The Singular Universe: An Ultimate Comics RPG IC

[Spartan]

1975.

Logan leapt back as the beast lunged towards him, rolling away from the attack. The monster skidded into an old medical bay, sending equipment flying. But within second it had regained it's feet. Logan grinned as adrenaline flowed through his system, his muscles coiling like springs before launching himself head first. He ducked a wild swing of a huge clawed hand and retaliated in kin, slashing at the forearm of the monster. A spry of crimson splashed white fur and the monster howled, a curdling echo of pure rage. Logan swung again and again, but the creature was fast, as fast as he was despite it's immense size. An overhand attempt to pierce the monsters chest left Logan exposed and the creature blasted him with a fist to the chest that sent him reeling. That was met by clawed fingers slicing a series of deep gashes across his face.

Logan himself cried out in pain as blood poured down his bearded face and lights began to pop and fizz in his vision. The monster was relentless though and leapt at him once more, Knocking him to the ground. Long curved fangs, dripping with saliva snapped at his face. Logan could feel the hot acrid breath of the monster bathing his features. Wrestling with monster he managed to slip from under it and tried to roll away. But the monster caught his leg with a swiped, sending him to the ground again before grasping him by the throat and lifting Logan clear off of his feet. Fingers squeezed against his jugular, Logan could feel his body cry out in raw panic as the lack of air became apparent. metallic claws swung and the beast dropped the feral mutant to the dusty floor. Logan rolled away and desperately sucked in fresh oxygen, before regaining his feet. The beast was dripping blood into the dirt and grime and had backed off to a cautious approach.

"What the hell are you?!" Logan snarled, spitting a thick wad of his own blood from his throat as both man and monster circled each other, watching and waiting for an opening.

The creature feinted a lunge and Logan made to duck but the beast wily and instead, with great ease flipped a heavy desk at the man. Logan ducked and rolled from the projectile before it exploded against a nearby wall in a shower of wooden chunks and splinters. The creature made its move and ran at him, a furious swipe of it's massive arms looking to disembowel the mutant. But Logan leapt backwards before propelling himself forwards both claws pointed straight ahead and plunged deep into the pectoral muscles of the huge beast. The monster fell back as it's roar of agony pierced every corner of the huge room. Logan held on, landing on top of the beast and furiously driving his claws again into the beasts throat.

"Don't know what the hell you are Bub, but I'm ending this!"

The monsters yellowed eyes fixed on the gaze of the mutant, a vision of pure hate and rage and aggression. Logan hesitated for just a second, his claws raised, already dripping with scarlet gore.

"WwwWWWwwEEEEeeEENNNDDdd-IiiII-GggOoooooo" The beast wheezed.

With a final effort it reached up and grabbed the wrists of the mutant perched atop its prone body and drove Logans arms down, claws puncturing lungs and heart. The beast screamed and cried as it's final breaths escaped it's powerful frame. The rolled back into the dirt and the creature was dead.

Logan rolled from the body of his fallen foe, blood-soaked and wounded, he tried in vain to catch his breath. Suddenly, one of the darkened walls lit up. A man, in shadow, with only the shine of his spectacles visible appeared via a crackling image on the screen.

"You know my boy, I never could have imagined a greater gift than this. After all of these long and torturous years, the prodigal son returns!"

Logan rose to his feet and looked around the rest of the room, seeing nothing but the abandoned facility. He turned back to the screen and regarded the man there. "Who are you?" He snarled. "What is this place?"

"Oh, of course, you will not remember will you? This is your home. The place where you were created, oh so very long ago. It was here that we took an animal and turned you into so much more. We made you perfect. Absolutely perfect!"

Logan raised the bloodstained claws and regarded them with horror. "Y-you did this to me?! Why?!"

The screen crackled momentarily, before righting itself again. "Because you wanted it. Who do you think you were my dear boy? Let me tell you!" The shadowed man on the screen gave a little chuckle and clasped his fingers together in front of his chest. "You were a killer, a monster. You were pure primal hatred and you wanted more. You signed up to be made into the ultimate weapon and we gave that to you!"

Logan growled. "WHO?!" he roared. "WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?!"

The shadow man chuckled again. "All we be revealed soon enough my boy...." Suddenly, the dull groan of shutters dropping over the exits rumbled through the facility and from the darkened ceiling thick clouds of gas poured into the room. "It is time for you to sleep now. After all, we can't have our greatest prize escaping again now, can we?!"

Logan choked and gagged, trying not to breath in the noxious fumes. But it was no use, the room was filled and he found himself falling into blackness.

[Byrd Man]

Adelaide
Australia
0121 Local Time


The black armored car rolled down Colton Avenue at a breakneck pace. It rushed through what little traffic there was this time of night before turning on St. Bernards Road and heading north. While the van was in Adelaide metropolitan area, this part of the city was a suburb known as Magill. From St. Bernards the armored van came to Koongarra Avenue. The black car came to a skidding stop at 40 Koongarra. Men dressed in black tactical suits carrying assault rifles jumped from the back of the van and began rushing towards the building. The last man to step out of the van was James Bond. His normally posh suit had been swapped out for black slacks and a dark blue button up shirt.

Tonight marked Bond's six straight night in Australia. The PM was due to visit the city in two days. He and the Australia PM were to have an economic summit or some such thing, Bond couldn't remember. Regardless, MI6 had heard chatter of an impending threat on the two heads of state when they met. M had dispatched Bond to the land down under to assist the Aussies in the investigation. After a week of working with the AFP and South Australian Police, they had what they thought was their man.

The team moved in to surround the single-story home while Bond watched from a distance. The home in question was being rented by a man using the name Brian Harris. The same Brian Harris was listed as an English national who, curiously enough, only had a history that dated back five years. To Bond and the people he was working for, the identity reeked for a phony one concocted for safe travel. The phony backstory and the fact that Harris had been around the city, buying ingredients for homemade explosives was more than enough for them to move in and take him.

The men under Bond's command were known as STAR, Special Tasks and Rescue, and they were the tactical team for the SAP. They quickly moved up and around the house, half the team flanking the house around the back while the other half prepared to breach the home from the front.

"Team 1 in position," a voice said in Bond's ear.

"Team 2 in position," said another voice.

"Go," replied Bond.

A STAR officer with a battering ram stepped up and smashed open the house's front door. He stepped back and the rest of the STAR officers went in the home in a formation and order they had practiced hundreds times over. Bond listened as they cleared rooms and moved through the home like clockwork.

"Commander," the leader of Team 1 said over the radio. "No sign of the suspect, but we found something. A workstation filled with makeshift bombs and a layout of Victoria Square."

Victoria Square was where the two PMs were scheduled to hold a joint news conference. Bond copied and began to go towards the home when the radio chatter stopped him.

"Wait," said one of the STAR men. "I found something..."

"Trip wire! Get back! GET BA--"

Bond was thrown back on the ground as an explosion ripped through the home and sent black smoke and flames pouring from the now broken windows. Bond lay on the ground, gasping for air. The concussive blast of the bomb, coupled with being slammed to the ground by it, had driven the air from his lungs. He found his breath and stood up, reaching for his radio.

"Bond to Team 1 and Team 2, respond."

"This is Smith with Team 2. We have severely injured here, no dead with our team. I have no idea what happened with Team 1."

"Call in backup. Fire, police, ambulance, who the hell ever we need call them."

Bond was preparing to go into the home and fight through the fire to find if Team 1 had any survivors. He walked towards the house, but stopped when his eyes caught movement out the corner. Someone was in the bushes next door. He stopped and looked. The figure darted out of the bushes and began running. It was dark, and he was in profile, but Bond could tell the man running was Brain Harris.

"I have eyes on Harris," Bond said over the radio. "I'm going after him."

He took off after the fleeing man, both of them running down Koongarra. Harris went across a lawn and ran through a backyard with Bond right behind him. They came out on a cul de sac that said it was Hersey Street. Running down Church Street, Harris stopped a car at a stop sign and threw the driver out of it. The car sped down the street away from Bond.

Bond saw a young man on a dirt bike riding towards him. Sighing, Bond stopped the young man and knocked him to the ground. Bond got on the bike and gunned it before the man could recover. He kept the throttle up and caught up to Harris' stolen car. Both them headed down Church Street, Bond followed as Harris took a left, crossing over the median and through oncoming traffic, on St. Bernad's and sped north. The driver door to the car slid down and a gun emerged. Bond hit the brakes and swerved to avoid the potshots Harris took at him. With his left hand, Bond pulled his pistol from the small of his back and returned fire, cracking the back glass of Harris' car.

Harris jerked his car off road as they came to a small park. His stolen sedan bounced and shook as it blew through a cricket pitch, Bond right behind him. They tore passed a set of tennis courts and came out on Johnson Avenue. Harris was beginning to turn sharply on Malpas Street when Bond drew down with his pistol and fired. The front left tire on Harris' car exploded just as he was executing the high speed turn. The tire blowing, coupled with the turn, caused the car to flip over and do a violent tumble across the street. Bond came to a stop and watched as Harris pulled himself from the wreck and tried to limp away. Bond warned him to stop and stay still. Dazed and possibly concussed, he ignored Bond's warning and limped across the road.

Harris didn't see the bus until the headlights were just a few feet in front of him, and the bus driver applied the brakes a fraction of a second too late. Harris slammed into the front of the bus and was thrown twenty feet away, smacking into the pavement hard. His head bounced off the asphalt as his body crumpled on the ground. Bond got off the dirt bike and walked towards Harris, his gun out and ready just in case. Bond looked down at the bloody pulp of the man who had just caused the deaths of six police officers.

"Bond," a voice said in his ear. "Police and fire are on the scene. Do you have eyes on the suspect?"

"I do," said Bond.

"Where is he?"

"He caught a bus."

Ian Fleming's
James Bond
007

in

Cry Havoc

[Spartan]

The old Jukebox hummed away in the corner, Skynyrds Sweet Home Alabama playing through old tinny speakers. A few patrons milled around, some in booths, some shooting pool off to the far side. At the bar itself the big Norseman sat upon his stool a tankard of ale placed in front of him, surrounded by empty ones he had already drained. As he took a large a swig a woman appeared beside him, leaning onto the bar, waiting to be served. She turned her head and Thor returned her look, replying to her small half-smile with one of his own.

"You trying to drink yourself stupid there?" she asked, nodding towards his collection of finished tankards.

Thor grinned and raised his current drink. "This ale, though good, fares weakly when compared to the liquor we drink within the halls of Asgard!"

"Sounds far away. Is that where you're from?" she replied.

"Aye, it is far from where the denizens of Midgard may travel. Far across Bifrost, where the Valkyries ride and the wine flows endlessly!" Thor boomed, happily. Remembering his home, so bright in his minds eye yet still so far away.

The woman chuckled a little as the bartender popped a bottle of beer and placed it in front of her."It sounds like a lovely place. Do you miss it?"

Thor considered the question for a moment, memories leaping to the forefront of his thoughts. He missed his home more than he could ever possibly express. His friends, family and everything he had ever cared about was lost to him, his exile absolute. "Aye" he said finally, his head dropping to his chest.

The woman pulled up a stool next to the Norseman and planted a hand on his shoulder. "Well then I propose a toast. To home!" she grinned, raising her bottle.

Thor regarded her. She was petite and delicate, her dark hair framing a gentle face and dark eyes. But behind those eyes Thor could see a steel resolve that stood against her gentle visage. He swallowed the breath caught in his throat and broke into a smile. "You are a fine woman, Lady" he conceded. "To Asgard!" He replied, clinking his tankard against her drink.

The woman took a long sip of her beer and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, glancing up at the Thunderer. "My name is Jane, by the way. Jane Foster" she said.

"Thor" He replied, taking her hand in his he raised it to his lips and planted a soft kiss upon it. "A pleasure to meet you, Jane Foster".

The door of the bar swung open, a cool draught blowing in from the outside accompanied by a trio of rough looking men. The first, bald headed, heavily bearded and with a long dark coat slung over broad shoulders strolled up to the bar where Thor was sitting. Without regard to the Norseman he grabbed Jane Foster by her arm. "Hey, I thought I told you I wanted you at home?" he snarled through gritted yellowed teeth.

"Yeah, and I told you to go to hell you damn creep!" she replied, tearing her arm free of his grasp.

"Is there a problem Jane Foster?" Thor asked, glaring at the man and his two cronies.

"No. Carl was just leaving, weren't you Carl?" she glowered at the intruder as she picked up her beer for another swig.

Carl grabbed the bottle from her grasp and slung it to the floor, shattering glass and golden liquid on the hardwood floor. The other patrons had stopped their own activities and were watching the confrontation with detached interest. "No I ain't" he snarled before turning to the God. "And if you know what's good for you Barbie, you'll stay the hell out of this!"

"Get the hell out of here Carl! I told you that we're through!" Jane shouted, pushing the man away from her.

With a snarl, Carl righted himself and balled a fist. "We're done when I say we're done you god-damn whore!"

He swung at her, his eyes burning with rage. With lightning quickness and without moving from his seat Thor grasped Carls wrist in mid-air and twisted it sharply as he rose. Standing at his full height and still grasping Carls wrist, Thor glared down into the thugs eyes. "I could have tolerated your unseemly intrusion upon my company" Thor said, his voice low and menacing. "I could have even allowed your petty insults to pass unchallenged". His grip on the arm tightened and Carl was visibly wincing, his face flushed with a mixture of anger and apprehension. Thor dragged him closer, his face close to the man he held in his grasp. "But to strike a Lady. Only a special kind of coward would stoop so low. So I say to you Carl. I say prove your worth and try to strike a man more than your equal" He released the arm and Carl stepped back involuntarily. "STRIKE ME!" Thor bellowed.

Carl hesitated and glanced at his two fellows. Both had backed off a few steps behind him. Carl, seeming to find a reserve of resolve deep inside of him swallowed hard and swung a fist. It landed hard on the jaw of the Norseman, a direct blow that would stagger most men and even fell a few. Thor didn't move a muscle.

A smile. Large and warm. "My turn!" Thor announced cheerily. His fist swung and Carl flew, literally taken from his feet and landing on a table a couple of feet away. Both Carl and the tables contents tipped to the wooden floor in a heap. The men he entered with glanced at the Norseman before backing off and tending to the unconscious Carl.

Thor found his own wrist grabbed as Jane Foster took his hand and dragged him from the bar. "Come on. We need to go!" She said, pulling him out into the muggy night air.

[nightrunner]

Hell's Kitchen, New York
2:00

Matt walked into his office, beaten, bruised, and burned. His receptionist stared at him and questioned if he even realized how bad of shape he's in. Matt swung his head over towards her, acknowledging her stare. With that he otherwise ignored her entirely and continued into his office, where his partner Foggy Nelson, entered as well.

"Don't you people know it's impolite to stare?" Matt asked sarcastically.

"That's like asking if people know that it's illegal to shoot someone. Of course they do, they choose to do so anyways."

"New question, Whatever happened to knocking?" Matt asked with Foggy and the Russian woman in mind.

"Ehhh. It's outdated," joked Foggy.

"Just like decency, honor, respect, and belts," quipped Matt.

"Look, Matt. I know we could play like this for hours, but I have a question."

"Why is everyone so damn clueless," complained Matt.

"Enough. Quit dodging my question and-"

"You haven't asked anything yet, Foggy."

"I would if you'd let me."

"There!" Matt pointed,"Right there. You could just ask the question!"

"Fine. What happened. Why are you in such bad shape."

"I got in a bar fight. I got hit by a broken bottle and a chair," Matt lied.

"What's with the burn?"

"One guy lit some tequila on fire, and I tripped and got burned."

"Why didn't you just beat them up. I've seen you beat up muggers, even though you're blind."

"I'm blind, yes. But I was drunk," Matt made up the excuse. Hoping Foggy wouldn't notice that he probably wouldn't have perfect memory of it.

"Oh. Okay then," Foggy walked away.

Matt didn't need Super-Senses to detect that it was going to be a long day.

[Byrd Man]

London


Bond sat in the chair facing M's desk, watching his boss nervously tap his fingers on the dark wood of the desk. They were both awaiting the arrival of one of MI6's top intelligence analysts. Desk Sailors. Those were Bond's words for men like the analysts. He knew their importance, his job wouldn't be possible without them, but there was still some primitive impulse in Bond's mind that put an office job on par with being a secretary or some other lowly bureaucrat.

The door into M's office opened and Moneypenny came in with a tall, heavyset man in a ruffled suit and tie. The fat man favored Bond with a passing glance before Moneypenny announced him. "Sir, this is Mycroft Holmes. Assistant deputy director of the analysis branch." M nodded and waved Holmes over while Moneypenny made her exit. She caught Bond's eye for just a short moment and smiled before closing the door behind her.

"Rough night, 007?" Holmes asked as he sat down in the chair beside Bond. "I assume traveling from Australia in a cargo plane wouldn't be the most pleasing ride."

Bond ignored Holmes' statement. Bond had worked with him before and knew how he liked to bait people into playing his little parlor games. M, on the other hand, favored the fat man with a curious glance. "How the devil did you know Bond has come from Australia in a cargo plane?"

"Stain on the heel of his shoe. Looks to be a particular brand of aviation oil that is mostly used in bigger planes. His watch is still on Australian time."

"Yes, Mycroft, you've proven how much cleverer you are than everyone else."

"You think I'm bad?" Holmes asked with a raised brow. "You should see my little brother."

"Regardless of the motives," M finally spoke up. He gave Bond a withering glance and turned back to Holmes. "Mycroft, we need your summation on the man who was planning to blow up both our PM and Australia's. The man is comatose at the moment, doctor's think it's unlikely he'll ever recover. We need you to answer the questions he can't."

"Well," Holmes said, leaning forward. "I looked over the medical file, Bond's field report, and everything involving this story I can find. I believe this man who you tried to arrest, this Brian Harris, wasn't from Britain like his passport said. He was from Serbia, he was a veteran of the Kosovo War, and he had considerable financial backing."

"Prove it," said Bond. "I don't want to hear your half-arsed theories or your 'deductive reasoning.' I want cold, hard evidence."

"Like this?" asked Holmes. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket and unfolded it on M's desk. The paper showed a printout of a personnel file. It was written in Serbian with English words translated and scribbled in the margins. The picture on the paper appeared to be a mugshot from nearly fifteen years ago. It showed a younger version of Brian Harris. "Sead Kovac, veteran of the Kosovo War. He was a member of a kill squad that rounded up enemies of the state and killed them. Reported as MIA in 1997 and declared dead."

"And how did you know this?" M asked, leaning back in his chair with his fingers crossed.

"The fillings in the man's teeth. They were nothing like the fillings used in Western Europe or the Americas. That limited my scope to Eastern Europe. From there, I began to search war records. If this man had a military background and was from that part of Europe, he most certainly took part in the Kosovo War. His mugshot came up in a NATO database after running a facial recognition. And the line about him being well connected? His identity and passport are fakes of the best caliber. The false identity was set up years ago and has been in wait for someone to use it. Someone with time, patience, and money set it up for a man like Harris to use if and when they needed it."

"What about the men in his unit?" Bond finally spoke up. "Any line on them?"

"All of them were MIA, believed dead except one fellow in particular. Lives in Belgrade and is apparently taken up with the local crime syndicates."

"Well, then," said M as he sat forward. "007, get a bag ready. I hear Serbia is quite lovely this time of year."

[Lydyn]

The wind whipped through her hair as she made way towards the fire, her gray shirt and blue jeans hardly giving away to the rush of wind, dipping into the treeline. It wasn't but a few moments before she was at the scene and even she could feel the signs of heat, though they weren't uncomfortable at all. Kara wasn't akin to feeling pain in the same sense as everyone else, even in this god-awful days in the labs before the Professor and Eric had saved her, it was more akin to varying degrees of discomfort than anything and she could stand in blazing hot flames and below freezing climates with little hindrance beside being annoyed by the discomfort. This would be no different, she figured to herself and landed upon the soft grass.

The flames were already roaring and clashing against the tree, obviously having been set not too long ago and yet long enough to allow them to really start eating at the wood. Her eyes darted around and she made quick note that there was no water and even if she found water, there was no way to carry it and spinning to create a vacuum wouldn't last long enough to force the water over this way. 'That's it!' she quickly thought to herself. Floating up near the origin point of the fire, she started to spin - faster and faster until she was going fast enough to create a vacuum of air. Quickly, wind and air were drawing towards her and began to pull the fire with it and within a couple minutes the entire fire had been put out by the power of one woman.

As she noticed the flames were almost entirely gone, she slowly stopped spinning and took a deep breath. She wasn't dizzy and she wasn't really tired, but it was like sprinting across a room a couple times - it still took some energy to do. Kara took a moment and then paused, looking around and trying to spot the source of the flames, then again maybe it was just some kid playing with fire. Suddenly she felt a sharp pain to her back, letting out a quick yelp. Actual pain, which was new to her, but she could take it. Whatever had hit her forced her to tumble over and across the ground a few feet. Behind her, she could hear a mechanical voice say, "scanning ... unknown life form. Draw-out directive: failure. Absence of mutants. Destroy obstacle and refire directive." Pushing herself up, she quickly thought to herself, 'no mutants? ... what am I? A local stray cat?' She turned around and suddenly she understood why she was attacked.



It seemed like all that training was going to be useful after all. The giant piece of scrap metal raised it's hand towards her, the hole in it's hand giving away to a bright red charge that she knew all too well as it's laser attack. "Oh no, not this time tin man.." She pushed herself off the ground and darted off to the side with blinding speed as the Sentinel blasted the ground where she once was, tearing apart the landscape a bit. It didn't seem all that confused though as it locked it's sight right on Kara, causing her to raise an eyebrow. She was surprised it could follow her movements, but then she had to remind herself that there were mutants that could probably outrun even her. Instead of using the speed and causing the robot to get comfortable with gauging her movements, she darted right up to it and lifted herself off the ground.

Normally, the Sentinel would've been able to swing it's hand inwards to crush it's opponent, only Kara was already accounting for it. Pulling her fist back, she hit the chest of the robot with as much force as she could muster comfortably - which was almost more than she needed. The entire frame of the giant robot shook as the center of it's chest caved in from the impact (roughly the size of her fist plus a couple feet), causing it to stumble back. Kara knew that alone was enough to cause some level of malfunction and flew after it. She slammed her fist again and again into it's chest, throwing a couple punches towards it's face. This was only one of the robots and she was used to having up to six gain up on her (which was no walk in the park). It didn't take long before the Sentinel was literally a pile of scrap metal and it's system having been completely shut off and destroyed. Landing on the ground again, she took a moment to catch her breath.

After a few moments, "so out here to draw us out, huh? ... let's see what we can find." She climbed over the massive body and went to it's head before forcing her hand through it and pulling out what she only assumed was the main processor. She had grown up inside the X-Mansion pretty much as a nerd of sorts. She was into gaming, computers, books, and even indulged in fantasy worlds despite that she practically lived in one herself. So even if Dr. McCoy - or Beast - was definitely the biggest expert that she knew, she was familiar enough to be able to pick out what things were with a confident level of competence.

She looked over the rest of the machine and decided that it was be very hard to lift the entire thing and fly it over to the mansion, especially if she didn't want other people seeing it so she decided to leave it here for now. With that last thought, she pushed off the ground and weaved through the trees with the hand-sized processor, trying to keep low and out of sight until she got back.

[Master Bruce]

I was too late.

By the time that I've breached the top floor, I'm forced to suppress an immediate bout of anger upon discovering the body of one of Gordon's officers. A quick scan through the cowl's optic sensors indicate it was a shot to the temple, the level of trauma to the skull suggesting it at point-blank range. I can already see the point of impact of the bullet that traveled through the brain-stem, having pierced the northeast wall. This man was murdered execution-style, and despite a number of his lieutenants roaming the grounds, I'd be more than willing to bet that the weapon used is fresh with Zucco's fingerprints. A fairly safe assumption, given it's exactly the situation that I feared walking into - with Zucco's place in the crime families' favor having subsided months ago, he's become desperate. And for uneducated filth like him, desperation leads directly into this sort of inane ruthlessness. The stress of being in hiding for the last few months has made him feel like he has nothing left to lose. Of course, he's wrong about that. He still has plenty left to lose.

All manner of feeling in his neck, for instance.

But enough of that. Have to keep myself on point. No matter how badly I may want Zucco brought down, no matter what his testimony could mean in crippling the few remaining ties that he has left to the Falcone and Maroni empires, I know that it has to become a secondary priority at the very best. Until I find another body, there's still a second member of Jim's unit that needs to be saved. And I refuse to consider what would happen if I'd failed entirely. Gotham has seen it's fair share of bloodshed in the wake of Zucco's fall from grace. Tonight, I promised myself it would end.

"Keep it quiet. Move along the empty rooms. The boss said he'd be inside already."

Any further inspection of the corpse is interrupted by the cowl's ultra-sonic microphone picking up the whispers coming from the north hall, prompting me to lean against the door to the room. They're creeping along at about twelve-feet from current position. Five, perhaps six. Judging from the footsteps, at least two heavies. Need to concentrate the attack on them, wear them down amidst distractions. The others are considerably easier to keep disoriented until the immediate threats are incapacitated. Reaching into my belt, I produce two micropellets. One for smoke, the other a potent skin irritant. With no time for a rebreather, I prepare to hold my breath, pressing my ear against the door. Listen and wait for the opportunity to present itself.

The door shakes, the knob turns. I take a step back.

Now or never.

"SHIT! HE'S IN HERE, I FOUND---!"

Before he can finish his sentence, I break the caplets off against the floor and dive, springing into a hard rolling kick that lands in his midsection. Seize his arm before he can fire his weapon, dislocate the joint. He tries to scream, but a palm-strike to his throat prevents it. He topples over, lost in the building smokescreen. The others come running, having heard the commotion. I back away into the smoke, switch the lenses over to infrared. The half-open door is kicked in wide, the first one aiming his assault rifle. Taken off guard as a black cloud explodes in his face. Time for a frontal assault. Just have to pray that this is a constructive use of my time while that cop's life hangs in the balance.



"OVER THERE, HE'S OVER THERE!"

"OUTTA THE WAY, I'VE GOT A SHOT!"

"WHERE?! I CAN'T SEE!"

"MY EYES! JESUS, MY EYES!"

With stealth no longer a priority, I instead shift focus on dealing out as much physical power as possible. And I have to go for as much as I can manage in the space of seconds. The first one's the tallest, so his knee is immediately dislocated. Gunfire explodes along the right wall, barely clipping me along the forearm as I move to the second. A mere cosmetic damage to the suit, the kevlar absorbs the rest. Firing blindly, the approaching thug doesn't notice as I move along the side and sweep his legs out from under him, spinning and driving my knee directly into his jaw.

A third stumbles over the first's body, and I move, catching him mid-air with an uppercut. Couldn't have planned that one better. Fourth and fifth get smarter, waving away most of the smoke and wiping tears from their bloodshot eyes. They open fire the minute that I become visible. I dodge one that would've taken off my head, sliding along the floor and vaulting into a roundhouse kick that strikes the first across the face. The second goes for a pistol whip, but I avoid it and catch his arm across my shoulder. Grab it and snap it, prompting him to cry out in pain. His agony is short-lived, however, as I drive the back of the reinforced steel-plating in my cowl into his nose and turn, forcing him hard into a railing. Striking him with a jab to the weakened nose, breaking it. He loses consciousness fast.

By the time that the smoke has dissolved, I stand among all six injured scum. Only the one with the broken knee makes a move, crawling over to his weapon on the floor and weakly holding it up, aiming for a killshot. I simply stomp hard on the broken knee and kick the barrel of the weapon upward, knocking him out with it's force. I withhold a smirk. The irony isn't lost on me.

"HOLD IT!"

I look over my shoulder to see an unwelcome sight - a seventh gunman appearing out from the corner. What immediately gets my attention is the fact that he's not alone, as a hostage is pulled out from the same area and forced into a tight grip. I sneer back at him, but I don't attempt to make any sudden movement. Given his manner of attire being typical of the Lieutenants of the Gotham PD, I have all the reinforcement I need to assume that the hostage is Gordon's other man.

He's alive. For the moment.

The thug presses a pistol against the side of the Lieutenant's head.

"COME ANY CLOSER AND HIS FUCKIN' BRAINS STAIN THE FLOORS!"

At first, I start to wonder what the point of this is. Zucco's giving up his hostage earlier than I would've expected. But as the seconds pass, it starts to become clear. The perspiration on the gunman's forehead, the faint sounds of movement coming from downstairs. This is his plan. He knew I'd be here to save the cops before he would become my target. Unfortunately, that just means Zucco's smarter than I give him credit for.

I have to take the bait. Dammit all.

"Let him go."

The gunman gets jumpy. Nervous.

Thinks that if he messes this up, Zucco's likely to kill him.

"No way, man! No way! Y-You just stay the hell back, you hear me?!"

Have to look for an opening. Though my options are limited. Deploying a batarang would only spook him further. Taser's too much of a risk. Already ran out of flash grenades. It seems that I'll have to rely more on luck and less on ingenuity. Keeping my eyes carefully trained on the gun itself, I silently back away, prompting an apparent confusion from the gunman. He's so busy focused on this surprising tactic that he doesn't notice the small metal silver sphere that rolls silently along the floor next to him. Three seconds and it pops, triggering several large sparks designed to mimic gunfire. Predictably, surprised by the noise, he aims the gun to the right and fires off several rounds. Preparing a batarang, I go to move...

Only to stop as the Lieutenant moves first. He strikes his would-be captor with a hard elbow to the chest and turns around, slamming the punk's armed hand directly into the wall, relinquishing the weapon from his grasp. I breathe a silent sigh of relief, placing the batarang back into the belt. But just as I begin to advance, the Lieutenant quickly grabs the gun and redirects it's aim at me.

Sometimes it can be easy to forget that while I have my supporters, several of Gotham's police still consider me a dangerous vigilante. They're partially right, but only in that I'm a danger to their corrupt colleagues. They and all of the innocent people of Gotham have nothing to fear from me. I just wish that were easy to explain.

"Alright, freakshow, put your hands up where I can see 'em!", the Lieutenant demands. "Cripes, half of these idiots are gonna need medical attention!"

Casually approaching him, despite being threatened at gunpoint, I eventually stop just inches away from the barrel of the pistol.

"Captain Gordon's squad will be arriving on the scene in less than four minutes. These men need to be detained while they're still down. And if I don't move now, Zucco's going to escape."

He keeps the gun firmly held high, but I can tell that he realizes that I'm right.

Eventually, he relents.

"Dammit,", he mutters, pushing past me. "Fine. You get a pass this time, but this isn't over, you hear me?! Next time I see you, you're going down! We don't need you screwing things up any worse than you have!"

"You're welcome."

"Welcome?!", he shouts back. "You know, you've got alotta..."

He turns to fire back at me with another insult, but I've already disappeared from sight, descending onto the lower levels of the building. A patrolling guard has his back turned to me, overseeing another hall with several rooms. Zucco could be anywhere in here, if he hasn't already managed to rally a transport to escape. Advancing, I grab him by the shoulders and slam his face against the wall, grabbing his semi-automatic and discarding it. Then I forcefully toss him against the parallel wall and strike him with a hard left hook. He crumples onto the ground, barely conscious. But more than aware enough to talk.

"TELL ME WHERE HE'S HIDING!"



"TELL ME WHERE ZUCCO'S HIDING, YOU SLIME!"

Partially dazed, he starts to shake his head.

"Hh. He's. He's already gone. You just missed 'im."

That spasm in his left eye wasn't a result of my attack. He's lying.

"Why don't we try this again..."

Pulling him off of the ground, I lean in closer. Angrier.

"You're going to tell me where he really is. Or I'm going to start cherry-picking which sections of your limbs I want to rearrange. Five seconds."

He quickly panics and points to the far righthand door.

"H-He's down there. In the basement. There's a p-panic room in there."

"Better."

Slamming the back of his head as hard as I possibly can into the wall, I immediately walk towards the room and kick in the door. My confidence in this is beginning to build. Zucco has absolutely nowhere to run anymore. I have him right where I want him.

"Zucco!"

Leaping past the stairs, I land on my knee at the bottom of the basement. The entrance to the panic room in question being just beyond the righthand corner. Standing, I tread carefully, preparing myself for any last-ditch effort he makes in order to avoid capture. He pulls a gun, I can easily dislocate his shoulder. A knife, I break his wrist. The least likely is the physical altercation, and if that happens, the number of options I have are staggering.

Either way, he's mine.

"Give it up! It's over!"

Noticing that the large metal door is actually unlocked, I pry it open and rush inside, convinced that I'm going see Tony Zucco huddled in a corner, the emotionally wrecked shell of his former self that he likely is at this point...

"Now, it's just you and me."

...only to find a beaten teenage boy in his place, staring back at me.

Gagged and bound to a chair, eyes widened with fright.

I can only think to pause, unable to fully process what I'm seeing.

"Hah! I win, you son of a bitch!"

Before I can react to Zucco's proclamation from the other side of the entrance, the door slams shut behind me. I spin around and run to it as fast as I can, trying to push it back open, but the automatic lock has already been engaged. I slam my fist against the door, more than a little enraged at this particular development. Zucco can only cackle, further tormenting me with the reality that he has me trapped.

"ZUCCO!"

"Gotta hand it to you, Bats! I halfway didn't think you were dumb enough to fall for that little sleight a' hand, but you proved me wrong! Bravo, you really are a dumb piece of shit! Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta run... but hey, feel free to keep the kid! I have a feelin' the two'a you are gonna need eachother in a couple of seconds!"

From the other side of the door, I hear the sound of glass smashing against concrete at once. But the smell that comes pouring in afterward overpowers the entire room. I step away from the door, realizing what it is. Napalm. He's just broken a canister of napalm and set it ablaze.

He's going to burn the estate down. With me and the boy trapped inside.



"BURN IN HELL!"

[Byrd Man]

Belgrade
Serbia
2234 Local Time

Bond's breath steamed from his mouth and curled up into the cold winter air. He walked through the moderate crowd that were out and about on the Saturday evening. Mostly students, figured Bond, kids looking to blow off steam after their week. He was dressed in slacks and a dark pea coat, the dark colors helping him blend in. The crowd was an excellent cover as he stalked his quarry through the night. The squat, fat man with the ruddy red face was Zoran Djuric. He was a low-level soldier in the Serbian criminal organization Црна Даггер, or Black Dagger in English.

The Serbian police report MI6 had lifted said that Djuric was second in command of a crew that ran a white slavery and extortion racket out of the Novi Beograd neighborhood. Djuric had committed nearly two dozen executions and other acts of violence for the Black Dagger and his boss, Vladamir Goren. It was Goren that Bond was after. The sole survivor of an execution squad in the Kosovo War, he was Bond's only link to the unit and the fact that one of the unit's own men had seemingly come back from the dead to assassinate the British and Australian PMs. The Serbian police had been looking for Goren for nearly two years, but he had fallen off the grid and couldn't be located. They had interrogated Djuric dozens of times in the past two years, and the fat man never broke. Bond wasn't the police. He wasn't bound by Serbian law the way the they were. He was assured that he would break Djuric the way a cowboy broke an unruly colt.

Bond followed Djuric through the partying crowd; passing by drunk students and old winos alike, all of them blurred together in their collective drunkenness. Bond thought that this was too easy. Djuric's tradecraft was non-existent. He never checked for tails, never tried to alternate his path in case he was being tailed. Djuric's love of violence and fear tactics made him an adept criminal, but in Bond's summation he was a spy of the poorest quality.

Djuric went into a rowhouse apartment complex and Bond followed behind him a minute later. Djuric was nowhere to be seen when Bond entered the apartment's lobby. The small entrance of the seven-story walk up had a flight of stairs on the left of the room, and a cluttered row of mailboxes hanging on the wall on the far right. After a quick survey of the mailboxes, Bond that there was no mailbox that had Djuric's last name attached to it. But, there was one mailbox with yellow tape sealed across it. A warning was written in Serbian and English that all mail was to be rerouted to the local post office, due to the death of the apartment's resident. Bond remembered the police dossier on the Black Dagger. They ran whores out of condemned houses and other domiciles that they could temporarily use for free. When the police got wise to them, they moved.

Bond tapped the mailbox and checked the name on it with the registry beside the stairs. The apartment was on the sixth floor, apartment 10. With his hands in his pocket, Bond climbed the stairs up to the sixth floor. He found 610 and pressed his ear to the door. Sounds were coming through the door. Low voices speaking in Serbian, two men and a woman. The voices began to get progressively louder, the woman's especially. Then, a man shouted and Bond heard a smack of an open hand striking a cheek. Bond checked the doorknob, found it was locked, then stepped back and calculated his next move. These men were garbage, the police report had all but said that. They abducted, drugged and beat women into submission. Bond wasn't the chivalrous type by any means -- the last woman he had feelings for he had beaten her and called her a bitch before killing her -- but he felt some outrage at the fact that these men could operate with impunity. Try as they might, the police were always one step behind them and having to be tied up with legalities. But, as Bond had thought earlier, he sure as hell wasn't a cop.

He reached into his coat and removed the black Walther PPK with the threaded end. With his free hand, he pulled the supressor from the other side of his jacket. The supressor screwed on to the threads and locked into place with the gun barrel. He checked the magazine and found he had a full clip. Seven shots plus the round already chambered. Bond took a deep breath and got into position beside the door. His foot slammed into the door just beside the knob. The cheap lock of the door shook and then snapped. The entrance into the apartment swung open and Bond came in, crouched low with his gun out in front.

He went down the short hallway entrance into a kitchen area. In front of him were two men he didn't recognize. A short, muscle bound man with a shaved head loomed over a beaten and bruised woman on the floor while a taller, heavy set man watched from the sink. The three of them looked up at the same time. Bond took out the tall man first, hitting him in the chest with two rounds. The woman screamed as the soft pops of the PPK struck the bald man in the face and threw him back against the kitchen counter, blood spattering the dingy white cabinets. Bond looked at the woman and motioned towards the door with his gun. He didn't want to tell her to run. With two men dead, the police would investigate. An Englishman killing two Serbian gangsters would make the circumstances even more suspicious than they already were.

He walked past the girl as he went deeper into the apartment. Behind him, Bond heard heels clacking on the wooden floors growing more and more distant. He went out of the kitchen and through a living room area devoid of any furniture. He swept around a corner and saw steel flash by his face. The serrated blade of a knife came within centimeters of his nose, the man wielding it cursed in Serbian as he missed his chance. Bond stepped back and batted the man's knife hand down with the butt of his pistol. With his left hand, Bond punched him in the face and knocked him against a wall. Creating space between them, Bond drew down and double-tapped the PPK's trigger, two neat and round bullet holes appeared in the man's forehead, blood shooting out the exit wounds and staining the wall behind his head. With only two rounds left, Bond released the magazine from the gun and pulled his spare clip from the jacket pocket. He slid a fresh clip in and went down the hallway to what Bond assumed was the master bedroom.

He pushed the door open and found Djuric in the bedroom, a woman in front of him and a knife around her throat. The bedroom was as sparse as the rest of the apartment, just one single bed was the only feature inside of the room. "Стоп или курва га добије!" he yelled in his native tongue. Bond couldn't decipher it, but he assumed it was a threat.

He began to slowly lower his gun, taking the time to scout the situation. Djuric's arm was raised awkwardly, the woman in front of him was taller so he had to cock his elbow to get the knife under her neck. Bond was lowering the gun when he brought it quickly to himself and shot from the hip twice. The first shot went wide, but the second shot struck Djuric in the elbow holding the knife. He recoiled in pain and stumbled backwards towards the bed. The woman screamed and ran for the exit as Bond stepped forward and grabbed Djuric with his left hand. He manhandled the smaller man, knocking the knife out of his hands with the supressor on his gun. Bond shoved him sideways, pinning him against the bedroom window.

"Vladamir Goren," hissed Bond. "Where is he?"

"Fuck you," was Djuric's reply.

"Wrong answer."

Bond yanked Djuric by the neck and smashed the back of his head against the window. The glass cracked from the impact of Djuric's skull. Bond did it again, this time the glass broke. The shards and slivers of glass fell to the ground six stories below. With the opening, Bond pushed Djuric until his head was stick out the window, his face cut from having scraped the jagged bits of glass left in the windowpane. Djuric screamed and groped at Bond, his finger sliding off the sleeves of Bond's pea coat.

"Vladamir Goren," Bond said again, speaking calmly over Djuric's screams. "Where is he?"

"He's at some педер бар he goes to all the time!"

"A what?"

"A gay bar! It's in Grock, Stanlis Bar! He's a gay, fruit, whatever you English call it! Let me go, please!"

"As you wish," said Bond. He pulled back from Djuric and watched as he slid out the window. Bond heard the screams of Djuric falling. He leaned his head out the wind just in time to watch the fat man go splat on the ground below.

[Spartan]

1975.

Dark eyes flicked open and gazed around the room.

Minimalist.

Sterile.

Clinical.

Logan was strapped to a metal table, completely naked and with a series of nodes buried into his skin and wired up to a variety of machines. He strained against his bonds but they held fast. The room itself was mostly bare except for a long table to one side, holding a variety of medical and surgical equipment. A heavy door stood next to a mirrored window.

Speakers in the corners of the room crackled to life and the voice of the man that had earlier appeared on the screen within the Alkali Lake facility croaked out from them. "Finally awake I see. It took longer than I thought for your healing factor to clear out the drugs that we had to pump into you to keep you sedated. A curious discovery..."

"Where am I?" Logan growled, straining again, feeling the thick leather straps cutting into his skin.

"You are where you need to be. We have long been tracking you Logan, ever since the day you burst from your cage and ran away we knew it was only a matter of time before you found your way home".

"Stop talking in damn riddles and start with givin' me some damn answers!" Logan cried, his anger flaring like an inferno.

"Very well" The voice said matter-of-factly. "Following the documented rise of super-powered beings after the war, our esteemed government realised that it made good sense to have some of these magnificent specimens on the payroll. They began a project called Weapon X in order to create the finest soldier our country had ever seen. We made you Logan. We made the greatest killer the world had ever known".

"Why?" Logan snarled. "Why me?"

"Oh, because you are special my dear boy", the voice said, his tone inflected with remembered excitement. "That magnificent healing factor of yours allowed us to go beyond our limits and bond your skeleton with a near-indestructible Adamantium frame. We failed so many times before and you were the break-through!"

Logan tried to remember but his memory only allowed the briefest flashes. Glimpses of pain and torture. echoes of rage and bestial aggression. "Why can't I remember?!" he asked.

"We wiped your memory. You have a storied past my boy, a past that could have interfered with the work that you were created for. We couldn't have that. Unfortunately, we believe that is what caused your reaction and fuelled your escape. But we made plans for that. Subliminal memory recollection. We implanted hints into your psyche for situations such as possible defection or you disappearing from the grid".

"Alkali Lake" Logan grunted. "You put that in my head?"

"Amongst other triggers, yes". The voice admitted. "Ultimately, it brought you home".

"So what now? What the hell do you want with me?"

The voice chuckled. "We need you Logan. Or at least your magnificent DNA. You see, for years we have tried to replicate the Weapon X program without you. But our results have proven less successful than we would have liked. In fact, you were greeted by our latest creation upon your arrival. Unfortunately, we could not get the balance correct and our poor dear subject was left as nothing but uncontrollable primal fury. When we knew that you were here, we decided that we must test your qualities to see how much had been retained. You had, after all, been gone for a very long time".

Logan remembered the monster and the words of the woman he had saved in the woods. The pieces slowly starting to form in his mind. "That thing. You made that?"

"Yes. Another unfortunate failure" The voice conceded. "But one that ultimately had its use and allowed us to see just how perfect you are".

"But how could you know I was even coming?!"

"Ah, now that, my friend, was down to my esteemed colleague, Kara. I believe you have already been introduced?"

"The woman?!" Logan asked, "She was in on this?!"

"Of course. That was her job, to ultimately gain your trust, encourage you and direct you right to our door".

"Played by a damn broad" Logan growled in anger.

"Don't be too upset my boy" The voice said. "She can be very ...persuasive".

Logans head spun to one side as the door to his holding room hissed open. He roared in fury as he instantly recognised the petite frame covered in a long white lab coat and tied back dark hair of the woman he had met in the woods. "You made a big mistake darlin'. I'm going to kill you for this" He assured her.

She raised an eyebrow as she approached the table he was strapped to and checked the readings of the machines he had been hooked to. "I don't think you will" she said sharply, tapping at a few buttons and listening to the resulting beeps from the machinery. "Now, if you're done with your threats, I need you to go back to sleep". Producing a needle she jabbed it into the restrained mutants neck and stood patiently as angry feral snarls drifted off into an unconscious slumber.

[Spartan]

Carl Creel winced as he poured the whiskey he was drinking burned its was down his throat. He had not long since been discharged from hospital and he was sat in his small kitchen at the plastic moulded table that passed for a dining area in his filthy apartment. His fractured jaw and broken ribs were causing him constant agony and his insides felt like mincemeat. All thanks to a single punch from the big blonde guy that Jane had been in the bar with.

"Luck shot" Carl mumbled, still trying to convince himself.

He had seen the fellow about town, but had never had any interaction with him. The boys told him that he worked down in Anders workshop at the bottom end of the town. Creel had no interest in making friends around the town but the guy had stepped into his business and Carl was determined to finish what had been started. When the time was right of course. More pressingly was the matter of on-again off-again girlfriend Jane Foster. He had tried to keep her in her place but the woman was defiant as all hell. Creel had thought it a challenge at first, to make his woman bend to his needs and take care of him but she was headstrong and retaliated far too often for her own good. But Creel, despite her misgivings, found himself actually wanting to keep her around. He'd not heard from her for the few days since the night at the bar.

"I do wander which is worse. The humiliation of being unmanned so easily or the injuries you are currently trying to drink away?"

Creel swung to the sound of the lilting, mocking voice behind him. Before him stood a tall slender man, slicked back dark hair and a long coat. "Hey! How'd you get in here?!" Creel snarled, lunging for the man.

The figure disappeared in a puff of smoke as Creel stumbled, before righting himself and seeing the figure reappear across the opposite side of the table.

Before Creel could form the words to question what had just happened, the slender man shook his head slowly and held a hand out towards the drunken Creel. "Relax" He commanded, his voice a soft hiss.

Carl felt his anger and confusion melt away, suddenly replaced by an intense desire to sit and listen to the figure in front of him. He scraped back his chair and parked himself in it, staring up at the slender man in confusion.

"Good man" the stranger smiled. "You know Carl, I can imagine that a man such as you would not allow such an affront as the humiliation you suffered to go unpunished". The voice was soft again, almost musical.

Carl found himself staring up at the slim features of the man, fully enraptured in his words. "No" he said in reply, his eyes wide. "It won't. I'll deal with him".

"Of course you will yes. But please, tell me, how does a mere mortal like yourself deal with a God?"

Carl blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?" Carl mumbled, not comprehending what he was hearing.

"The man who assaulted you and took your woman is not a man like you Carl. He is Thor, the God of Thunder and my treacherous half-brother. He is a bully and a fiend and he needs to be dealt with".

"A God? Like Jesus or something?" Carl said.

The man snickered and grinned at Creel. "Would you like to take your revenge on him for what he has done to you?"

"Y-yeah!" Carl nodded. "You going to help me? We can kick his ass together!"

"Unfortunately, as incredibly satisfying as that would be, I cannot. You see Carl, great magics were cast to exile my lumbering oaf of a brother. During that process, Midgard became lost to the advancement of my force. However, I have enough power to influence certain elements. I have chosen to imbue a special few with the power of the Gods, if they are willing to become servants to my cause..."

Carl merely stared, wide eyed and enraptured.

"...You cannot deliver the full force to Thor without my help Creel. But I can give you everything that you have ever dreamed of. Would you like that?"

"Yeah" Creel sighed. "I could be a God!"

The dark eyes of the stranger glinted with malicious intent and he reached out and placed a slender hand on Creels chest. "If you want power Creel. Merely swear fealty to me. Offer yourself to the servitude of Loki".

Creel gasped as lightning shot through his chest and fire exploded in his brain. "I S-swear. Your will. My hand" Creel gasped, trying to control the explosions taking place within his body. He felt his broken bones kneading together and cried in anguish as his skin felt like it was melting from his flesh. With a final surge, the pressure lessened and Loki removed his hand and stepped back from the man. Creel sagged to the plastic table and gazed up at the Asgardian.

"When you confront Thor" Loki sneered "Send my regards". Turning to leave, he stopped in his tracks and turned raising a finger as though remembering a vital point.



"And Creel, when you're done..."

"Yeah?"

"...Kill him".