The Singular Universe: An Ultimate Comics RPG IC

[Byrd Man]

Minsk, Belarus
0134 Local Time

The Baroness Anastasia Cisarovna walked through her dimly lit penthouse. The suite's current light source was from the moon that shone through from the skylight above. She had kicked her heels off at the door and now padded barefoot across the plush carpet floor. In one hand was a chilled bottle of wine, a 1990 Camuzet Vosne Romanee, and in the other hand were two long-stemmed wineglasses. She came into the suite's master bedroom and stopped in front of the ornate four poster bed with the golden satin sheets. She placed the wine and glasses on the bedsheet before sliding the shoulder straps of her gown off. The black fabric pooled down at her feet. Her pale and lean body was clad in black lace undergarments, a black demi-cup brassiere and matching boyshorts with a small red bow in the front.

The Baroness placed the bottle and glasses on the nightstand beside her tablet. She tossed the sheets of the bed back and climbed in. She ruffled her raven black hair and leaned against the pillow to wait for the arrival of the Englishman she had just only met a half hour earlier. Her contacts had warned her of doing the thing she was about to do. Keeping a low profile was key to the success of Operation: Midas, and jumping into bed with a strange man or two could mean trouble. The Russian was in adjoining room, her personal protection if the man got rough or proved to be something that he wasn't. Even if the Russian wasn't shadowing her, there was something about the man that made the risk worth it. His blue-gray eyes and the air of sheer confidence around him. If he made love the same way he gambled, with the same cool demeanor and headstrong decisiveness, then she would be in for a memorable night. A soft smile crossed her lips at the the hope that she would make out better in the bedroom than she had at the baccarat table.

There came a soft buzz on the nightstand, a soft light cutting through the dimness. Her tablet flashed an alert, an incoming call. The caller's picture was blank. The caller ID gave only one character for the identity: 2. She leaned out and pulled the tablet from the bed and took the call.

"Yes," she said, holding the tablet up so the pinhole camera wouldn't show her current state of undress.

The stoic face of Number 2 stared back at her, his rich olive skin covered with sweat. Just over his shoulder was a blooming and ornate garden illuminated with LED lights strung up on poles. Wherever he was, it was far removed from the cold night outside the Baroness' window.

"We have a problem. An interloper with the British Secret Service."

Her nails clicked against the back of the tablet in agitation. She had a sneaking suspicion Number 2's interloper and her soon to be lover were related. Number 2's face disappeared from the screen, replaced by a black and white surveillance photo of a man in a peacoat walking down a sidewalk. He had short, jet black hair with high cheek bones and a lopsided mouth. It was too far away to see his eyes, but she knew they were same blue-grey.

"His name is Bond. James Bond. Have you see this man?"

"Yes," she said. That was as far as the Baroness was willing to go. She had disobeyed SPECTRE's orders by a man up to her room. The organization did not suffer disobedience lightly, especially if the man she was planning to sleep with was a secret agent. The photo disappeared and Number 2's stone face was back. She felt like he was trying to read her body language.

"Orders?"

"You and the Russian are to leave the city as soon as possible. When's will the casino have the next batch of cash ready?"

"Within the hour. It was going to be flown out to the site in the morning."

"Move it up to tonight. The two of you will fly aboard the plane to the site."

"What about our plans involving the US currency?"

"It will have to wait. We have at least three times the bare minimum to carry out Midas' European operation."

"And the spy?"

"That is being taken care of as we speak. If you see him again, kill him on sight. No playful banter, no toying with him. Two shots in the head. We will speak when you're out of Belarus and on the ground in Switzerland."

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing... Lukashenka. How much does he know?"

"Next to nothing. He thinks we are upscale counterfeiters, but he knows nothing of Midas."

"He has seen your face, knows one of your aliases. Kill him before you depart."

"Understood."

The Baroness hung up and placed the tablet on the nightstand with a sigh. She rolled over in bed and reached behind her pillow. Her hand came out from behind it with a tiny Beretta 418 in her hands. Grumbling to herself, the Baroness tucked the gun into the waistband of her shorts and climbed out of bed to get dressed. As she crossed across the carpet, there was a loud crash from somewhere far below that was followed by a soft shaking.

"What the hell?"

*****

Bond sat in the passenger's seat of his rental car and dug through the glove compartment. If he was going to bed this woman tonight, he was going to need some protection. He found what he was looking for, pulling his Walther PPS from the glove compartment. With it he pulled out a dissolvable node. When the time came, he would stick the node into his mouth and let the tiny nanomachines dissolve on the tip his tongue. In the throes of passion, he would then kiss or lick the Baroness somewhere on her body and mark her with the nanites. In turn, the microscopic particles would act as a GPS tracker. He tucked the Walther it into his shoulder holster, placed the node in his coat pocket, and checked his mobile one more time. No reply from Q yet. He had used the phone's scanning feature to map out every detail of the Euros he had won in the casino. Q's people would examine them thoroughly to determine if they were counterfeits, and if so of what quality the fakes were exactly.

With no word from Q, Bond climbed out the car and walked through the casino parking lot towards the posh hotel that lay across the street from the Belaya Vezha. He went through the lobby and caught the lift. He pressed the top button and waited for the doors to close. They were nearly shut when a hand reached through and caused the automatic doors to spring back open. A dark-haired man in a tuxedo gave Bond his thanks and selected his floor before the doors finally closed.

Bond gave him a glance out the corner of his eye. His tuxedo was of a baggy cut, but he could tell the cloth hid a muscular frame underneath. His dark hair, which was gelled and combed back, had bits of gray in it. There was a thick black goatee on his face. There was something oddly familiar about him, and Bond was overcome with the sense of deja vu by just glancing at the man's profile. He kept his eyes forward, but his body language told Bond that he was on-alert and focused on something. A cold, numb sensation began in the pit of Bond's stomach. He was not a believer of things like a sixth sense or telepathy, but his time in the navy and in MI6 had given him an acute sense of recognizing danger and when it was imminent.

He flung himself backwards just as the man's large fist moved to strike his side. Bond grabbed his wrist with one hand to try and twist it backwards behind his back, but the man's muscles tightened and flexed. He smacked Bond hard against the face with the open palm of his free hand. He reeled backwards and slammed against the lift's wall. While he recovered, the assassin slapped the emergency stop button at the tenth floor and began to encroach towards Bond.

Bond pulled his Walther from its shoulder holster and was preparing to aim it when the man's powerful hands slapped it out of his grip. It clattered to the floor as the man got his hands around Bond's neck and lifted him upwards. The top of his head smashed against the elevator's ceiling, knocking a light fixture loose and popping the florescent lightbulb. The small space was now basked in half-shadow as the man throttled Bond's neck. His tough hands scratched at Bond's throat the way sandpaper scratches at wood. He kept his eyes forward and watched Bond with gleeful anticipation as he squeezed the life out of him.

Flailing, Bond's foot connected with the man's chest. The shock caused him to drop his prey and stumble backwards holding his chest. Bond slammed against the floor of the lift and coughed violently as air returned to his lungs. He looked up and saw the man sucking for air as well. The Walter was in the far corner beside the assassin. Bond stood just as the man was standing.

"Suppose we can't talk this out like men?" he asked the man in a rough voice.

"Talking is for cowards," he said in a thick Russian accent. "But we will talk like the real men used to."

Like that, he was back on Bond with his wide fist cutting through the air. Bond held his arm up and blocked the blow with his left forearm. The blow sent shockwaves of pain through his arm, but it didn't effect his aim as he struck the man in the face with a right hook. The blow knocked the man unbalanced, and Bond kept up the barrage with a series to body blows to the chest and sides. He had the man backed up against the side of the lift, but any advantage he had evaporated when he grabbed one of Bond's blows with an open palm and flipped him hard on to the lift floor. The wind rushed out of Bond's lungs and he gasped for air. While he struggled, the man stood over him.

"Not bad," he said with a slight bow. "I have encountered better, but not many. You were nearly a worthy opponent, Mister Bond, but you were not good enough."

The man raised his leg and was bringing it down when Bond rolled to his right. The foot came down on the lift's metal floor. Bond swept his legs, knocking the man to the ground. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the Walter on the floor. Bond rolled in its direction, picking it up in his hand. Before he could turn, he felt the powerful assassin's hands around the back of his neck. Bond swung the gun behind his head and felt the gun strike the man square on the head.

The blow didn't appear to phase him, as his powerful hands reached out to take the gun from Bond. They struggled with each other, rolling in the floor. In their tug of war, one of them squeezed the gun's trigger. It went off straight up in the air, first a three round burst then the rest of the rounds were emptied. Bond kicked away from the killer and yanked the Walther from his grip. Turning, he struck him again with the gun barrel, this time straight across the face. He screamed out as the gun's iron sight scratched across his eye.

There came a loud metallic twang from above, followed by a groan. Both Bond and the assassin looked up. The gunshots had pierced the lift's ceiling, one of them must have damaged the cables that operated the lift. Both Bond and his would-be killer exchanged looks before they tried to strike. While the assassin reared back for another punch, Bond used his left hand to poke him in the scratched eye. He screamed again, falling back to the floor. There was another twang, this one shaking the lift. Bond carefully stood while his killer rolled on the ground. He tried to pry open the lift's doors as gently as he could while the man tried to regain his composure. He was on his hands in knees when Bond kicked him in the face and dropped him to the floor. With a wedge big enough to pass through, Bond stomped down on the lift's floor hard before he slid through the opening. He came through the doors and out on the tenth floor just as the lift's cable gave a loud twang and a snap, the man's scream was loud at first, but got smaller and smaller as the car fell down towards the lobby.

Breathing hard, Bond bent down and rubbed his sore neck with his hands. He heard a crash and a rumble far below him. "Looks like he found his floor," he said softly to himself.

Bond stood and hurried down the hallway towards the stairwell. From there, he hurried down to the eighth floor and caught the second lift down towards the lobby. His tongue touched the back tooth in his mouth in a careful sequence that activated the microphone.

"007 to Black Widow," he wheezed. "Where are you?"

"Lukashenka's office," she replied. "I think I may have a lead."

*****

Natalia sat on the edge of Lukashenka's office and gave the man her best seductive smile. He had invited her up here after personally escorting her to the cashier's cage. Her winnings, which she had thought to be substantial, had only turned out to cover to ten Euros. Lukashenaka had used the excuse of extending her house credit to invite her up here. And now, here she was. The office was mid-sized and sparsely decorated with a sofa and a few landscape paintings of the Belarusian countryside. What caught Natalia's eye was behind Lukashenka. A large back of television monitors, some twenty in all, that displayed the live security camera feeds around the casino. Curiously, there was a row of four televisions that were turned off.

"So, my dear," Lukashenka asked in Russian, pulling a bottle of vodka from his desk. "Would you like a drink?"

"Yes," she said playfully. "You know how we Russians love our vodka."

"I do indeed." He pulled a pair of shot glasses from the same desk drawer and filled them with the clear liquid.

"It is not just you, my dear. Here in Belarus, we can put them back just as good as you Russians can."

They held up the shots and clinked glasses before downing the liquid in one gulp. Natalia made a slight face. Despite her Russian heritage, she had never fully developed a taste for the stuff. When Lukashenka saw her face, he laugh heartily. "I thought you Russians loved your vodka?"

"We do," she said with a slight grin. "But goddamn the taste."

"Anybody who likes vodka for the taste is a damn fool. Tell me, would you be more comfortable if we were to move." He nodded towards the sofa across the room and she nodded.

"May I ask a question?"

"Of course," he said as he stood and grabbed the vodka and glasses.

"Those cameras? Why are they blank?"

"They aren't in use because that part of the building is under construction. Our basement was damaged by a flood last spring."

She flopped down on the couch, kicking her shoes off as Lukashenka sat down beside her. He placed his right hand on her left knee and rubbed softly against the wine-colored fabric. "If this makes you uncomfortable, let me know."

"It doesn't," she said in a husky voice. "In fact, if you would come closer..."

Lukashenka leaned back and towards her as Natalia parted her lips. She inched her face closer to his as she placed her left hand on Lukashenka's cheek. She slid the palm of her hand down and cocked her wrist at the man's neck. There was a soft pop of compressed air as something flew from her bracelet. A tiny dart struck Lukashenka in the neck. He recoiled in pain and began to speak, but his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he slumped against the couch. He was snoring heavily by the time Natalia picked herself up off the couch and slid her shoes back on.

"007 to Black Widow,"came Bond's ragged voice. "Where are you?"

"Lukashenka's office," replied Natalia. "I think I may have a lead."

"I found something out as well."

"Judging from how out of breath you are, I assume it's where your new friend is ticklish."

"I never made it up to her room. On the ride up, a man tried to kill me."

"Are you okay? Where's the assassin?"

"I'm fine, can't say the same for him. I gave him the shaft."

"What do you mean?"

"I gave him the shaft, if you know what I mean."

"No, I don't... Do you mean you cheated him or?"

"I dropped him down a bloody lift shaft," yelled an annoyed Bond.

"Oh. Why not just say that?"

"Because it's not a pun... Never mind. I don't know what's going on, but I assume the woman and her large friend are at the center of it. What's your lead?"

"Meet me outside the casino in ten minutes and I'll show you."

Natalia disconnected and checked Lukashenka one last time. The tranquilizer she had shot him with would keep him unconscious for at least another six hours. She took the vodka bottle from his lap and took a long swig off of it before pocketing the spare shot glass in her purse. Natalia turned to leave, satisfied that it appeared like Lukashenka had passed out while drinking alone. She calmly walked out the office and headed towards the bright lights and loud noises of the casino floor.

[nightrunner]

Hell's Kitchen, New York
17 years ago

Matt's father, Battlin' Jack Murdock was in the ring yet again. For the sixth time in a row, Jack was winning. The arena was small, dark, and smelled like sweat and blood. Just like Battlin' Jacks's opponent. Aaron Smith was a short, stubby, yet muscular african American man. He had worked his way up to be defeated by a poor, angry, drunkard, it didn't make the crushing might of Jack's fists hurt any less.
His redheaded son Matt cheered him on from the crowd. He could tell his dad was winning mostly from the crowd, but he could hear the opponents heart beating while his dad's was barely up from usual. The way he did this was Matt's secret. He had trained in private to listen to small sounds and hear where they were coming from.
In fact he could practically feel his dad's movements. Envisioning them in his head. Matt started making punches in the air, feeling the thrill of seeing his father be unstoppable.
When the final punch landed, Battlin' Jack felt like a champion, holding the adoration of the small crowd, but more importantly the attention of his son. As Aaron's limp body fell it was clear that he had lost.
Battlin' Jack as he was affectionately called was now one of the two top fighters in a small league of about fifty men. The rush was the biggest payoff though. It was hardly enough to educate Matt. And to Jack, that overrode all else.
As the referee was finishing his backwards count to ten Matt knew that his dad had won another hard fought battle. In the last three seconds Aaron rose to his feet, only to feel the full force of Jack's right hook. A traumatic blow to the jaw leading to a technical knock-out.
The referee held up Jack's left arm, and Matt jumped on the stage and was wrapped in his father's right. Pride swelled within Matt, feeling his father's victory, relishing it in his heart and soul.
When Jack and Matt went outside, the twelve year old boy hugged his father in a seemingly limitless show of pride.

"That was cool dad," breathed Matt,"you got him up against the ropes and then you used a left hook, then a right hook."

"Yeah, I got it done," shrugged Jack.

"You got it done and then some. Especially that finisher when you smashed him to the ground."

"Calm down, Matt."

"But dad, how can I calm down now," asked Matt.

"Just stop obsessing over it."

"But dad-"

"SHUT UP, Matt!" his father let out in a fit of unjust rage.

"I'm sorry dad," Matt said hushing himself quickly.

Jack's face returned to it's normal appearance,"It's okay, Matt. I just... need a break," Jack paused."Do you know why I'm a boxer?"

"No, I really don't dad," Matt answered.

"I go to a boxing ring to put food on our table because I have no other skills. I am a fighter. That is not what I want for you, son."

Matt looked up,"Yes, dad."

His father continued,"That is why I won't let you fight. You'll never lead a better life than me if Matt Murdock is a scrapper from Hell's Kitchen. So I want you to study hard, be a lawyer or a politician, not a thug or a fighter."

So Matt looked at his father and decided to obey his father. No matter what, Matt Murdock would not be a fighter.

[Johnny Blaze]

Stanley Powell, only twelve years of age, lays unmoving in a hospital bed as an assortment of instruments are hooked to his body, monitoring his vitals.

"I just don't understand it", the doctor muttered to himself as he looked down at the sleeping boy from the foot of his bed.
"There's no sign of trauma or any kind of infection...no history of any kind of disorders that may cause this..."

The doctor sighed, the concern he had for the boy showing on his face.
There has to be something we can do to help you, son.

A nurse peaked her head inside the room where Stanley rested, "Doctor Ordway...your needed in radiology."

"Okay, Sarah", Dr. Ordway replied as he rubbed his tired eyes with his index finger and thumb.
"I'll be right there..."

Ordway looked at his watch, it was a quarter past midnight. He had been working for seventeen hours straight, as nearly one-hundred patients have arrived all suffering from the same bizarre condition that Stanley Powell was the victim of: an unwakable sleep. Yes, it had been a long day, and the end did not seem to be in sight.
Dr. Ordway gave one last look to his patient and then departed, shutting the door behind him as he did.

And, as he left Stanley alone in the room, a figure materialized from the room's corner, seemingly melting in from the shadows.

Doctor Strange glided over to the boy's side, looking down on him as Stanley's eyes twitched along with his muscles as he was obviously in a REM dream state.

"Poor child", Fate stated softly as he placed his hand on the boy's forehead.
"I can feel the magicks that clouds your slumbering mind..."

"This is indeed a powerful sorcery at work...but there is nothing I can do from here..."

The Archmage moved to sit down on the cold floor, crossing his legs and taking a meditative position. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Strange began a soft chant. As Fate chanted, he slowly began to levitate off of the ground, coming to float silently beside Stanley's bed, as his astral form reached out across the void and, with great effort and wizardly will, crossed through the barrier and into Stanley's dreamscape...



Strange found himself in a cold, desolate wasteland as mighty winds whipped across the flat, gray wastes from behind him, causing his cloak to flap wildly in the breeze as dust kicked up around him. Dark clouds hung above him, covering the entire sky and emitting an eerie green glow, as the winds began to stir up a dust storm that threatened make visibility in this dimension nigh impossible.
Fate squinted through the helmet, his gaze falling on the small shadowy silhouette amid the rolling torrent of dust in front of him.

"Stanley", Fate cried out above the din of the now raging storm as he began to slowly walk towards the boy, who rested on his knees, his back to Strange, as he stared blankly out in front of him!

The closer Strange got to the boy, the more the winds and the torrent of dust fought against him. Grains of sand began to tear at his clothes and cut into his skin, but still Strange pressed on. When Fate had made it close enough to the form of Stanley, he summoned an astral shield to cover himself and the child from the frightening dust storm that began to rage with an even greater ferocity. Seemingly with a mind of it's own, the storm attacked Fate's shield, taxing Strange's mental fortitude greatly, but he did not yield.
Finally, as quickly as it had arrived, the storm began to fade away. And now Fate found himself and the astral form of Stanley Powell standing amid a large area of ancient, desolated ruins of ancient Greek motif atop a colossal hunk of rock floating amid a sea of stars as the ruins seemingly hung in space.

"Simply marvelous...", a voice echoed out from seemingly everywhere around Fate.
"You may not have the savvy of the Ancient One, but you have the raw power..."

"Though, I guess that's to be expected, what with you being new to the job and all..."

"Show yourself, demon! By the All-Seeing Eye of Agamotto, I command it", Fate demanded, as the Eye of Agamotto opened and began to illuminate the area!

"There's no need to be rude! You are a guest in my realm, after all..."

The ground began to rumble and quake, and a throne of bone rose from the ground in front of Fate and the boy, atop a pile of human skulls. Perched in the high seat in a regal pose sat the being behind these magical attacks, the creature responsible for Stanley's suffering, and the torment of thousands more in Metropolis who have fallen into an eternal slumber.

Spoiler

"Greetings, Archmage", Nightmare cackled as he bared a toothy grin.
"It is so nice to finally meet you face to face..."

---

Somewhere in the Sahara Desert inside the boarders of Egypt...


"I'm telling you, it wasn't there the day before", Kurt exclaimed to his friend and colleague, Howard, as they hurriedly walked towards the Southern section of the dig. It was a fairly warm night in the desert as Professor R.E. Howard, an acclaimed archaeologist from the States, made his way through the small camp of his fellow scientists and through the recently uncovered ruins of an unnamed temple site nearly a dozen miles South of the city of Mut.

"Doorways just don't magically appear", Howard reminded his friend as they approached a rather plain open entrance way into what appeared to be a massive boulder.
"There has to be some explanation for this..."

"Well", Kurt shrugged, "whatever it may be, these markings on the entrance's inner wall..."

Kurt pointed to a series of hieroglyphics that were perfectly readable under the light of the full moon.

"From what I've been able to translate, this place was a tomb of a high priest."

"Strange", Howard remarked as he read the markings himself, "this seems too mundane to be the tomb of some respected priest."

"Well", Kurt said as he produced two LED lanterns, "what say we go investigate a bit? We can give it a quick look see before hitting it with the full crew in the morning."

Howard contemplated the suggestion for a moment, and his curiosity eventually got the better of him.
"Okay...but quickly. I'd like to get some sleep tonight, if it's possible."

"Of course", Kurt nodded, and the pair entered the dark tomb, descending down a winding stairway that was carved out of the solid rock itself.

Eventually, the stairs opened up to a small room with no other discernible entrance or exit. The walls were adorned in strange hieroglyphics, with symbols neither professor had seen before. Small clay pots rested around the room, nearly a dozen of them, all surround the room's lone structure: a large pedestal that jutted from the ground in the room's center.

"This is no tomb", Howard remarked as he walked over the hieroglyphs, trying to discern their meaning. As he investigated the Egyptian writings, Kurt slowly approached the alter, noticing something small sitting on the pedestal, shining back at him as it reflected the lantern's light.

"These symbols...some of these I've never seen before", Howard shook his head in frustration. But his friend, Kurt, paid him no heed. He was transfixed on the shiny, dark stone that gleamed at him from the atop the alter.

"Wait...", Howard squinted, "this is a warning. This place...houses..."

"...a great evil?"

Suddenly, the clay pots erupted with bright red flames, but Kurt didn't even acknowledge them as he was seemingly hypnotized by the shiny stone.

"Kurt! What are you doing!?"

The fear in R.E. Howard was mounting, but a sudden stabbing pain in his ankle brought his attention down to his feet, and, to his horror, a large serpent slithered around him, it's fangs dripping with venom. Howard's eyes rolled into the back of his head as foam poured up and out from his mouth. As his body crashed onto the stone floor, Kurt slowly reached out towards the rock, which now radiated with a dark purple aura as the red flames in the pots grew in size and roared around him.

Before Kurt could reach his prize, his body violently jerked as a scaly clawed hand burst through his chest, clutching his still beating heart. Reality suddenly hit Kurt, his face freezing in horror as his last sight was that of his heart being held before him as it beat it's final time. The reptilian arm pulled itself out from Kurt's chest, and the cloaked figure that sneaked up behind him tossed his body behind him as though it were a rag doll.

"At last", the man hissed in glee as he reached out towards the glowing stone.
"I had thought you lost to me forever. But, it would seem fate smiles upon me as the veil that kept you hidden from my sight has been broken."

Spoiler

The man reached out and grabbed the precious, black stone, smiling in supreme satisfaction as his long quest has finally come to an end.



"Finally, after centuries of searching, the Black Diamond belongs to Thoth Amon!"

[Byrd Man]

Minsk, Belarus
0155 Local Time

Steam curled from Bond's mouth as he stood in the shadows of the parking garage opposite the bright lights of the Belaya Vezha Casino. Just down the road, a crowd had gathered around a parked ambulance. A loud, two-tone screech filled the air. A Minsk police car sped down the street and came to a stop beside the ambulance. A uniformed officer and plain clothes man got out and hurried through the crowd into the lobby of the hotel. Bond stamped his feet to keep warm and ran the last few minutes over in his head. A man, a very strong and proficient one, had tried to kill him in the confines of the lift. Had it not been for a stray bullet and quick thinking on Bond's part, he may have met his end at the bottom of that shaft. He reached out and gingerly placed a hand on his face. It was tender to the touch. The swelling around his cheeks had started, the pain he felt around his left eye indicated there was a black eye forthcoming.

There came a chirp from his pocket. His mobile was ringing. Bond slipped it out and looked down at the screen. The special phone had a half-dozen numbers programmed in it for Bond to use for cover identities, but the line being rung was the phone's main one. The encrypted line's number was known only to a select few personnel at Six.

"Yes," he asked as he answered.

"Good evening, 007," the cheerful voice of Q replied back at him. There was a soft hum underneath his voice as he spoke. The encryption program Q and Bond both used would distort their voices to the point that any electronic eavesdroppers wouldn't be able to make sense out of their conversation. "And I hope it is a good one, or at least worth it. They called me in from home to help you."

"Sorry to pry you from a special night with your online girlfriend..."

"Destiny understands," the young man said with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm married to my job first and foremost. She understands. Bit of a workaholic herself, always busy on her webcam, only costs two pounds a minute to chat. Now, about these Euros you sent me... How certain are you that they're counterfeit?"

"Almost certainly," said Bond. "A casino owned by the head of a counterfeiting ring. It's the perfect cover for passing off phony bills."

"Yes, and these bills are perfect... almost. They're the right size and shape, have proper watermarks, and it's made of the proper paper. Check your screen."

Bond pulled the phone away from his ear and looked as an email from Q flashed on the screen. He opened it and saw a close-up shot of multi-colored fibers. Printed on the miniscule fibers over and over again was the flag of the European Union, twelve stars in a circle.

"What am I looking at?"

"The maker's mark," replied Q. "A microscopic trademark recently introduced. Every Euro printed in the last six months has these on them. The problem with these bill in particular is the issue date on the side reads 2010."

"Then they are phony."

Bond's casino hunch had paid off. Lukashenka was counterfeiting the bills. Had he engineered the raid in Hamburg? No, Bond thought, that was much too professional and well-run for a man like him. Lukashenka may have been the big fish in the small pond that was Minsk, but in the lake of Europe he was just another two-bit guppy gangster. Someone was using him and his people. Was it the woman and her giant friend? Had she sent the killer after him?

"Yes they are fake," Q said to bring him back to the moment at hand. "The only problem is that currently, the maker's mark is only used in bulk shipments to and from countries in the Eurozone. The governments are the only ones with the technology to see the mark. Don't think many restaurants and shops keep an electron microscope handy to run bills through."

"Right," he said as he saw movement out the corner of his eye. "I'll call you back if I have something else."

"Who needs Destiny when I have you, 007," Q said dryly. "As always, I await your every beck and call."

Bond hung up and tucked the phone in his pocket. Natalia appeared out of the shadows in front of him. Her long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail and her fabulous dress and figure were hidden underneath a red wool-pleated trench coat. Her hands were in her pockets, steam rising from her mouth. Natalia's eyes surveyed Bond, taking in the damage to his face and neck. Wordlessly, she reached out and touched Bond's swollen left cheek with a gloved hand. Bond's mind lingered on the soft caress of her hand. For a hardened field agent like Natalia, Bond was only a bit surprised to find she had a gentle touch.

"Ouch," she said with sympathy.

"You should see the other fellow. I gave him the-"

"Yes, yes, insert dark comedy pun here," she said dismissively before tucking her hand back into the jacket pocket. "I think Lukashenka is printing his money in the basement. He had cameras trained on every square inch of the casino, save for the basement."

"Where is Lukashenka now?"

"Sleeping it off," she said with a hint of playfulness before she held up her wrist, showing Bond the special bracelet on her left arm.

"Good. We'll go back to his office and from there we can figure out how to get to the basement."

Natalia and Bond walked across the catwalk hung above the casino floor. The sentries at the catwalk entrance had let them pass after some brief convincing from the SHIELD agent. They had already saw her go up with Lukashenka, and they had seen Bond gambling earlier in the night. Bond looked down as they walked towards the office. Even if it was the middle of the night, the gambling was in full swing below. The Belaya Vezha was open 24/7, but this was a weekend night. This had one of the week's busiest nights.

Natalia opened the door marked "Private" and led Bond inside to Lukashenka's office. She made a beeline for the desk while he surveyed the room. It matched the rest of the casino, cheap with the outer appearance of ornate. Bond's eyes drifted towards the sofa. He stopped when he saw the crime boss sprawled on the sofa.

"Natalia," he said softly. "When you said you took care of Lukashenka..."

He walked towards the man and looked down. He sat slumped on the sofa, his neck at an unnatural right angle. His eyes bulged wide open, his face frozen in a twisted look of pain. A ring of dark bruises and welts formed around his throat.

"I did not do that," she said from behind Bond. "Someone must have been in here since I left."

The door leading into the office swung open. They turned and saw a short, fat man in a suit. He yelled something in Belarusian when he saw Lukashenka's dead body. He fumbled with something at his side, a gun Bond assumed, but he stopped when a soft pop echoed through the room. He clutched at his fat neck before falling backwards and hitting the floor.

"That is what I did," Natalia said, her gauntlet raised like a gun. "He was supposed to sleep until the morning."

Bond turned back to the dead body and bent down. His scrutinized the dark blue ring of bruising and contusions around the neck The picture started to become clear to Bond when he saw the size of the marks on Lukashenka's neck. They were double the size that of the bruises that usually accompanied a strangling. "The Russian," he said to Natalia. "The Baronesses bodyguard. The size of these marks on his neck, that's the only man who could make marks like this."

"I found out how to get to the basement," she said from the desk. "Come, let's go."

"Yes, but first."

Bond stood and walked over to the sleeping thug. A quick pat down revealed a snubnosed.38 revolver with six shots, an extra moonclip with six more shots was in the man's jacket. Bond tucked the .38 into the empty shoulder holster. It fit in roughly the same space, but not as smoothly as the Walther. The man also had a keycard clipped to his right breast pocket. Bond pocketed the keycard and moonclip before nodding at Natalia.

*****

The guard's footfalls echoed off the black and white linoleum floor of the casino's gray-painted corridor. This back passage led to the Belaya Vezha's most important room: the count room. There, the total of the night's take would be counted and calculated. Rubles, euros, pounds, and lira were all counted and then added to the casino's hordes of cash. On a given night the casino took in nearly a hundred thousand Euros in gambling wins, which translated to a small fortune in rubles. Two guards patrolled each end of the corridor, two guards monitored the counters in the counting room, and a guard was positioned at the door that led to the basement. As heavily protected as the count room, the guards were also instructed to let not one soul through into the basement unless they were personally escorted by Lukashenka. The workers and the rest of the men who operated out of the basement entered through an access tunnel that led to an opening a block away.

Stifling a yawn, the guard turned a corner to the next leg of the hallway. He stopped in his tracks as a large, scarred fist flew around the corner and drove into his face. The blow sent him up against a wall. He saw a redheaded woman in a red dress in front of him, a black-haired man in a suit and tie standing behind her with his first ready to deliver another blow. He began to sound a warning to the rest of the men standing sentry, but the woman drove two quick fists into his solar plexus. He gasped for air and slid to the floor. The last thing he saw before the black void of unconsciousness was the heel of the woman's left pump rushing towards his face.

"Two down," said Natalia.

Bond nodded and looked around the hall before glancing at his watch. The steel Omega Seamaster continued to emit its electronic distorting pulse at five second intervals. Any cameras or other recording devices would be disabled long enough for Bond and Natalia to pass by without detection. They had walked past a half dozen of them in this hallway alone without tripping any alarms. Safe in the fact that the watch was still working, Bond motioned forward down the hall. Natalia stepped over the unconscious watchman spread out on the floor and held her right arm out, ready to use the tranquilizer darts if trouble showed up. For Bond's part, he kept his right hand up and ready to pull the confiscated revolver if it came to that. They passed by a closed-door with warnings written on it in both Russian and Belarusian.

"Count room," she said without looking at it. "More guards are probably inside."

Without a doubt, thought Bond. They pressed on, coming to another bend in the corridor. There were voices coming from down the hallway, low and at ease. Natalia pressed against the wall and listened in on the back and forth of the conversation. "Just idle chit-chat," she whispered. "Talking about the weather and sports."

Bond wished that he could see down the corridor at what was waiting for them there. There were two voices, yes, but there could be three or four men standing watch over whatever it was they had been assigned to. And even if there were just two, they may both be armed with automatic weapons. Bond's stolen .38 and Natalia's trick gauntlets would be no match for the rapid fire of a Kalashnikov.

"Uh-oh," she said softly. "They're talking about the guard I knocked out. He was due to check in a minute ago. They're wondering where he is... Damn. Now they're talking about calling someone to look into it."

Bond scratched the back of his right ear and ran through options in his head. Their options, which were already limited in the narrow space of the hallway, were becoming steadily more restricted. Now, Bond could only see one feasible option. It wasn't ideal, but considering the circumstances and their mission, nothing short of Bond having an assault rifle of his own would make him comfortable with what he was about to do.

"Stay low," he said to Natalia. He pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster. "I stay upright, gun drawn to get their attention. You tag them with two darts and send them to dreamland."

"Okay," she said. Even if her face would not betray her uncertainty, Bond could hear the apprehension in her tone.

Taking a deep breath, Bond ventured out into the hallway, the gun raised chest high. Twenty yards away, there were two men in front of beige metal doors. They were dressed in black suits and white shirts with no tie. They each had MP7s slung around their shoulders. The sight of Bond standing in front of them threw the two men into a stunned silence for at least two seconds. When they realized what they were seeing was real, they began to move towards their weapons. There was a flash of movement below Bond. On her knees, Natalia slid across the linoleum and fired four shots from her gauntlets. Both men recoiled from unseen blow and twirled sideways. One of them smashed against the wall and slumped to the floor while the other one fell flat on his face.

"Excellent shot," Bond said as he helped Natalia up.

"Even better bait," she replied with a smile.

His gun still out, Bond led the way down to the doors. He stepped over the sleeping men while Natalia picked an MP7 off one of the unconscious bodies and slung the strap on her shoulder. With his left hand, Bond pushed open the metal door and went through the threshold into the basement leading with the gun. The noise was the first thing he noticed. The loud and constant din of heavy machinery. The sight was something else altogether. The door opened up to a short row of stairs that led down to a wide open expanse roughly the size of an airplane hangar. The room was empty, save for a dozen printing presses, work stations, and forklifts. A long catwalk encircled the area from above, an office with glass windows sat just off the metal walkway. Dozens of men busied themselves with the work of the presses and hauling pallets from the presses to a group of bay doors on the other side of the room. The pallets were, Bond noticed, stacked with euros.

The noise was so encompassing, no one had heard them entering. Bond turned to Natalia and motioned up towards the catwalk. She nodded and followed him to the stairs that led upwards. From the height, the noise of the machinery was softer and allowed them to speak to each other without shouting.

"How much do you think that is?" she asked.

Bond looked down at the pallets and did some quick and rudimentary multiplication.

"Billions, maybe more if they're only printing the five hundred bank-note."

They slowed as they approached the office. The glass windows facing outward showed that no one was visibly inside. With the gun down by his waist, Bond went through the doorway into the office. He deactivated the pulse on his watch when he saw the computer resting on a desk. Beside the desk was a pile of aging notebooks and scratch paper.

"Safe," said Natalia, pointing behind the desk at a wall safe that came up to Bond's chest. It had a combination lock on the front.

Bond holstered his gun and walked towards the safe, pulling his mobile from his jacket. He pressed the phone beside the safe's lock and activated an app. The back of the mobile slid open slightly, allowing a laser microphone to ping against the safe's tumblers. The phone would broadcast the safe's tiny noises a hundredfold, letting Bond hear the tumblers as they fell into place as he went through the combination. What would have taken a thief thirty minutes to do thirty years ago, took Bond thirty seconds.

There was a beep from the safe and Bond opened the metallic door, letting it swing open at what was inside Resting on top of a pack of bills was a square object that appeared as if it was the motherboard of a computer. Two cables ran from the object, ending in USB ports. Carefully, Bond picked the drive up and walked it over to the computer. He placed it down on the old notebooks, placing his mobile beside it.

"Watch the door," he said to Natalia as he slid behind the desk.

He plugged the USB cables to the computer and began his probe. A quick search of the desktop and files showed that it was an ordinary computer with no incriminating files. It wasn't until Bond activated the E drive, kicking the drive on, that he found what he was looking for. Images flashed on the screen, pictures and stills of the different Euro banknotes from every conceivable angle and magnification. After the euro, the US hundred-dollar bill went through the same procedure, pictures of it that showed the various watermarks and security devices that prevented counterfeiting.

"We have it," he said, not looking up.

"Good," said Natalia. She kept her eyes outwards, scanning the catwalk and the workers below.

Picking his phone up, Bond dialed a number he had never dialed. It was the first number that had been programed into the phone, and the number came with the warning that he was to dial it only when it was absolutely necessary. There came three rings, then a voice picked up.

"Universal Exports," said the bored voice of Walter McCaskill, MI6's night duty officer.

"Yes, I'm wondering if you happen to import any of those wonderful Manchester Apples."

The keywords were the last two in the sentence. Manchester Apple. MA. Mission Accomplished.

"No, sir," said McCaskill, his voice taking on interest. "But if I can have your name and number, I'm sure we will get back to you soon."

"Of course. My name is Beach, and my number is 007-" Bond paused slightly, making sure McCaskill got the designation. "-55 625880."

"Thank you, Mr. Beach. Someone will certainly get back to you soon."

The line went dead. M or Tanner would be calling within the hour, wanting his full report. Bond tucked the phone into his jacket before he stood. He pulled the large drive from the USB ports and held it in his hands.

"Remember," said Natalia. "If things go bad, destroy the hard drive. Better to have it ruined than back in enemy hands."

He nodded and tucked it into his jacket, following her out the office. They hurried across the catwalk and were on the stairs down to the floor when they stopped, the shaking of the catwalk above distracting them. Bond turned and saw the Russian standing at the landing above them, a ruthless grin on his face. Below them, the Baroness came into view. She wore black combat fatigues and combat boots, a tiny pistol in her hand. Behind her, more men with pistols and assault rifles were approaching the foot of the stairs.

"Hello, James," she said sweetly. "Mind telling me what you're doing here?"

"Well," he said, ignoring the fact she knew his name. "I figured I missed my chance to screw you. Least I could do is try to screw you over."

Bond and Natalia both slowly raised their hands as the Baroness' men came up the stairs to take them into custody.

[HenryJonesJr]

Leonardo began coming to as his father and brothers sat around him arguing about what had happened on the surface. He felt like he was walking through a foggy forest, or at least he did in his mind. It had been as if he was ripped from his body and was just finding his way back. It wasn't something he'd like to do again, that was for sure. But what was the girl? And how could she have this power over him? Were all humans like this?

Around him his family was in disarray. Raphael wanted to go back to the surface to find her and make her pay for what she did to Leo. Mikey was just worried about the eldest turtle. Donnie was attempting to explain what happened rationally, but of course he was being drowned out by Raph's war path.

Splinter, meanwhile, was fairly quiet, attempting to calm Raphael and Michelangelo, and trying his best to listen to Donatello's explination. But before long his patience ran out and he yelled, "Enough! Remember your training. Find your centers. Calm your minds."

That's when Leonardo let out a painful grunt and pushed himself up into a sitting position. His head swam as if he had been asleep for years, and he almost collapsed, but Mike caught him and helped him steady himself, "Whoa, Leo. Try not to hit the bottle so hard next time."

"Thanks, Mikey," he groaned and took a sip of water Raphael handed him. He looked up at Splinter, who had both worry and disappointment in his eyes, "We weren't ready, sensei."

"You're right. You weren't. We will train for longer before next time you-"

"No," Leonardo said with more force than he believed he could muster at this point. He knew why this happened, and it wasn't because he and his brothers weren't ready to explore the surface, and hiding here in the sewers isn't going to help anything. "We weren't ready because we didn't know enough about the surface. Humans can kill us by touch! Why didn't we know this?"

"That was no normal human, Leonardo," the old rat said. "And you may be right. It may be time for me to tell you more about the outside world than I was ready to do..."

[Byrd Man]

Minsk, Belarus
0243 Local Time

Bond and Natalia sat in the uneasy silence of the Hummer. They sat in the backseat, their arms behind their backs with plastic zip ties around their wrists. The Baroness drove while the Russian had managed to pack his gigantic frame into the passenger seat. The giant had cocked the rearview mirror to the side, offering him a clear view of the two secret agents in the backseat. The SUV brought up the rear in a four car convoy that comprised of two flatbed trucks. The trucks were loaded down with covered pallets. The twin Hummers bookended the trucks on either side.

Both Bond and Natalia had been patted down shortly after their surrender. The men had taken Bond's stolen .38 and Natalia's MP7. They had confiscated Bond's wallet, phone, the nanite tracking node, and his electronic lockpick. They had taken Natalia's purse but, much to both Natalia and Bond's relief, they had left her bracelets. The ruse that they were simple jewelry fooled the Belarusian criminals. After being stripped of obvious weapons and electronics, they were bound by their wrists and shoved into the backseat of the Hummer. The waited close to ten minutes before the convoy left the casino basement. The cars rolled through the bay doors and into a dark access tunnel that came out at on a street a four blocks away from the casino.

Now, the convoy was leaving Minsk behind. The tall buildings were shrinking and becoming residential apartments and homes The narrow streets grew wider as the sidewalks gave way to front yards and garages. The suburbs loomed ahead. The bluetooth attached to the Baroness' ear rang and she answered. There was a quick exchange between her and some unheard voice. She spoke Russian, and Bond could only guess the subject of the call wasn't dire by her body language.

"We are almost there," Natalia said softly into Bond's ear. "Someone asked her for the keycode to a gate."

Bond nodded and looked towards the front. His eyes met the Russian's in the mirror before the man broke eye contact to look elsewhere. The cocky demeanor he had displayed less than thirty minutes earlier had seemed to have faded as the minutes passed. He seemed nervous and on edge. Bond wasn't sure what had changed him, he and Natalia were under their thumb even more than they were before. There was a back and forth conversation between the two people up front, again in Russian. The Baroness' body language was guarded and stiff as she gave the man a curt reply.

"He wonders," said Natalia. "Why they did not kill us at the casino and dump our bodies. He says they are under orders to--,"

"Enough," barked a deep voice, a large hand flew out from the front seat and struck Natalia across the face with an open hand.

For the first time, the Russian spoke. It was a voice that matched its owner. Gravelly and deep, a thick Russian accent. As shocking as it was to hear him, his actions against Natalia were more so. Bond had sat there in a stunned silence while Natalia stared seemingly impassively at the giant man, ignoring the already swelling upper lip and blood that dripped from i. To Bond, it was a stare he was familiar with. The SHIELD agent was running down in her mind, all the different ways she could kill the Russian.

The Russian could not match her gaze and turned to look at the Baroness. He grumbled to her in his native tongue before she snapped back. After that, there was silence. Ten minutes later, the truck in front of them flashed its brake lights and began to slow. The cars pulled off from the main street on to muddy road with a light layer of snow on either side. The road cut through the countryside, passing through thickets of trees and underbrush that encroached on both sides of the road. After another ten minutes on the road, the convoy came out into a clearing. A large meadow with short-cut grass. In the middle of the meadow, running lights illuminating it in the night, was a tarmac runway. A single plane hangar was off to the side of the tarmac. Resting on the runway was a white McDonnell Douglas MD-11 cargo jet plane.

The rest of the convoy headed towards the jet while the Baroness peeled away from the group and drove towards the hangar. Bond turned his head to the side and watched the flatbeds as they passed by. The men in trucks were busy unloading the pallets off the flatbeds and loading them up onto a motorized dolly. Once the dolly was full, the pallets filled with counterfeit money were motored up the plane's loading ramp to be offloaded somewhere in the cargo hold. By Bond's count, each pallet contained at least a hundred million euros worth of banknotes.

They drove through the open door of the small hangar and came to a stop inside the empty space. The Baroness killed the engine and climbed out the Hummer, walking towards the entrance of the hangar. Meanwhile, the Russian got out and opened the back doors. With one hand, he scooped Natalia from the back seat and slung her over one shoulder. He marched around to the other side and did the same to Bond, carrying both of them across the hangar towards a pair of chairs.

He plopped them down in a pair of facing steel chairs and stood before them while the Baroness and another man approached. The man with the Baroness had the MP7 in one hand, the .38 in the other.

"You know which one they each used?" she asked the man at her side.

"Yes," he said. With his accent, it sounded more like "yues" to Bond.

"Make it look like they killed each other," growled the Russian. "Put all the items back in their pockets, and then find a place to dispose of the bodies. Somewhere where they will be found soon. After that, toss that computer drive into a pond somewhere out here."

"This won't work," said Bond. "My people know who both of you are," he bluffed. It was only a slight bluff. If he did end up dead, MI6 would comb through his security access history and find out that he had run the facial recognition search hours before his death. The results of that search would turn up files on both the Russian and his charge.

"By the time they know you're dead," said the Baroness with a cold smile. "It will be too late."

"Shame," said Bond with what sounded like genuine remorse. "I was so looking forward to sleeping with you."

"And I with you," she said candidly.

"Could you...," he started and then stopped, appearing embarrassed at what he was about to say. "Could you grant me a last wish. Well, two exactly."

"What?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

"A last kiss." At this, Bond blushed. "I mean, call me a romantic... but..."

"No...," she said. "I could do that."

It wasn't so much an act of kindness, as it was an act of curiosity. She hadn't been able to bed the man properly, but at least here she could get an indication of what it would have been like.

"I have a mint," said Bond. "It was in my pocket. I think one of your men took it. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to die with fresh breath and a kiss on my lips."

The man beside the Baroness nodded as she looked at him. He reached into his pocket and produced the tiny node that held the GPS tracking nanites. The Russian stepped forward, shaking his head.

"I do not like this," he said with narrowed eyes. "What is that mint made of?"

"He's dead anyway," said the Baroness. "Even if it's poison, he'll just die before we can kill him."

The Baroness took the node from the man's hand and walked towards Bond. She bent down and popped it into his mouth. Bond held it on the tip of the tongue, feeling it dissolve quickly from the heat of his mouth. The Baroness gave him a soft smile and leaned forward, wrapping a hand around his neck. They leaned into each other, their lips parted. They connected and Bond slowly ventured his tongue forward, caressing hers gently. He made sure that as much of the nanites had connected with her tongue as possible. She was good kisser, he observed, soft where it counted and firm where it was called for.

After many long seconds, the Baroness pulled away from Bond and stood. She wiped her mouth and looked down at him.

"Pity we couldn't finish this."

"We will," he said without looking up at her. "Count on it."

She turned to the man she had brought along. "Remember, leave their jewelry, phones, and cash on them. It must not look like a robbery at all." Then she looked down at Bond, only giving him a polite nod. "Goodbye," she said.

With the Russian in tow, the Baroness turned and began to walk towards the hangar opening. Once they were around the corner, the man left behind stepped forward. He had a cruel smile on his face and he waved the MP7 with glee.

"No kiss for me?" he asked sarcastically. "No worry. I give you one instead."

The man came behind Natalia and crouched down. He was level with her as he held the MP7 out and aimed it for Bond's head. Bond looked down, Natalia's wrists were nearly lined up perfectly to shoot the man in the foot. Almost.

"If you're going to kill me," said Bond with agitation. "Make it look like she was actually holding the gun. The way you stand, it's like she held the weapon with her goddamn armpit."

The man looked at Bond, and then down at the ground. He took in the words before mumbling to himself and leaning forward to make his shot look more legitimate.

"That's it," said Bond, meeting Natalia's emerald eyes. "Fire away."

There was a puff of air, followed by the man's scream. He fell backwards, dropping the MP7 and the .38, his hands grabbing his bleeding foot on instinct. He howled in pain while Bond fought against the ziptie around his wrist.

"Why isn't he going to sleep?" he asked Natalia.

"I was out of tranquilizer darts. All I had left were the small-caliber shots."

"Dammit," said Bond, standing up in the chair. He stumbled forward and stomped on the man's bleeding foot to further incapacitate him.

He screamed in pain and rolled on the hard concrete ground. Bond's face was a mask of pain and rage as he pulled with all his might against the ziptie. He felt their bite, felt them breaking the skin and drawing blood around his wrists. With a loud yell, he gave a hard jerk with his arms and felt the plastic snap in two. His wrist bleeding and bruised, he stepped forward and picked up the MP7. Bond shoved the stock of the gun down, knocking the wounded man unconscious in a single blow. He searched the man and came up with a pocket knife. He popped it open and slit Natalia's restraints in two.

"Thank you," she said standing up with her arms free.

Outside, there came a loud whine of an engine. They looked at each other and rushed across the concrete towards the hangar entrance. They came out on the runway just as the transport plane left the ground at the far end of the runway. The jet's landing gear retracted up into its belly and it soared off, climbing higher and higher off into the night. The runway lights blinked off off, the spare Hummer and trucks were parked on the other side of the runway. Not a soul was in sight besides Bond and Natalia.

"She got away," Natalia spat.

"No," said Bond. "She didn't. I tagged her."

"Your kiss," she said with a look of bemusement. "I wondered why you were acting like a schoolboy in heat."

"Don't tell me you're jealous," he said with a chuckle.

Natalia rolled her eyes. Laughing, Bond walked back to the unconscious man. He searched him, coming up with his mobile, various items, and the drive they had stolen from the casino. Curious, thought Bond. Why leave it behind like this? Perhaps the drive no longer mattered. They had printed up as much money as they would ever need. Bond pulled his phone from the man's pocket and looked down at it. He had a missed call. He redialed the number and prepared what he was going to say.

"007," M said minutes later, the relief in his voice could be heard even over the encrypted line's humming. The relief quickly turned to annoyance. "Where the hell have you been?"

"In enemy hands. Seems that Manchester Apple was a bit premature, sir. We recovered the drive, but the people behind it managed to print out billions worth of near perfect counterfeit Euros, possibly more."

"Near perfect?"

"Might as well be perfect in this case. But I have a trace on the mastermind behind it."

"And where exactly is this mastermind, 007?" asked M impatiently.

Bond pulled the phone away from his ear and activated the tracking app on his mobile. A global map appeared on the screen and then zoomed in to Eastern Europe. In the five minutes since takeoff, the jet had covered plenty of ground. It was southwest of Minsk, heading towards the Polish border.

"West," said Bond into the mobile. "They're heading towards the West."

[HenryJonesJr]

Kara pursed her lips for a brief moment and sighed, almost looking guilty. "Actually ... Professor Xavier and Dr. McCoy sort of.. figured it out already, but only because I was there." There was only a brief pause as she finally stood up, putting her palm out. "But don't worry! They run the school for the gifted - mutants.. the good guys.. they wouldn't go around telling other people what you are. They understand what it means to be different, though they embrace it like you.. they just understand secrets. I won't tell anyone. Really, it's none of their business what you are - just who you choose to be." She let her hand down and let her shoulders relax as she regarded the man for a few moments.

"So.. besides.. knowing what we are, you don't know much else. I can tell you that my ship... didn't even know I had one a few days ago.. ..had this symbol. The professor and Beast made this outfit for me. Thought you might have more answers, but I guess not. I suppose it doesn't matter too much, huh?" she asked, shrugging. She took a few moments to survey the city, still a bit amazed by all the skyscrapers. "... I'll be honest ... I'm not sure where to go from here."

The woman looked conflicted for some reason. Internally, she knew she wanted to help people, do what Superman himself was doing now with this city. She didn't know where to start though. Go back to the mutants and join the X-men? Stay here and try and help Superman? Find another city that might be in need of her powers? She had heard Gotham was ripe with crime several times from Xavier - though she had never asked why he seemed so concerned with that particular city. She just didn't know yet.

Superman was relieved the girl had no desire to give out his secret identity, but he made a mental note to find this Xavier and speak to him as well. From the tone in the girl's voice she was sure in his trustworthiness, but Clark needed to make sure.

Other than that he had no idea how to proceed with Kara. She was a young girl trying to understand her place in the world exactly as he was all those years earlier. He wanted to help her, but he couldn't do that and keep this city safe at the same time. He remembered how hard it was for Pa Kent to help and take care of the farm. He wasn't sure if taking on training Kara was the best choice right now.

But he sighed and looked at her, "Of course it matters. And we can figure this out together, Kara. There must be a reason we both ended up here. And I can help you hone your powers, if you want. You seem to have your heart in the right place, and I want to help you. But I can't be there for you all the time. I'm here to protect this city. But I will come to see you at your school. How does that sound?"

[DotCom]

In and of itself, the scene in the small Gotham City apartment was not a strange one. A single bedroom on the edge of the city, it was about as much as any young doctor could afford, at least while she was still ass-deep in debt. The ancient brick walls were crumbling and exposed. There were three lights, total, in the apartment: one in the bathroom, one in the main room, and one in the bedroom. The last was a lamp she'd brought from school, one of those standing lamps with bending heads she'd twisted into the shape of a man with his limbs spread painfully. It was simply the most efficient way of shining light in each corner.

The bed was unmade, there were clothes strewn about, and the food in the grimy refrigerator was limited to condiments, half empty Chinese take-out boxes, and questionable milk. The proprietor of the apartment sat on her wine-stained futon, in her pajamas, a bowl of cereal between her knees as she sat, mouth open, eyes wide and glued to the computer screen that was streaming the news of what they were calling "The Amusement Mile Massacre."

It was...beautiful. Artistic, even. A perfect study of literary art and irony. The juxtaposition of "Amusement" and "Massacre"...the way the patrons had died, screaming, laughing at a theme park. It was brilliant. And they were saying it was the work of the Joker.

Harley felt a swell of pride grow in her chest, a warmth starting at her neck and spreading to her fingers and toes. Without taking her eyes off the screen, she put down her bowl of cereal, untouched Lucky Charms, and felt goosebumps all over her arms. Her face felt hot--she was blushing like a school girl watching her crush star in a favorite movie.

She knew immediately she had to meet him, had to understand him, had to at least ask him to sign her scrubs. She scowled only slightly at the thought. The police had called an hour ago about Dr. Fuckface's "assisted suicide". She'd been the last to see him alive, said security tapes. But she'd disabled the camera in her office months ago, and had set the stage, complaining that it needed to be fixed last week. She'd told the police, teary-eyed and overcome with guilt, how the job had been too much for her, a young prodigy with a heart too big to help her patients. She'd told Dr. Tobias that she'd quit; he'd seemed upset, and she'd left him at that. She must have found the poison she'd confiscated from one Pamela Isley and--and--it was all too much. With the appearance of the Joker and the excitement of the inmates at Arkham, it'd been a tough week for them all.

Then she'd hung up her phone and thrown it out the window to shatter on the pavement below.

"Assholes."

Now she was sitting, captivated by the coverage of the Massacre, wondering at the brilliance with which the plan had been executed. It was like seeing a stunning work of art, and she, knowing the painter was not so far away, was suddenly restless.

Harley had always kept a box of crayons and colored pencils under her bed. It was a childish habit from when she was younger, something she'd never been able to outgrow. Switching her attention to a Spanish-language broadcast of the "tragedy" (she didn't understand a word, but she wanted to see it from every angle possible), she retreated to her bedroom and began to plan.

Perhaps a little something to gain the attention of her new hero...

[Byrd Man]

Zürich, Switzerland
1500 Local Time


The navy blue Mercedes-Benz C-Class sped along Bederstrasse, the four-lane street that led northeast through the city. To their right, the cold waters of Lake Zürich stretched out across the expanse below the snowy-peaked alps. The Mercedes kept pace with the midday traffic. The car blended in among the commuters going about the everyday business of their lives. Inside the car, though, were two people with an agenda that had very little to do with the cares and concerns of the people in the cars around them.

Sitting in the car's passenger seat, James Bond looked down at the mobile phone in his lap. He wore a dark blue suit with a white dress shirt, no tie and with an open collar. He wore a large pair of sunglasses to mask part of the giant bruise that took up nearly the entire left side of his face. His wrists were wrapped in bandages and medical tape. In the driver's seat, Natalia Romanova stared ahead wordlessly. She had opted to drive once they were in Switzerland. As an American, she was more familiar and comfortable with driving on the right side of the road like the Swiss and the rest of continental Europe did.

This marked their eighth hour in Switzerland. After giving M a debriefing on their actions in Belarus, Bond and Natalia had taken the black Hummer left in the hangar and drove back to their hotel. They spent the rest of the night typing field reports to their respective intelligence agencies, recapping what Bond had previously relayed to M. The sun was peeking over the horizon when they had finished. Both exhausted and weary, Bond had called room service and ordered a bottle of Dewar's. The Dewar's had roughness to it that Bond enjoyed. He had had better whiskeys, but it served its purpose admirably. He and Natalia killed half the bottle and then turned in, Natalia occupying the bed while Bond sought refuge on the sofa.

It was early evening when Bond woke. Natalia was already awake, sitting on the bed and eating a breakfast of baked ham and boiled potatoes. Splayed out in front of her on the mattress was the daily paper of Minsk. She read Bond the headline story.

The Minsk police, acting on an informant's tip, had raided the Belaya Vezha Casino. There, the police had discovered an elaborate counterfeiting scheme wherein high-quality fake rubles and euros were being printed. The leader of the raid, Commander Nikita Thul, had praised the hard work of his men, saying that the tip was the result of a prolonged investigation into the casino. Jan Lukashenka, the casino owner had been found dead in his office, an investigation into the death was underway. Coincidentally, a man had been injured in a lift accident at the hotel across the street from the casino. He was in critical, but stable condition at a local hospital. He was found with no ID and with no given name, and so he was named John Doe. Police were searching for the man's identity and were asking for anyone with information to step forward.

Waiting for Bond was an email from M. MI6 had used the nanotech embedded on the Baroness' tongue to track her across Europe to Switzerland, some location in the alps forty-five minutes south of Zürich. The working theory at Six was that the criminals had chosen the location in question because of its relative closeness to the banking hub. The anonymity of Swiss banking and their disdain for the European Union would make it an ideal place to launder the phony money. Even though they had recovered the stolen drive and M had repaid his favor to Interpol, he still wanted Bond to play the string out to see where it led. Because of that, Bond was to be dispatched to Zürich to investigate the Baroness' movements in the area and find out what her endgame was with the counterfeit cash. Bond was booked on a midnight flight from Minsk to Zürich with a brief layover in Berlin.

An hour after receiving his orders, a man from SHIELD's Russian station, a man named Coulson, had met Bond and Natalia in the park across the street from their hotel. After she had went through the signs and countersigns to confirm the agent's identity, she had handed the drive containing the currency information over to him. Coulson had given them a pair of airline tickets to Switzerland along with two large metal cases. He had informed Natalia that, with the recovery of the drive, SHIELD's stake in the mission was at an end. She had been kept on to aid and backup Bond as a favor to M from Director Fury.

They had arrived here in Zürich just after seven, still posing in their married couple identity. Bond had rented the Mercedes at the airport and tossed the keys to Natalia, informing her to drive. Going off Six's hunch about the Baroness coming into the city, they had driven south on the A3 motorway until they were five miles outside the city. Natalia had parked the car at a rest stop while Bond watched the tracker on his phone, looking for any movements in the mountains.

They killed time by talking, playing cards, and taking turns sleeping. Finally, five hours into their stakeout, the GPS marker began to move. It headed down from the mountains and south on the A3. A half hour later, Bond and Natalia watched as six trucks, Mercedes Actros, blew past with a silver S-Class bringing up the rear. Bond saw the large figure of the Russian wedged in the driver's seat of the S-Class.

They waited five minutes before following. When Natalia finally pulled on the highway, the group of trucks had veered right off A3, headed into the city on Allmendsrasse. She drove them at a leisurely pace, with the tracker there was no need to keep the trucks in constant view. They would occasionally catch glimpses of the tops of the canvas-covered beds before they disappeared around the bend.

"They stopped," said Bond after twenty minutes of following.

He looked up from his mobile and checked where they were. Still on Bederstrasse, now on Bleicherweg as the streets merged together. The GPS node had com to a stop six blocks away off Paradeplatz. Bond searched the internet for information on the address. What he found out did not come to much of a surprise.

"They're at a bank," he said without looking up. "UBS."

UBS, originally the Union of Bank of Switzerland, is a global bank that operates in fifty countries worldwide. Despite the fact it was hit hard by the mortgage crisis in 2008, UBS' total assets total 1.4 trillion Swiss francs. It is considered by many to be the top private financial institute in the world.

"I think the Franc is even stronger than the Euro," said Natalia.

The car passed by the stopped location of the convoy and saw that it was in fact a branch of UBS. Workers were busy unloading crates from the back of the trucks and wheeling them into the bank. Natalia drove by without stopping or slowing. She turned right and drove them south towards the lake. She found a parking lot facing the lake and pulled them in there.

"Money laundering," Bond said to her once the car's ignition was off. "It seems almost too simple, too anticlimactic for an operation of the size and scale they're operating on."

"Never overestimate the imaginations of criminals, James. It almost always boils down to cash. It is expensive, but well worth it. They printed the money in Belarus and flew it to Switzerland. They're making billions off the difference in the exchange rate alone."

"You're right," he said without comment on the fact Natalia had used his first name instead of Bond. It was something he had first noticed the morning after their run in with the Baroness and the Russian. "But I keep playing back something the Baroness said the other night. She said by the time Six or SHIELD had figured out where we were, it would be too late. That implies a larger game is at play. Something more than just making money."

"Well," she said, reaching out with her right hand to pat the top of Bond's left hand. "That's why we're here. To figure out."

He smiled at her and nodded. He didn't let his thoughts linger on the contact of her hand against his, or the spark that accompanied it. Bond picked the phone off his lap and looked at the GPS display on the screen.

"The Baroness is one the move again..."

Forty minutes later, Natalia drove the Mercedes up the elevated road, leaving the city behind for the alps. The Baroness and her trucks were a half mile up the road, climbing higher into the mountains. They came over a hill and saw farther up the mountain. At a fork in the road, the Baroness' car went right while the trucks stayed left

"I'm following the trucks," Natalia said as she veered right at the junction. Bond silently agreed. They could always backtrack the Baroness and discover her location.

With the last truck in sight, Bond and Natalia followed down the winding and snow-littered mountain roads. They came to a dip in the road, leading down the side of the mountain. A mile down the hill, the trucks began to turn off a side road. Natalia followed slowly, letting the trucks disappear down a bend in the back road. She went carefully over the gravel to avoid any detection. Somewhere in the distance, several gunshots rang out in rapid succession. Bond and Natalia traded looks. He pulled his Walther from its shoulder holster while she pulled her Glock from the lower back holster one-handed.

They turned a corner and came to a section of the road blocked by the back of one of the trucks. The truck was still running, its engine idling in the cold. The driver's side door was open, a dead and bullet ridden body on the ground. Bond got out while Natalia parked the car. He crouched and quietly walked along the opposite side of the vehicle. There was another short burst of automatic gunfire. It sounded close by to Bond. Carefully, he peeked around the front of the truck and came face to face with the barrel of a MAC-10 machine pistol.

The skinny bald man holding the gun loomed above him, a smirk on his face.

"Dead end," he said with a short bark of a laugh. "Looks like you hit a dead end."

[nightrunner]

The Sewer, Gotham City

I've come a long way since I was once the easiest kid to pick on in school. Yet, I'm still alone. I was raised by an aunt who thought I was a punishment for the deeds of her past. I caught her praying for forgiveness, looking at military schools, and even trying to put arsenic in my soup. She did teach me one important thing though, every time that you think you should be able to trust someone, you'd better think twice. In my case, caution helped me survive a rough and unfair childhood. In most cases, it'll save you from the worst of heartaches.
In the Seventh Grade my crush was the popular girl, Amelia Bush. She was graceful and vibrant. She was also a trap. All the girls told her to ask me to a date at the movies, I didn't believe she would really go with me. I was right. When we were supposed to meet, a bunch of other children surrounded me and hit me with sticks and mocked me. They added a tremendous load of insult to injury. I never imagined that I'd come out stronger for it. After my skin healed my scars were much tougher and thicker. But despite my thick skin, they pierced straight into my heart.
Now I have decided that I cannot simply go on living in the sewers forever. Between the various rumored criminals taking a piece of the underworld as their own, now it seems that the classic crime families may go out of business. I feel it is time for the world to feel the wrath of Killer Croc, I thought all of this before I chose to take a chunk of Gotham's grand crime empire, no legitimate business would hire me, as monstrous as I am. Street trash believes I'm a monster, but they're all monsters. To them I'm just another asset.
I was in a part of the sewer near Amusement Mile, I decided to avoid the area simply because it could be dangerous, even to me. I am bulletproof, mostly stab-proof, and pretty much immune to brute force. But I, as my aunt once hope to demonstrate, am as vulnerable to poison like everyone else. But where to begin my quest for respect and acceptance. The obvious answer, The Docks.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The Docks, Gotham City

I found a harbor that was full of crates, and had about twenty blue collar workers scrambling around to accomplish a seemingly impossible task. To move every item in the harbor into a boat. I waited outside for hours. Something from my mutation allows me to sit still for hours when I should be bored to Hell. It still felt like hours.
When almost everyone had left, I walked up to the door. Peeking inside, I noted a table off in the corner where a group of semi-muscular men sat and played cards next to a couple briefcases. They all had guns and knives. They were perfect for my purposes.
I smashed the doors open, making my presence very known. Everyone jumped appropriately, then some retard decided to mock me. Showing off his courage, really his stupidity was showing.

"Yo Freakshow. Howz bout you go back to the zoo you came from."

"Howz bout I make you meet your maker," I said jolting forward.

He twitched but I had crossed the room and consumed him entirely, without second thought, it only took fifteen seconds, I was exceptionally hungry. A couple other guys pulled guns and tried to shoot me, but the bullets bounced off of my skin. I approached them slowly, demonstrating the actual benefit of two inch thick natural armor. When I was about five feet away from those who dared shoot me, I hissed out my mouth, and charged into them. Their bodies flew back into the wall and I watched as their fragile spines snapped against the concrete wall of the harbor.
The other two looked at me with a mixture of fear, and confusion. Their mouth's gaped as they tried to comprehend what I had easily done to their friends. In reality, the others never stood a chance. I started a conversation.

"How would you two like a job!"

They looked at each other before answering. "Y-Y-Yes Mister."

"Good. Name is Killer Croc. I need some employees, you two seem to be smart enough to see a good opportunity when one is presented."

"Yes Mister Killer Croc," said the first one. He was tall, fair skinned, and had short, blond, hair. Since I killed all the ones with combat reflexes I guess I've employed the crap of the crop.

The other one stood there, smiling stupidly. With his brown hair and eyes. Then he asked,"When do we start?"

I answered,"Well boys, I need to get some power. With that, I can get respect, and I can control what crimes are committed here in our fair city. I could use some more men, know where I could get some?"

"Yeeeaaah. I do actually," said the first one.

"What's your name, boy?" I ask.

"Reno. Reno Brash," he answered.

"And you?" I ask, pointing at the less intellectual one.

"Stone. My name is stone."

"Reno, where do we get more men?"

"Off the streets, if they draw a knife and ask who you are, you hire them. If they go straight for the kill, then you dispose of them. If they run, they are worthless. If they stay, they are probably not very quick."

"So you and Stone are useless to me because you stood around and watched me rip up your gang."

"I guess so," he said.

"As long as you get that you're disposable. Meet me in Crime Alley, in three hours. Any objections," I asked as I flashed my teeth, smiling.

"Not at all, boss," responded Reno.