nodded, Flat shook his head in agreement, and then Reverend Psalm spoke. "Well, this is certainly an interesting team they put together. I suppose... we should discuss skills, maybe tactic?" Psalm suggested trying to get everyone talking.
At first, nobody spoke, then Flat broke the silence. "Youse can call me Flat. I was a gumshoe and CIA Agent for a brief time in New, New York City. While I see the world as one big black, white, and grey picture show, I am skilled in tracking, cooking, flew during the great war, and have my trusty stubnose .38 revolver on my hip." As Flat concluded, Grey picked up the conversation. "Good to have you on our team Flat. The name's Grey, and yes I am a pilot with the 332nd Fighter Group, better known as the Red Tails or Tuskegee Airmen. My skills are simple, I can fly, I can hit any target at 300 meters every time, and I can play guitar. Eventually, the other two warmed up and introduced themselves. However, Team Decades decided to clean up for dinner, while Flat Flanagan cooked it.
That said, Flat was a master on stove. He whipped up some Coney Dogs with Egg Creams to wash them down with. It didn't take everyone long to shower and relax for a moment. As they ate, Reverend Psalm turned on the TV, looking for news about home, anything to distract themseleves from their current situation. However, what came on... was the other contestants. Some of these folks weren't nearly human, others were humans with superhuman abilities, while others were just straight out of nightmare. As the four stared up at the TV Screen in disbelief, Flat rallied their fighting spirit.
"Pay those Palooka's [Below Average Boxers] no mind. They ain't so spiffy [good looking]. We've a bunch of Hard-Boiled [strong/tough], Torpedoes [hired guns], who aren't gonna let a bunch of wet blankets [killjoys] make saps [fools], out of us, right?" Spoke Flat, as the others nodded in agreement. They were from some of humankind's most interesting, war-filled, crazy eras in history. If there would be anyone to beat them, it was going to have to be themselves.
The contestants poured in late into the night. However, Team Decades had decided to get some sleep, especially with training at 0800 sharp, the next morning.