POST VOIDED

The Triskelion
San Fransisco, CA

The smoke poured from the Triskelion like an inky, black smog, turning the San Fransisco sky into tar. Small fires still raged across the island, but most of the blazes were now under control. But a fire still raged in the heart of Captain America as she surveyed the damage, both structural and human. This was the ultimate insult by the Red Skull. He had hit her and the team right where they lived, and then he waltzed out as if he had already owned the place. This after a year of seemingly being one step ahead of them at every turn. The Red Skull was living up to his name, and now the SHIELD agents dying around her were paying the price for her failures. And she would not let that go unpunished.

"Cap," Sam Wilson, codenamed Falcon, approached from behind her. Wilson had become a strong friend and ally since she joined SHIELD, and he was always right behind her when jumping into the fray. "I wanna fry this bastard."

"Damn straight," Bobbi Morse agreed. Her and Morse had rarely seen eye to eye, but she was a good agent. She knew when to follow orders and perform.

"We'll get him," Steph seethed. This time she meant it. There was nothing that was going to stop them this time. There was no protocol. There was not due process. She was going to find the Fourth Reich and bring them to their knees. And then she was going to make the Red Skull wish he had never been born. He tried to destroy the only extended family she had ever know. He had tried to kill the people that were responsible for her. Most of all, he had tried to destroy her father's legacy. Tried to destroy her legacy.

That wasn't something Captain America took lightly.

"So where do we go from here?" Bobbi asked, kicking some debris around with her feet. "We've barely been able to track this bastard before. With out the tech in the base we're even more in the dark then we were before."

Steph stood, ash sifting between her fingers, falling slowly to the ground. She looked at her two teammates and said, "We do it the old fashioned way. Find out where the blasts came from. Find out the components of the bombs. Try to see if that leads us back to the Skull and the Reich."

"You think that's going to work?" Wilson was skeptical.

"It's all we got," Captain America shrugged. She patched herself into SHIELD's communication network, "Hill, you read me?"

"It's loud where I am, but I got you, Cap," Agent Hill's voice responded. "What do you need?"

"Start having agents taking forensics. We need everything we can get," Cap commanded. "And once that's done, requisition us a ride. It's time to go hunting."

Yonkers Raceway,
Yonkers,
New York

Tony slapped the side of the ancient television he’d salvaged from one of the storage closets nearby, the picture of the news caster coming back into focus. She’d been talking about how another one of the Boston Irish lot had been found executed last week. As per the usual, the media was throwing speculations left and right, some even suggesting that the Punisher, who’d been confirmed dead months ago, was somehow responsible. Tony just shook his head, chuckling. He was just happy another of those Paddy teste di cazzo was dead. One-Arm would be pleased with the dwindling competition from Boston. Maybe even pleased enough to take Tony off door bouncer duty.

Tony had been caught fooling around with one of the new girls on the casino floor while on duty and had been punished for it, cousin of Ronnie “One-Arm” Trucchio or not. So he’d been stuck on the rear door of the warehouse of the Raceway. The Ozone Park Boys had recently expanded to Yonkers and had come to an “agreement” with one of the 5 brothers that ran the place. So here he was, stuck at the far end of the warehouse behind the casino and bored stiff. If he just had one of those sexy little puttana with him….

A sharp rapping at the rear steel door jerked Tony out of his fantasies. He grabbed the Spectre on top of the TV as he rose to his feet. He stomped over to the door and snapped back the eyehole slider. Outside it was pitch black and a faulty overhead bulb flickered over the figure standing near the door. Tony could make out a cap and a square shape at the person’s chest. A cracked, squeaky voice spoke as soon as Tony’s eyes appeared in the peeper, “Pizza.”

Tony shook his head. The bastradi further in must have ordered it without even asking him. What, did they expect him to pay? Well he would and he’d eat the whole thing himself. He laid the submachine gun on the box next to the door and pulled out his wallet to pay the kid, opening the door. When the door was opened fully, the figure stepped into the light and Tony’s face dropped. It was Chips, the roof lookout. A pizzeria cap had been jammed on his head and the pizza box at his chest fell way. Showing it was held up with some kind of sword. Tony swore loudly and reached back for his gun, only to have Chip’s fat, dead body thrown at him and cause him to fall on his back, his head bouncing off the stone floor. His vision blurred for a moment and as he opened his eyes, the las thing he saw was the end muzzle of a gun.

“And that folks is why you should always tip your delivery boy.”

Deadpool stepped over the dead bodies, his black boot heel dipping into the growing pool of blood. He strained his ears as he unscrewed the silencer on his ACP. No sounds of shouting, running or guns going off (yet). So far, he was still in the clear. He’d worn his ever-so stylish “more-black-than-red” jumpsuit. As insane as he was, he was still somewhat tactical in his approach. Somewhat.

*Was that really worth killing a real pizza boy just to make that joke?*

“Are you kidding? Look at them laugh out there! Well onto business…”

---

Wade jogged forward, making his way down the corridor. He heard voices and laughter nearing him. He thought he must have been getting close as he rounded the corner into the main storage area, only to come face to face with about 9 or so men, all either smoking or playing cards. They turned at Deadpool’s entrance and they merely stared at each other for a few moments.

*I’m pretty sure we saw this in a movie once.*

Deadpool managed to dive behind the nearby crates as the bullets streamed to where he’d been standing. The men screamed at each other, some in English and some in Italian to get in a defensive position. The odd burst of bullets hit the crates that sheltered the Merc. Once the hail had stopped, Wade popped his head out and inquired,

“Excuse me, would one of you be kind enough to point me to Ronnie One-Arm?”

The reply was another narrowly dodged barrage of fire. The bullets whizzed overhead as Wade pulled out his ACPs and sighed.

“Guess that’s a no then.”

The Merc dropped out to the left of the crates, popping off 5 shots, each one finding its mark. The men collapsed as Deadpool scooted back into his cover. He’d managed to discern the other 4 goon’s positions, but he couldn’t pick them off from here and he really didn’t want to get shot today. So time for Plan B.

“You know, I’ve had this song stuck in my head for weeks. You guys ever have that?”

The mobsters just looked at each other, puzzled at this strange announcement. One of the more quick-witted piped up.

“Stick yer head ou’ then and I’ll see abou’ dislodging it!”

Deadpool ignored the roar of laughter as he reached to his belt.

“Yeah, had this one stuck there for weeks, just over and over again. This really old one by the Trammps. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

He snapped off one of the cylinders clipped to his belt, popped the cap of it, twisted the top 3 times and depressed the button.

“What was it called again? Oh yeah, Disco Inferno!”

Wade tossed the device over his head, where it arced and bounced once on the ground between the men and its return arc, a gas violently hissed out. A split second later, the device sparked and ignited the gas. The fire drenched the surrounding men, the screams of pain echoing throughout the building as it engulfed them.

“Burn baby, burn….”

Once the screams had diminished to groans of pain, Wade stepped out, surveying the carnage. Some had succumb to sheer pain and died. The unlucky 2 that hadn’t perished had collapsed in a fetal position, their skin and clothes melted together and naked bits of skin red raw. Wade unconsciously rubbed his mask as he reached for his katana.

“Never say I’m not a mercifully guy.”

He drove the blade straight through their spines, killed them instantly. The playing cards on the nearby table burned brightly as Deadpool stepped further into the building.

---

Ronnie stood at the window, a glass of cognac in his left hand. His right was useless due to a childhood accident. He raised the glass and sipped the cognac, the shouts, screams and gunfire echoing from behind the door. He continued to gaze out into the night as the door burst open, bouncing off the wall behind it, splinters flying in all directions.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Wade stepped into the fancy office that Ronnie had sequestered from the owners. Bookshelves, elegant mahogany desks, lush carpet. It would be a shame if Wade had to ruin it all. Ronnie didn’t even turn to acknowledge him.

“Fancy pad here, Ron. It’s gonna be a shame to get bloodstains in the carpet.”

“You punk kids. Barely cold in the ground and already you’re trying to usurp Castle’s spot. At least, he was a challenge, a respectable opponent. He was a man with a mission. You’re probably nothing but a thrill seeking rich kid.”

“Castle? You mean the Punisher? Hahaha! Oh Ron, I’m not trying to replace him. I’m not doing this for the honour and glory and truth and justice and blah, blah. I’m doing this simply because I was paid to. No hard feelings?”

Ronnie smirked to himself, “Then this makes this a lot easier.” He dropped his glass of $100 cognac, pulled out his .44, turned and popped off a shot with experienced speed. Wade had not expected the old man to be so quick. The bullet rocketed through his chest harder than anything he’d ever felt, punching a hole right through his heart. Deadpool looked down at the gaping wound.

“That was unexpected.”

He collapsed forward, slamming into the carpet. Ronnie tossed the cannon onto the desk and made his way over to the makeshift bar. He poured a fresh glass and sighed.

“What a waste of good cognac.”

He then felt a sharp blade slide across his neck. A small sliver of blood dripped down his neck as the raspy voice of Deadpool growled in his ear.

“Also such a waste of a good bullet.”

“This isn't possible. Your heart…”

“You assumed I have one? I’m not Punisher. I’m much, much worse. I’m Deadpool. I’m the Man Who Cannot Die. You on the other hand….”

The screams from the office echoed for hours. It was clear Deadpool was enjoying himself.

---

Deadpool picked up the receiver of the payphone and dialed the number he’d been given. The number changed every job. Security reasons or some other bullshit. The other end was picked up almost immediately. The same distorted voice answered.

“Is it done?”

“Would I be calling if it wasn't?” Deadpool retorted.

“Excellent. You’re surpassing our expectations every time No. 11”

Wade groaned. He hated that code-name.

“Yeah, yeah, well when am I going to get a REAL job? Something where my ‘talents’ actually matter.”

“11, don’t forget, we give you this work, commission free to pay for whatever you desire. All we ask is that you continue to work for us when we ask. Such as now. We do have a new job….or rather a series of them. It’s a big one, so you’ll need some new equipment to acquire the rest. The sub-targets will be delivered to the usual spot, along with the final target.”

*I've a bad feeling about this…*

“Who’s the main target?”

Deadpool could almost hear the smile at the end of the phone, “Have you ever heard of S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

Kravin Industries, New York City
September 2nd, 2013

Harlan Ryker was stressed. Word had come down that Sergei Kravinoff, the CEO of Kravin Industries, wanted results and he wanted them yesterday. Ryker felt like he knew this was going to happen when Kravinoff began dumping millions of dollars into that OsCorp throwaway’s project and as a man who believed the future was in engineering and not genetics he was quite irritated. To find his job was on the line now after Kravinoff finally began putting money back into what Harlan was in charge of was beyond frustrating. So he did the only thing he could do—he held a conference with his best engineers. So here he was standing in the middle of a room after he removed men from their work.

“Gentlemen, we have a pressing matter. Our CEO, Sergei Kravinoff, has decided that suddenly our research matters, but this is not what we had been hoping for. Mr. Kravinoff has said word from top of the chain that if we do not come up with feasible prototypes by the end of this quarter than he will be firing the entire department and replacing u—”

Harlan was cut short by the upset voice of Michael Collins, a man who was working on cybernetic advancements. “That’s bullshit, man!”

Harlan Ryker took a breath as Collins expressed his disbelief and his anger—all of which he understood. Kravinoff was insane to bring this all on them in such a short time.

“We’ve been working here for half-a-decade with minimal funding and he expects results to suddenly happen by the end of the month? That’s unbelievable and you know it. What the hell is he thinking? It’s impossible what he’s asking of us.”

“I understand, but this isn’t about the sudden decision, I need to know where our projects lie—” Ryker moved his glance to another engineer. “—Ms. Zogolowski, how are you and Dr. Smythe faring?”

Elizabeth Zogolowski frowned, “I’ve been working with Dr. Smythe on his Slayer prototype and they are showing some difficulties, but we are better than we were last year. The artificial intelligence isn’t quite where it should be yet and we haven’t built much of it due to lack of funding.”

“Well we are getting funding, so can we get a malleable prototype up before next quarter?”

“In a month? I mean we have little choice.”

“Then do it.” Ryker moved his attention to another engineer, “What about you?”

“The phasing technology is far from ready; I still don’t really know the potential of the project as there are too many variables revolving around the concept.”

Ryker frowned, “Put all of your energy on it, I want to see something.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ryker crossed his arms as he looked at the group, “Do what you can, make sure we have something to show to our CEO before we lose all of our jobs. You’re all dismissed, get to work.” With that sentence Ryker saw the scientists, programmers, and engineers shuffle out of the room as he plopped down in a nearby chair in a fit of anxiety. How the hell was he going to get something malleable out the door in just one month before their next quarter started? Why couldn’t Kravinoff give them until the end of the year to show him a prototype?

He didn’t know how they were going to do it.

The only thing he knew was they had to do it.

POST VOIDED

Midtown High School, Queens
September 2nd, 2013

“Know this; if you even breathe wrong, you have just killed your father.”

I’ve never been scared like this. I’ve never been struck into complete obedience by words in my whole life, yet here I am exactly that. I am so scared that I feel angry—angry at myself, angry at the men who did this to me, and angry at the world that did nothing but watch as it happened. I can’t do anything about it, not unless one of those famous superheroes saves my father or takes down this awful syndicate—until then I guess I have to sit and do what they tell me.

“So what classes do we have in common?”

Mary-Jane’s voice seems to get lost in my thoughts as I just keep thinking how helpless I am that I completely forgot I’m back in high school getting my classes for the new school year. What’s the point of high school when you have this crime syndicate breathing down your neck, though? Either way, I’m going to try to make the best out of today.

I move my hand from my bag to a piece of paper I’ve folded and hand it over to her as I comment a bit quieter than usual. “I don’t know.”

“Hm... not a whole lot from what I see here, bummer.”

Before last year I would have been a little more interested, but this entire thing doesn’t exactly apply to me anymore—I mean over the last summer I broke into the Daily Bugle for what reason I don’t even know. I just put in a USB stick and let whatever its job was. I was lucky that my “cooperating specialist” took care of the cameras and alarms. Then there was stealing from that R&D lab in Brooklyn, and the penthouse in Manhattan… yet I’ve all been told that those were just trials—tests of what I could do. What were they preparing me for? What sort of job requires me to be like this? That’s when a voice cuts my thoughts short.

“Felicia?”

“Oh, uh… hi.” I say clumsily.

“Are you alright? You were kind of dazing off there.”

I guess I didn’t hear her and got lost in my own thoughts. I mean I used to do that a lot, too, but it was never like this bad. It’s a testament to all of the traumatic crap I’ve gone through, I mean who wouldn’t after they went from a normal life to a science fiction thriller-meets-heist film?

“I’ve just had a lot on my mind, I guess, I didn’t get much sleep.”

Mary puts one of her hands on her hip, “Is this because of Flash’s dad and your mom?”

No— it is totally not that. But I can’t exactly tell MJ the truth—it’d involve her or she wouldn’t think I was serious or worse… mental. So, I guess I have to lie to my best friend for the first time; I mean since last year I’ve already been dodging her questions and worries about me.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It’ll be okay.”

She’s trying to comfort me in the limited time we have here at lunch period. I don’t blame her for trying after all she and I have been together since kindergarten—she was there when my dad had to leave us, she was there when I was reckless, and she was there when I ran away from home for the first time. It’s why I hate lying to her and not telling her what is really going on with me. My reply to her is one that comes from my truth though.

“I hope so.”

Future Foundation HQ, New York City

The two individuals, both nicely dressed, sat at the large black table, various sheets of paper with colorful designs on them laid scattered on the table. Sitting at one end of the table was a young man, casually taking his time as he pulled a few pieces aside. "So we're in agreeance on what we're going with right?" He asked as he held up the designs of black and white spandex looking uniforms.

“Makes the foundation the center of attention, it’s good if you really think this will get our project it’s funding again.” Susan Storm stated as she crossed her arms. The blonde-haired girl would be the first to admit that Reed’s proposal sounded like he was barking up the biggest crazy tree in the entire forest; how would being public superheroes affect their funding? Wouldn’t it just make the company liable for damages they would be blamed for? Wouldn’t they risk incarceration by the government for such vigilantism?

But her brother thought it was ‘fun and exciting’, Reed was in a nostalgic fit, and Ben had other things on his mind to care about the consequences of their actions. It was like she was the only one thinking straight.

"So.... yes to this design?" Reed asked slightly puzzled, continuing to hold up the costume designs confused. Finally he awkwardly lowered them back onto the table. "Well we don't have many other options Sue. I mean funding is low because of the uh... unfortunate events. I don't know if this'll work at all, but I mean short of having a bake sale I'm not sure what else could really work." Reed said, trying to lighten things up a bit with his usual awkward lookin grin.

“What about Stark Industries? Don’t they sort of work with science firms? I mean I highly doubt donations are going to come in the door from us being public ‘superheroes’.”

"Thats just it though, Stark is already working with us. The problem here is we lost a LOT from that experiment." Reed stated a bit forelorn. Truthfully outside of getting to practice with his newfound powers, and the various training excercises they had done as a group. Reed was feeling a lot of pressure being put on him and Future Foundation. Sue, as much as he liked her, wasn't really helping either with all of the doubt.

"My thinking is by being pubically known superheroes, we can bring on a very strong public attention to the group. Find more sponsorship for the company itself. Possibly if the superhero thing takes off find revenue from that too. Sue I know this all seems a bit crazy but I'm trying to come up with something from basically nothing here." Reed stood up from his spot at the table. Strolling over and almost without realizing it, had an elastically long slender hand of his placed on her shoulder.

"Can you at least please just give me the benefit of a doubt here?"

Sue looked down at the table, “What will we do if it doesn’t work? What will we do if the government gets on our backs?”

Reed paused, his own head down, deep in thought before he sighed. Grabbing a nearby chair and scooting it over. "Look, right now I don't care about any of that. I can declare bankruptcy if nothing else, I can handle the Government being on me. Its..." Reed grimaced, trying to figure out the right way to put it.

"Its all those kids here I'm most worried about. The idea I have to tell them that I can't do anything for them after all the promises I made them. Having to send them back out to a world that would much rather care about some... hoity toity bimbos in reality shows then great young minds that can change the world..."

"It's not even them, I'm worried about each of you. I mean... I put each and every one of you into this. Maybe I'm being delusional but I feel like I need to make sure you guys are taken care of somehow. Be it... this or even just making sure the Government is off your butts. I..." Finally Reed couldn't figure out what else to say. He shrugged, sighing as he placed his hands down onto his lap and rested back into the chair.

"I mean what I'm saying makes sense right?"

Sue’s eyes moved to Reed with a frown, she knew he was struggling and he wanted to do so much—it was hard to find someone so scientific and so idealistic, most of their colleagues were like her and rather pragmatic in their approach; other scientists would of closed the Future Foundation by now in defeat.

“Reed…” Sue paused.

“I’m not giving up; I just don’t know what to do with this. If you want to try this Fantastic Four sub-project… then I’ll give it a try, okay?” The titular 'Invisible Woman' added sympathetically.

Reed chuckled very awkwardly, adjusting his glasses as he glanced back up at Sue. "Well, I mean its not like I have a book on how to do this sort of thing." Reed tried to joke with a shrug. He tapped on the table as the silence in the room became even more bearing. "I mean we'll make this work. I know we can."

Finally Reed took a breath. Glancing around a bit before going to some of the other costume designs they had gotten. One in particular caught his attention as he reached over to get it. "Huh... this design for you is... uh... 'interesting'..."

“Huh?” Sue blinked as she pushed herself out of her chair and went over behind Reed’s shoulders to get a look at what he found so interesting.

“REED!”

"WHAT I DIDN'T MAKE IT!" Reed quickly snapped back before fumbling with the paper to make sure his death wasn't coming today. "It was designed... uh..." He awkwardly handed the paper to Sue. "I think that's Johnny's signature."

“I'm going to kill him.”

"Sue! ...Can you let me go get my smart phone first so I can record it?"

Prologue

"Melting pot Harlem—Harlem of honey and chocolate and caramel and rum and vinegar and lemon and lime and gall. Dusky dream Harlem rumbling into a nightmare tunnel where the subway from the Bronx keeps right on downtown."
-- Langston Hughes

Harlem.

There's nowhere else like it in the world. I always hated school, but I loved listening and reading about the history of the neighborhood. A bunch of Dutch settlers founded Harlem as a village way back in 1658, named if after the city of Haarlem in the Netherlands. Back in the day everyone from Alexander Hamilton to Harry Houdini called Harlem home. It's where Jim Reese Europe invented Jazz music. It's where Norman Rockwell, that guy who painted all those pictures of happy white people, was raised.

In the early 20th century black people began flocking here in en masse to escape the Jim Crow south. Sometime during that migration a twelve year old boy from South Carolina by the name of Joe Lucas made his way up to Harlem. He'd be my great grandfather. Joe was here during the Renaissance, when Louis Armstrong blew his horn and Langston Hughes wrote about a dream deferred. The 20's and 30's were filled with beauty and intense horror. For every Marcus Garvey or Lena Horne you had gangsters like Queenie St. Clair, the Madam of Harlem herself, and Bumpy Johnson who ran numbers and pushed Horse for the mob. The speakeasies and underground jazz clubs in Harlem were the best in the world during Prohibition. Naturally white people came running. The Cotton Club, located in Harlem and built on the backs of ever great Jazz musician of the day, was white's only. We were good enough to smuggle the booze, serve it, and even sing while they drank it but we sure as hell couldn't sit beside them and drink it.

The sixties brought Frank Lucas, the man who ran the East Coast heroin trade and forced the mob to bend to their knee. Civil Rights and rent strikes existed concurrent to Lucas' drug empire. Half of the neighborhood were getting their heads stomped by riot police, the other half were blasting hypos full of heroin into their veins. Cheap and strong heroin gutted the neighborhood. Junkies and unemployment plagued Harlem over the years. Crime got so bad that anybody with any kind of money got while the getting was good. Upper and middle class flight meant that only the poorest and most desperate will still around in the eighties.

That was when I entered the scene. Crack was king when I was growing up, plenty of people I went to school with and knew around the neighborhood chased the rock until there wasn't anything left of them but skin and bones, so empty you could hear their insides echo when they walked. Those of us that didn't smoke it ended up selling it. I was sixteen years old when I left school for good to work on a corner. Four years of ripping and running on the streets and I got pinched. The funny thing was that, for all the shit I did as a corner boy, I actually went to jail for something I didn't do. Ten years away and I came back to a different Harlem. It was still tough and dangerous, but it was on the comeback. Good people were tired of how it was around here and wanted to change it. Right now they're trying to turn things around without reverting to the soul destroying process of gentrification, but it isn't easy. There's a lot of money to be had in that game. the temptation to gut that old rowhouse and turn it into a yuppie condo is fierce. But if there's one thing I've learned about Harlem over the years is that the people are tough. Black don't crack, and it certainly don't run.

Through good times and bad times, Harlem still survives.

****

Harlem, Manhattan
9:22 PM

Greasy moo goo gai pan was my dinner that night. Red Dragon's on West 131st Street near the playground. Mr. Hsu always made a new batch of it whenever I walked in, thanks for helping him out a few months ago when I stopped a would-be blackmailer from trying to extort Hsu. Turns out the old man was in America illegally after he jumped ship on a barge in San Diego thirty years ago. A little flexing of my muscle and the blackmailer stepped off and handed over what he had on Hsu. The old man to his credit turned himself over to immigration who decided he'd been in the country to long to deport. Also didn't hurt that he was the rare illegal that paid taxes. For helping him out I get half off moo goo gai pan and get to make eyes at Hsu's hot daughter while she works the register.

There was a pretty steady rain outside that night. That's usually good news for everyone. Rain means the gangbangers are too scared to go out, lest they get their sneakers dirty, and the cops aren't up to getting out of their cruisers unless they really need to so they avoid banging people up on the small fry stuff that really pisses off communities. My previous observation was contradicted almost at once. Two NYPD patrol cars with rooftop lights flashing sped by the restaurant. Like I said, the rain is usually good news but not always.

Joannie Hsu rung my meal up without giving me her number once again. That's alright, I'd ask again when I'm back in a week. I walked out into the rain and pulled my yellow hoodie up over my head. There weren't many people on the street, but the few that were all headed in the same direction: down the street and around the corner. The corner blocked the sight, but I could see the blue and red flash of police lights reflecting off the buildings.

A few minutes later and I stood in front of police tape. My hood kept my head dry against the slow pitter patter of rain. The crime scene was at the playground just around the corner from the Red Dragon. Two uniformed cops kept the small crowd gathering back from the scene, but everyone could see through them to the white tarp covering a dead body sprawled out in a sandbox. There were murmurs and talk rippling through the crowd. I didn't take part, but I listened and got the gist. The body under the tarp was Bobbito Garcia, seventeen years old and a nearby resident. Someone said he had his girlfriend with him when he got shot, someone said they heard the shots and turned around to see Bobbito falling to the ground and an unknown shooter running from the scene.

A detective in a cheap suit walked trough the crowd, flashing a badge. I started to fade back into the crowd to avoid being seen. The less police attention I attracted, the better. From my vantage point I could see the crime scene and the few places the officers had protected from the rain. Bobbito's body was covered, as was a small space I assumed covered up the murder weapon. A plastic baggie lay on the ground with a small card inside. I couldn't make out the words scribbled on the card, but I saw the logo in the middle of the card as clear as day. A bright red crown, dripping blood.

Who murders a seventeen year old kid execution style and leaves a calling card?

I didn't know, but I was going to find out.

Luke Cage
Hero for Hire

in

The King of Harlem

Queens, New York City
September 1st, 2013

Detective Harrison Thompson of the Queens’ police precinct sat at his desk with a cigarette firmly jotted behind an ear as a hot cup of coffee stood amongst his papers as his partner, Detective Connor Trevane, stood over him with a look of exhaustion as he dropped down a clipboard with a report on it.

“You’re right, Harry, somebody is out there killing nazi’s.” Harrison’s voice was full of utter confusion—as he never quite bought the stories about the Red Skull let alone an involvement of a second Red Skull, but several weeks ago they had compiled a list of men who were suspected of connections with several white supremacist programs who happened to end up dead.

“What finally made you take that head out of your ass?” Harrison retorted as he kept his eyes down as he took a drink of his coffee.

“Oh screw you.”

“Heh.” Harrison chuckled as he looked up at his partner, “The more disturbing thing about this is the brutal execution of more than a handful of our victims—forensics liken it to some-sort of blade yet they’ve seen nothing quite like this before.”

“So?” Connor shot back with a frown as he crossed his arms.

“So somebody is killing white supremacists with a really sharp blade that we can’t make heads-or-tails of.”

---

Hell’s Kitchen, New York City
September 2nd, 2013

“If you told me two years ago that the threat of a Fourth Reich would be upon us, I would have laughed.”[/b] The gleam of the dead eyes of Jacques Duquesne started into the eyes of what would be the lone survivor of a particular group of white supremacists that had originally agreed to meet up to discuss matters that many would find deplorable.

“But today, I am not laughing.” Jacques added in a dead tone.

Jacques crossed his arms as he looked down at the visage of the bleeding white supremacist he had tracked down by the name of Herman Doltz, who may or may not have been part of this revisionist movement by this new Red Skull. The one thing was for sure was the southern-born supremacist was scared to death and the sight of a man who was currently using a sword to interrogate him was something that drew him into a fit of terror. This sword seemed sharper than the most precise razor but it wasn’t like Herman knew or cared what this blade was made of since it had been used to make a point when the swordsman had cut through a solid steel table as if it was butter.

“What do you want, man?!” Herman asked, clearly shaken.

“What I want is to see the Red Skull.” His voice was firm and almost venomous as he slammed his sword down into the floor—an inch away from Herman’s foot, cutting through the thick concrete floor on impact.

“Shit! Why would you think I know how to do that?!”

A violent energy filled the eyes of the swordsman as his free-hand pushed itself on Herman’s right shoulder as he looked closer into the supremacist’s eyes. “Because… I know you were at that rally—and I know you are entangled in this and if you want to live you will tell me how to find the Red Skull.”

“…I’ve never even met the Skull; I was just told what I had to do for the greater goo—”

Jacques bared his teeth as he cut off Herman’s ill comment, “The greater good?! Innocent lives, murdered! You piece of shit nazi.”

“You better give me something I can use, or you die right now.” Jacques added as he rose his sword to the mans neck.

“You won’t find him—the Red Skull wants this war, this World War, and he will have it.”

“That is too bad.” Jacques spat. “—but I suppose that is how life is. As my grandfather would say… c’est la vie.” The swordsman turned as he twirled his sword around the supremacist’s neck as he turned around.

With the last of the five men dead he cleaned his blade on the shirt of his enemy before sheathing it in its holder on his back. Raising his hands which were held by full-on black gloves he cleared his eyes as he took a deep breath.

“Perhaps one of these men who were involved has information at their homes.” Jacques muttered under his breath as he removed each of their wallets and retrieved their licenses to read where their addresses of residence were—including Herman Doltz’s own. Moving to a nearby countertop he tossed the licenses down and wrote each of them down on a notepad he kept on his person before grabbing his trench-coat and his motorcycle helmet before placing it back on his head—leaving the bodies of these Fourth Reich members behind.

He swore on his honor that he would find the Red Skull and show him the consequences of his actions.

Two Months Ago...

I thought this would be harder. And, sure, when I first began I had some trouble. But, really, that was all from nerves. I mean, you find yourself face-to-barrel with a .45 semi-automatic for the first time in your life, and you're going to have some performance issues. But now, now that I had been busting up the general scum of the Earth on a regular basis it wasn't so hard. In fact, it was almost easy.

And why wouldn't it be easy? I have superpowers, after all. No bragging intended, but I'm pretty damn spectacular. Muggers, robbers, whatever. They're just not a challenge. Even the other day when there were almost ten guys coming at me - and these were big, burly men - I took care of them lickity-split. Benefits of having a nifty little, omni-directional, early warning system in my head; nobody could touch me.

I knew that I shouldn't complain. I must have been crazy to. Maybe being bitten by a genetically engineered spider makes one crazy. I mean, I'd have to be genuinely messed up in the brain to get upset that fighting crime was too easy. It's not like I wanted someone to hurt me, or to be more of a danger than they already were. Or maybe I did. I didn't know what I wanted. I just knew that when I was on patrol, and I spotted a crime my blood got pumping and an adrenaline rush kicked in, and then everything would just end before it even really had a chance to start. It was boring. I would get so pumped up, so excited, and then it was just... over. It was frustrating, and annoying, and... and... anti-climatic! That was the word; anti-climatic. I knew it was ridiculous to feel that way, but I just couldn't help it. I needed a challenge. Anything, I didn't care what. I just needed to face something a little more difficult than the thugs I'd encountered so far.


Present Day
September 2nd, 2013. 7:38 am
Queens, New York

I thought this would be easier, I really did. Just goes to show how much of a fool Peter Parker is. I just got so caught up in the routine of being Spider-Man that I didn't stop to consider how difficult this would be.

I stood in front of Midtown High School with my hands in my pocket and my backpack slung across my shoulder. I was tired, having only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before. My patrol lasted longer than I had expected; apparently during the last night of August criminals liked to come out in swarms, committing one burglary after one mugging after another. Or, maybe they all just knew that my first day of school started today. If they did it was a brilliant strategy. Either way, I wasn't prepared for school to start back up.

Harry Osborn, my best friend and the only person in the world aware of my double-life, walked beside me as we headed toward the school's entrance. I saw him eyeing me strangely out the corner of my eye. I was about to ask him what the problem was when he spoke.

"Hey, man, you alright? You look a little... sickly."

"I'm fine," I said. Evidently I wasn't too convincing as I could still see him casting glances at me, concern in his eyes.

"Really, I'm good." I lowered my voice and looked around to make sure nobody was within listening distance. "I was just out late last night doing you-know-what. I had already skipped lunch before going out, and patrol took so long that I missed dinner, too."

We approached our lockers, which were only a few feet away from each other, and stopped.

"By the time I got back home it was so late, and I was so tired that I just went straight to bed. And, to top it all off, I forgot to set my alarm so I was late getting up and didn't have time for breakfast. Aunt May wasn't too happy with me."

"How'd she handle you coming home so late?" Harry asked.

"She didn't know I was gone. Snuck out the window again. As far as she was concerned I was up in my room reading before crashing early. Which means she thought I had overslept, and was why she was so upset with me."

"Oh."

We started to unpack our bags, loading up our lockers with all the notebooks, folders, textbooks, and supplies we would need for the first semester. I had ended up having to take an extra history course this year as all the 'fun' electives were full. Probably shouldn't have taken all the acting classes my Freshman year; now I'll be swamped with homework, which would only interfere with my patrol time.

After a few moments of silence, Harry piped back up with his new favorite question.

"So you are absolutely, one hundred percent okay?"

I sighed. Sometimes Harry fixated on one topic for too long. "Yes, Harry, I'm completely fine. Just a little hungry. You know how I am on an empty stomach. I'll be fine by lunch. Stop worrying."

It was true. Ever since I was bitten and my body underwent some changes I felt really weak when I went without food for extended periods of time; weaker than was normal for just a mild case of an empty stomach. I had theorized a couple months back that I likely had an increased metabolism now, which meant my body processed things faster and I would need to eat on a more frequent basis. I might have felt weak at the moment, but as soon as I ate something I'd be more than okay.

Harry nodded. "Okay. Well, I'm glad you're alright 'cause you're gonna need to be to handle this." He pointed to the left, over my shoulder.

"Peter Parker!" The voice was loud. And angry.

I winced and spun around, preparing for the worst.

Gwen Stacy, my other best friend, stormed towards me, her eyes were daggers; sharp and piercing. She was my height, maybe an inch shorter, with blonde hair which had grown longer since the last time I had seen her, now nearly reaching half-way down her back. And that was the problem; it had been over two weeks since I had physically seen her, and almost as long since we had spoken. She walked right up to me, not stopping until our faces were only a few inches apart. I saw Harry take a few steps back, distancing himself from me.

"Eight years! Eight years we've been friends!" Gwen shouted loud enough that it drew the attention of others in the hallway. "Eight years and suddenly you just, what, forget about me? We live a few houses down from each other, Peter, but you couldn't bother to at least stop by and say hello? Almost three weeks and you didn't once stop by. Not once. It's been ten days since you've even bothered to return a call or respond to my texts. Are you avoiding me, or did you just wake up three weeks ago and decide to be a jerk?"

I could see tears welling up in her eyes behind her glasses, and her voice started to waver. She was hurt and angry, and I couldn't exactly blame her. Ever since we had first become friends, we hadn't spent more than a few days apart, and only then when we were separated by camp or she was visiting a relative, after all we lived on the same street and could hang out at any time. And once we had gotten old enough to have our own computers and cellphones, we had never gone a full day without being in contact.

But ever since I had become a vigilante and adopted the Spider-Man persona I had grown distant. Not on purpose, of course, but I had absorbed myself almost fully into my crime-fighting lifestyle. If Harry didn't know about my secret, if he wasn't the only person I could discuss my other life with, I doubt I would have spent as much time with him over the Summer as I had. I hated to admit it, and it made me sound like a bad friend, but it was true. I had become so obsessed in atoning for the sin of Uncle Ben's death that I had neglected Gwen; one of the few people in this world that I truly cared about and knew cared about me. And I didn't even completely realize that until I had come face-to-face with her. I was pretty sure that was not what Uncle Ben had meant when he told me with his dying words to live an honest and responsible life. I would definitely need to start balancing my responsibilities to this city with my responsibilities as a friend.

"Gwen, I'm so sorry. I know that probably doesn't mean much coming from me, but I am. I'm so sorry. I was an ass. Am an ass. I just..." I struggled for a moment to come up with an excuse that didn't involve me swinging through Manhattan in bright tights. "I was just being pitiful and wallowing in self-misery. After my uncle died I just couldn't take it. I thought I could pull myself together, and for a while I did, but during the Summer it all just hit me again. I know that doesn't excuse my behavior. I was a horrible friend to you, and I shouldn't have ignored you. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'll make it up to you. I will."

I hated lying to her, and using Uncle Ben's death as an excuse made my stomach churn. It was a despicable thing to do, but I couldn't tell her the truth. I didn't know how she would react to the knowledge that I risk my life everyday dressed in spandex, but I doubted it would be good.

As I lied right to Gwen's face, I could see her eyes soften, which only made me more disgusted with myself. There she was, already showing me sympathy, and I was relieved she had believed me. This was not what I had intended when I started this Spider-Man stuff.

"You should have called." Was all Gwen said, in a near whisper, before she walked off.

Even while my heart crumbled at the pain I had caused my friend, I breathed a sigh of relief because I knew she would forgive me. She'd probably give me a hard time over the next few days, but I knew by this time next month we'd be back to normal. Assuming I was able to properly balance my two lives in time.

This definitely was not as easy as I had thought it would be.

Xavier's School for Gifted Youths
Westchester County, NY

Logan leaned against a tree, looking over the school grounds as he smoked his cigar. This was the closest the Professor would let him smoke, but he liked it out here. It was peaceful, and he could watch over the kids just fine from back here. Logan saw it as watching over his flock. If the old Logan could see him now, he'd probably have plenty of things to say to the current Wolverine. But Logan was happy. He finally had a family again, and this one he'd protect until it killed him. The mistakes of the past still weighed heavy on his mind, but he was working on making up for it.

"You know that's bad for you, right?" Jean's voice announced herself as she climbed up the hill Logan was perched on. She had grown into such an outstanding young woman that Logan often had to catch himself from beaming at her. He knew it embarrassed her. But he considered her her daughter, and she considered him her father. It was his job to embarrass her.

"Kid," he sighed, "I've been smokin' 'em for over a hundred years. If they were gunna kill me, they would have."

"Yea, well, Professor X says you set a bad example of the kids," Jean took a seat next to him. "They all think it looks cool."

"Anything I do looks cool. I can't help it," he chuckled gruffly.

The next few moments go by without a sound, other than the breeze running through the tree on the hill. Sometimes Logan wished he was the one that could read minds, especially when it came to Jean. She hadn't been herself for months, ever since Scott jumped ship. Summers was always sketchy, or at least Logan always thought he was. But even Wolverine was surprised when he turned and went with Magnero. Just thinking about it almost made his claws pop. Jean took it even harder, though. The two of them were close, too close. She still believed Summers could be saved and brought back. It was naive, Logan thought, but who was he to crush her hopes.

He just wished he could make it easier for her someway.

"So how are classes going?" he finally tried to break the silence. She was taking graduate level courses through the school and online, hoping to become a lawyer.

She looked at him with a funny, "You're a teacher. You talk to the Professor every day. You know how I'm doing."

"I wanted to hear it from you," he shrugged.

"I'm doing fine," she responded nonchalantly. "It would help if we weren't flying all over the world trying to stop supervillains."

"Well, that's the life we lead," he said. The X-Men had been abnormally busy since the return of the Brotherhood, not to mention the Purifiers coming after mutants yet again. Their people were under more fire than they had ever been before, but Logan and his team were there to protect them. Half the team was still incredibly green, but they were doing their best.

"You ever think we won't have to fight again?" Jean asked, putting her head on his shoulder. He never realized how fights weighed on those that weren't born into a life of conflict. Jean was never meant for this life like he was. The question was one he didn't know how to answer. Wolverine was a fighter. He was a warrior. He had killed more people than Jean had probably ever met. There probably wasn't going to be a time where he wasn't fighting. But he hoped there was sometime she wouldn't be.

"I hope so, Red," he comforted her. "I hope so."

That hope was for her, of course. He held none for himself.

The Palms Resort and Casino
Penthouse Suite
Las Vegas, NV
10:43 pm

”Rebecca Stanley reporting live from CES 2014 where the biggest news coming out of it is Stark Industries and their keynote speech that has many people talking. On top of a new line of smartphones and HDTVs the company unveiled the Mark III combat suit. A state of the art prototype machine that has a major divide amongst experts here. Some saying that Stark Industries made a major statement with it, others believing that them making a war machine is going to hurt them. So far things seem to be going well for them in the stock markets, but time will tell. Rebecca Stanley, Weeknight News…”

“War Machine, see we should’ve called it that, sounds rad.” Tony Stark noted absent mindedly, kicked back in his hotel bed as he looked up at the TV. He had on pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt, sipping on a can of Sprite room service had brought in along with chicken wings which were now nothing but bones and extra buffalo sauce on a plate sitting on the nearby nightstand.

Mr. James Rhodes, a rather large, imposing black man. Watched on standing nearby, still dressed in a nice suit. “I still don’t think going public with the suit was a good idea. It’s going to send the wrong message about our company.” He stated solemnly. Looking as though he was not at all please how he was seeing the CEO he worked right under laying in bed, still with a smear of orange buffalo sauce on his cheek.

“Please Rhodes, you’re being too worried about nothing. People trust the company, we made it clear the suit was only a prototype and that I was the only one who could use it. What message are we sending them? That we can create machines that will let our men control a battle and return completely fine?” Stark went to cover his mouth from a burp. Only to realize the sauce on his cheek which he smeared off with a thumb onto his shirt.

James still didn’t look very amused though. “Thats not even the only reason I’m here by the way.” He started.

“Its about the watch smartphone isn’t it? Look that wasn’t my idea but people…”

“No… no. Stark… look at you. You’re the CEO of one of the world’s top companies, and you like a some teenager on Spring Break.”

Tony seemed to be bemused by what Rhodes said. Leaning himself up right on his bed. “Wow Rhodes, how astute of you to notice! I try so hard to not look like a teenager but I can’t seem to get anything past…”

“Stark! That wasn’t the point. The point is you have a lot riding on this company. First the 3D HDTV that didn’t sell very well, then when you helped funded that Future Foundation experiment that failed. A lot of investors are worried about how serious you’re being about this company. Now I know you do take it serious. But being serious and showing your serious are completely different things. Tomorrow we’re going back to New York, and we need to start discussing where we’re going with this company. No, where YOU’RE going with this company. We can’t afford anymore screw ups.” Rhodes glared straight through the now quiet Stark. Who couldn’t even bare to look back at him. “I’m going to bed, Stark I know you have a good heart but you need to figure out what you’re doing with this company.” Rhodes told him before leaving the lush hotel room and Tony to himself.

Tony Stark just laid in his bed silently. Finally turning off the TV as he rolled over to sit on the edge of the mattress. Getting up, Tony strolled out to the giant window overlooking the beautiful view of Las Vegas below. Glowing in all the lights and effects below. There he was, Tony Stark. Youngest CEO in the world, in history. He had a bank account that was more than some countries’ net worth. The newest technology in the world were always ready and at his fingertips. He had all that, but what was he even doing anymore? Ever since he took over the company Stark has been getting stir crazy from not having a life. School, work, wash, and repeat.

He needed to do something, this life of his is amazing, but it’s eating him alive.

Part 1
El Barrio

Spanish Harlem
12:37 PM

It's officially East Harlem on all maps and zoning documents, but everybody knows this area's true name. Spanish Harlem, El Barrio. Hard to believe it but in some places Spanish Harlem is rougher than Harlem. Poor latinos, working stiffs and gangsters alike, all shoved up under each other in public housing can only lead to clashing. El Barrio is a lot like Harlem was a few years ago, rough but proud. They're either too proud to run or too stupid. I suppose in the grand scheme of things pride and stupidity aren't too far apart.

The victim of last night's murder was from both Harlem and Spanish Harlem. Bobbito Garcia had a black mother and a Puerto Rican father. He grew up near Marcus Garvey Park, the dividing line between the two Harlems. The kid was apparently a hell of a pitcher with a fastball so fast that it was getting several long looks from college and MLB scouts. In both neighborhoods every boy clings to the dream of sports as their ticket out no mater how remote the possibility. Hell, I was three years into my prison sentence and still thought I had a chance to go the NFL. Pipe dreams are often just that, but Bobbito had promise... and then he had all that potential snatched away in the blink of an eye. His life, and everything his life may have amounted to, both good and bad, was gone.

That afternoon I found myself in a back alley near a fruit market. It was the weekend so the sidewalks near the market were bustling and alive with people enjoying their weekend. A few street artist had set up near the market and were playing salsa music. I had a fresh apple in my hands that was half eaten, The unmarked police car pulled off the street and into the alley as I was going in for another bite.

"Cage," Sergeant Marcus Stone said as he got out. "Am I late? I forgot which street you said."

"It's cool, you ain't that late."

Stone works as a detective in the 28th Precinct, the NYPD's central Harlem headquarters. Like me, Stone was born and raised in Harlem. Unlike me, Stone was able to graduate high school and move on the NYPD academy. He's the supervisor of a four man detective squad working out the 2-8. Stone's a good man. His detectives? Eh, they leave something to be desired. Now the NYPD's official line on costumed vigilantes and other people like me are they are taking the law into their own hands. Thankfully Stone doesn't look that way. We have a deal that I help him out in any cases he catches, ones he doesn't think his men can solve, and they get the arrest. I get police info and they get the stat. Everyone wins. I like to think of myself as an... aggressive confidential informant. Last night I texted him about Bobbito Garcia. Another squad caught the murder, but Stone said he'd help me out anyway.

"Here," he said, passing me a manila folder with the NYPD logo stamped on it. "Can't let you keep it, unfortunately. but it'll give you enough to go on. You probably have a better idea of what to do than Hitchcock or any of his detectives."

I grunted and took the file, tossing the half eaten apple into a nearby trashcan. The papers inside the file left something to be desired. Two pages on the crime scene, a sole page devoted to the bullet trajectory of how Bobbito was shot. The report indicated that he was shot in the back at relatively close range, no shell casing found on the scene so a revolver is suspected as the likely murder weapon. The trajectory and statements from two eyewitnesses at the scene verified the rumors I heard in the crowd last night about Bobbito being shot in the back and the gunman running around.

"What about this," I said, showing Stone the photo of the bloody crown card.

"No idea," Stone said with a shrug. "I think the detectives in Hitchcock's squad were putting in some calls to the Street Gang Taskforce, see if they had any logo like that on file. I thought at first maybe a new logo for the Latin Kings, but who knows anymore."

"Hold this," I said, handing Stone the photo while I pulled out my phone. "I can't keep it so I'll take a picture."

The picture taken, I gave the thing file back to Stone. He tucked it under his arm and leaned against his car.

"You know the deal, Cage. You find any kind of viable lead or suspect and you send it my way."

"You know I will. I know you're not working on this case, but what do you think? I asked around last night and this kid seems like he had a good head on his shoulders."

"Good kids don't get killed gangland style," Stone said with a shrug. "I hope to God I'm wrong. I'd be a goddamn tragedy for a kid like this, someone on the way out, to do something stupid and get themselves killed.

"On the surface Bobbito appears to be that rare innocent victim you sometimes see pop up. Mostly around here the people who get got have had it coming for quite a long time." I paused and then slowly nodded. "Cases like this are why I started doing what I'm doing. True victims out there who can't get anybody to speak for them, you know?"

"That why?" Stone asked, a switch seeming to flip his face from normal to impassive. "Or is there another reason? Altruism is noble, but I often find guilty is a much more powerful motivator."

I shrugged. "You're right. Thanks for the info, Stone. I'll be in touch."

"Mmm hmm," he said with a suspicious eye.

I pulled my hood up and walked down the alley into the throng of people gathered in and around the fruit market. Stone's files didn't give me much to go on, but I was able to get another look at that card. With the people I know, that should be more than enough to get the ball rolling.

Beyond Villains

Location: S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier 2
Position: 15,000ft. Exact Coordinates Classified.
Time Index: 0730 hrs Sept 4th 2013

His eyes snapped open. His breathing became shallow. The panic rose in his chest. What was he doing here? Where was he? Who was he? It took a few moments before the device lodged in his brain kicked in and he remembered. He was Tony Masters, he was in his room on the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier and he always hated when this happened. The organo-drive always took a split second to interact when he came conscious from sleep or being knocked out. It was an unfortunate side effect of the device and a tactical disadvantage in the field but it was unavoidable. The crossover between man and machine was a complex one and the interfacing on such a level was not without its bugs. Masters swung out of his bunk and groaned. The bruises were still fresh on his body from his last mission. It seems jumping onto a moving train from a helicopter was not a very viable option but I had been the only one. Plus the environment suited Master’s talents. He was one of the best CQB combatants that S.H.I.E.L.D. had on staff, with exception of few other super-powered agents of course, and as Captain America was on mission trailing the Red Skull, he was next in line for the job.

He sat up in bed and looked along the wall the cot was attached to. Pictures covered almost every free area of it. There were pictures of places. Pictures of people. Pictures of faces. Faces that Masters couldn’t remember. He was in some of them. He reached out and grabbed one at random. He vaguely recognised the place. A city, the lights illuminated behind her. He didn’t recognise the person in the photograph though. Tony ran his thumb over the face. It was a girl. Short, dressed in a black jumpsuit. Looked like the S.H.I.E.L.D. ops uniform. The pitch black pixie cut had a single hand running through it. The movement hid a vague smile. Masters turned over the photograph. On the back, he saw handwriting. “Jubilee. One of the most immature students I’ve had. One of the finest agents I’ve had as well. Hong Kong. August 2013.”

Jubilee. Masters wasn’t surprised if he’d forget the name by the end of the day. He’d just have to trust his own judgement. He stuck the picture back in place. He did know that it was a thing his doctor had recommended to help his memory and try to combat the new condition he’d identified. What was it he called it? Cognitive patching? His brain had begun “sewing” unrelated events that had been fragmented to form new memories. The condition had been discovered when, going through his post-mission memory recall exercise with the Doc, when asked who was the current President, he’d answered with “Benjamin Asher”. Upon further probing, Masters recalled an attack on the White House and wondered why S.H.I.E.L.D. had not intervened. They learned that Masters’ brain had taken a memory of a film that he’d forgotten he’d watched but not forgotten the events of and cobbled it together with real life to make sense of the rogue fragment. In short, to cope with the info, Masters’ brain had integrated it as part of reality. He still couldn’t get over that. A fictional President.

Masters swung out of his cot and strode over to the sink in his room. He was one of several people relocated to the helicarriers after the attack on the Triskelion. He gripped the edges of the sink bowl as the water ran from the tap. After the attack, he’d gone to Fury and demanded to join Cap and his team. Fury had declined. When asked why, Fury had said that “information on a new threat had surfaced” and that with Captain America on the Red Skull’s tail and Jubilee mediating between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the mutants on the Purifier situation, Taskmaster was apparently the best qualified superpowered agent left. He chuckled at that thought. Comparing his “power” to that of Captain America or even Jubilee was absurd. Still, the amount of agents on S.H.I.E.L.D. staff that had any form of powers were small, and even those with them were very specific. Dead Girl, for example. She had the power to talk with the dead and only “die” for a short time. Masters felt a kinship with her, being that she couldn’t remember anything of her past and S.H.I.E.L.D. could not find any info on her.

Masters looked up into the mirror in front of him. He didn’t know what Fury wanted the Taskmaster for or what this new threat was, but if it was enough to stop Masters going after the Skull, it was definitely going to be bad.

SHIELD Helicarrier
San Fransisco, CA

Captain America looked out over the now quiet Triskelion as the Helicarrier hovered above it in a defensive position. No one really thought that there would be another attack at the location, but the Helicarrier was here for a show of strength. The strength was a lie, of course, considering what had happened. But Fury thought it was necessary, so here he was. Cap liked Fury, he was a great soldier and a great commander. But the situation with the Red Skull and the Fourth Reich had clearly worn on him for the past year. He had never had someone out wit him at every turn.

He was currently sitting at the head of the briefing room table, looking ragged. There were bags under his eyes...well, eye, and his hair was unkempt. He looked up and noticed she was staring, "Do I really look that bad, Captain?"

"You've certainly looked better, sir," she smiled, taking a seat at the table as well. Fury had helped her tremendously since she joined SHIELD. He helped her understand her heritage and what her father was truly like. He knew him, apparently. She wasn't sure how Fury had survived this long and still looked so young, but she didn't have the nerve to ask. According to Agent Hill, Fury never talked about his past. The fact he told Steph about Steve Rogers was rare enough, she wasn't going to push it further. "But we're all in the same boat this time."

"No, we're not, Captain," Fury sighed, the weight of the situation carried on his breath. "I'm the commanding officer. I'm the one to blame. That's how this job works. Always has, always will."

"Not this time, Director," Steph assured him. "My team failed to locate the Skull. My team failed to stop this just as much as you did. We're both on the hook this time. Except we're going to find the bastard after this."

"Damn right we are," Mockingbird said, announcing her presence as she entered the briefing room. "I've got an ass whooping with his name on it."

"I think we all have stuff with his name on it," Falcon added grimly. "Where's Hill?"

"Agent Hill was running a few more things by the lab before the briefing," Fury responded before typing a few things on the holotable. From the surface sprang a 3-D image of some sort of plane. "In the mean time, let's talk about your team's course of action once we find out what we're looking for. This is an image of the Quinjet Mark II. Bigger, faster, and self sufficient. With the Triskelion down and the Helicarrier needed for other things, you'll need to be on your own. The Mark II has bunks, lavatory equipment, mobile labs, a small armory, ground vehicles, and full access to the SHIELD network. You'll be able to do whatever you need from here. Hopefully being mobile will allow your team a better response time."

"I call top bunk," Bobbi quipped.

"Any defensive capabilities?" Cap wondered as she inspected the hologram.

"A minigun drops from the front," Fury keyed up a command and the plane demonstrated it. "You have flares as well, of course. It has stealth technology. This isn't made for combat, thought. We want the people on the ground doing that."

"Understood, sir," she nodded.

Then, Maria Hill entered the room and sat down next to Fury, "Well, we've managed to pinpoint where the explosions came from."

The image of the Quinjet separated into four sections and transformed into the four locations where the initial bombs went off in the Triskelion. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until someone in each of the pictures spontaneously exploded. It was hard to watch as Hill replayed the footage in slow motion, showing that the people clearly detonated the bombs on their own.

"Suicide bombers," Steph sighed.

"Exactly," Hill said somberly.

Fury furrowed his brow again, "What do we know about the bombers?"

"They were all SHIELD agents with years of service under their belt," Hill briefed the team. "They only have one connection. All of them spent time in the Crossbones Division."

During her time with SHIELD, Steph had never heard of that before, "Crossbones?"

"It was a former deep cover team," Fury explained. "Crossbones members would infiltrate high profile organizations and destroy them from the inside."

"So it looks like Crossbones is where we start," Cap stood. "Get ready, everyone. Wheels up in an hour."

Part 2
Fast Break

Rucker Park
Harlem
4:30 PM

Remember earlier when I was talking about the history of Harlem? Rucker's one of those landmarks that's just as important as something like the Cotton Club or Alexander Hamilton's home. If Madison Square Garden is the basketball mecca of the world, then Rucker is the Sistine Chapel of playground hoops. Yes, I understand they're landmarks of two different religions but you get my point. Everyone from Jordan and Kobe to Magic and Bird have all passed through Rucker at one time or another. Back when the NBA and NCAA were tight-asses about the rules, Rucker was the one place a baller could let it all hang out and play his game. It's where Kareem perfected the skyhook, it's the launch pad where Dr. J first took flight. It's also where my snitch happens to spend his Sundays.

I rolled through the park that afternoon to find a good size crowd at the court. Sunday pick up games in the fall are usually devoid of any serious pro ballers, most of them are away getting ready for the upcoming season. At most you'll find a few pretty good college players and the usual pack of talented street ballers. I hung back in the crowd and watched the better part of the first half before slowly making my way over to DeJuan. He was too focused on the game to notice me come up from behind. He didn't even turn away from the court until I touched his elbow.

"What the fu--," he started before he saw me. "Cage..."

"You got money on the game?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"What do you think?"

I looked over DeJuan's head at the sight of a boy about 5'5 crossing over a man a foot taller than him and dashing towards the hoop for an easy lay up between two taller defenders.

"I hope you got the team the little guy's on."

The look on DeJaun's face answered that one for me. I started to guide him away from the court to the fence around the park. He shrugged out of my touch once we were at the fence. He leaned against the chain-link and stuck his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Trying to mug tough is DeJuan's MO.

"What the hell you want with me?"

I pulled out my phone and showed DeJuan the picture of the calling card with the bloody crown on it.

"Recognize it?"

"No," he said too quickly.

"No wonder you always broke, boy. As bad a poker face as you got, you might as well give them your money."

DeJaun sucked his teeth and looked away, cursing under his breath.

"A boy died last night, DeJuan. Not much older than yourself. He got killed by someone running with this crew."

"I don't give a shit. World's tough, shit happens."

The thing with DeJuan is that he sometimes needed a firm touch. I popped my knuckles loudly. The hardened skin made the pops sound like the loud ding of an aluminum baseball bat. DeJuan continued to look away, but his hostility had melted away.

"You getting your jaw shattered and having to eat through a straw is shit happening too."

"Look," DeJuan finally said. "All I know is I seen that logo on some tags up at the Wagner homes. All I heard is that it's territory for some new crew, and that's it."

"Alright," I said with a slow nod. "I find out that's a bunch of bullshit and I will be back. Believe that."

DeJuan scuttled off back to the crowd watching the game. I couldn't see what was happening, but the gasps and cheers told me someone had just dunked. I hoped it was the team DeJuan had bet against and started for the nearest bus stop headed downtown.

Robert F. Wagner Houses
8:08 PM

I had my hood up while walking through the project courtyard. The projects here are a war zone, one of the few remaining bastions of the old ripping and running drug trade of the 90's. NYPD and the politicians promise every year to clean it up and clear the criminals out, but they never do. Lots of good people living here, lots of bad people too. Clockers on the stoop of every building, kids acting as runners carrying bags of product from the stash house to the dealers out front. I get a lot of hard stares, but nobody tries anything. They know I ain't 5-0. but they also know I ain't someone to take lightly. Halfway across the courtyard DeJuan's info paid off. A bright red tag on a wall, a crown with blood dripping off of it. Twenty yards away from the tag were a crew of five clockers sitting on a stoop, drinking malt liquor and bullshitting.

"You up?" one of the kids asked. He looked about all of thirteen. "You deaf, nigga? I said you up? What you want? Crack, coke, speed, weed?"

"Which one of y'all is running this crew?" I asked the pack of kids.

"Yo, what the fuck you care for?" the same kid trying to sell asked. "You one of them civic pride having niggas? Want to do a citizens arrest, nigga?"

"Need to stop using that word. You call yourself and each other nigga, makes even easier for a white man to call you that."

The crew busted out laughing wildly. Laughing too loudly to be genuine. It seemed more exaggerated. False bravado like DeJuan's resistance at Rucker. They want to show me I'm a fool and that what I'm saying don't mean a damn thing to them. Finally, one of the older boys in the crew stepped forward. Maybe sixteen with a lazy eye and a Melo Knicks Jersey,. I had six inches on him, but he still eyed me up and laughed.

"Yo, listen to this Fredrick Douglass motherfucker over here. Spouting all that we shall overcome bullshit."

"I'm starting to lose my patience with you little--"

"Keep talking," the droopy eye kid said as he pulled a pistol from his waistband. "And you gonna lose your fucking life, nigga. Now, walk it off motherfucka before the Kings fuck you up."

I moved before he could even register it. The gun went off as I snatched it out of his hand. The bullet hit my forearm and bounced off the skin, burying itself somewhere in the brick of the apartment building. The crew of dealers looked on shocked as I crushed the gun with my bare hands and tossed it on shocked.

"Now, which one you little motherfuckers is gonna tell me about the Kings and who your boss is?"

"SCATTER!" droopy eye shouted.

The five kids all took off in different directions. I cursed under my breath and took off after the older kid in the Knicks jersey, hauling ass across the courtyard to catch him before he disappeared into the the projects.

September 2nd, 2013. 4:18 pm
Manhattan, New York



The rest of the school day hadn't gone much better than it had begun. During the four classes I had with Gwen this semester she hadn't so much as cast a glance my direction, and she had even gone out of her way to sit on the opposite side of the classroom from me by switching seats with another student. I on the other hadn't couldn't stop thinking about her and how she must be feeling; how hurt I must have made her. I didn't really expect anything different, but knowing in advance she would ignore me during class didn't make it any easier. At lunch she hadn't even bothered to show up. I later learned from Harry that she had spent the period up in the library alone.

As if that wasn't bad enough, I had been so distracted by the Gwen issue that I had forgotten about the other big problem a new school year would bring. Between second and third periods I was cornered in the hallway by Flash Thompson and several of his cronies. Both Flash and his number one brainless minion, Kenny McFarlane, took turns tripping me while playing monkey in the middle with my textbook. I could have easily taken the two of them without even batting an eyelash, but the last thing I needed was to draw attention to my sudden growth in strength. Wasn't going to do me any good to have to explain how "Puny" Peter Parker had won in a fight against both a football quarterback and his rather large linebacker friend.

So, instead, I continued to play the part of the victim while Flash reminded me that, without Eddie Brock in the school to protect me anymore, I would be at his mercy for the rest of the school year. Which, really, wouldn't have bothered me all too much; Flash had always been a bully, but I could always make a couple self-deprecating jokes and he would eventually lose interest. But today was made worse by the fact that my long-time crush, Liz Allan, had been nearby to watch my pathetic flailing as I pretended to struggle in my efforts to get my textbook back. Not that I thought I had a chance with a world-class beauty like Liz anyways, but I certainly didn't want her to have more of a reason to think I was a complete dork.

So, needless to say by the time school let out I had been feeling less-than-spectacular. Which is why I was currently in costume high over the streets of New York. I wasn't really in the mood to fight crime, but swinging through the city with a cool breeze running over me was a freeing experience, and it always helped to de-stress me. Unfortunately, this was New York, and you couldn't exactly go far before passing by some kind of illegal activity, whether you realized it at the time or not.

I was traveling along Midtown Manhattan, making sure to stay as high in the sky as I could so as to avoid being spotted, and getting closer to Clinton with every second. It wasn't a conscious decision, but most of my patrols took me there, so I guess habit had taken over while I was focusing my attention on just enjoying the freedom. Clinton was a pretty rough neighborhood known for it's gang troubles. But, really, with a nickname like "Hell's Kitchen" it didn't have much of a chance to be anything but a crime hot spot. So, I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised when I passed through the industrial district of the neighborhood and saw some suspicious activity below. With a sigh, I dropped on the roof of a warehouse to get a closer look.

At the building across from me I could see three men dressed in dark clothing, though nothing so conspicuous as ski-masks. They weren't dressed all too oddly considering it was Fall, except the gloves they all had on weren't the kind meant to protect you from the crisp Autumn air, but the ones I've seen many times before on the hands of burglars. I could have passed them off as mere movers transporting merchandise to or from the warehouse, only there were no moving trucks of any sort around; just a black SUV. Definitely suspicious, but not enough for me to act on, so I waited.

Two of the men were close enough for me to hear their conversation while the third opened the rear hatch of the SUV and began to rummage around.

"...You know what's in there?" One of the closer two asked. He had a shaved head, bulging muscles, and a stupid goatee. Like how John Travolta looked in that one movie about Paris.

"Nah," the second said. He was taller than his friend and had dark, curly hair, but wasn't any less physically fit.

"Ain't you curious what's so important inside that we were told to hit it in broad daylight?" Asked Goatee.

Curly shook his head. "I just do what I'm told. And so should you. You start questioning why Rose has us do these kinds of jobs and you end up disappeared."

Rose. That was a name I hadn't heard before. I didn't know who she was, or what she wanted with that particular warehouse that she would be willing to risk these idiots getting caught breaking in during the day instead of waiting a few hours for the cover of night, but I didn't like it. Up until that point I hadn't dealt with any organized crime, just individuals or relatively small groups of thugs causing trouble in various areas of the city. I hoped this Rose chick was just another two-bit crook, but the way Curly talked about her had me thinking otherwise.

I waited a little longer to see if either Curly or Goatee would bring Rose back up, but apparently time for small-talk was over, and the two remained silent as they watched the third guy. By this time muscle-man number three had removed a pair of bolt cutters from the back of the vehicle and had made his way to the warehouse door to cut open the padlock. I wasn't about to let them actually break in just for the chance they may continue their discussion, so I decided to make my move. I could already feel the adrenaline kicking in as I jumped down from my perch on the roof and landed silently behind goons one and two.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice muffled by my mask. "But that doesn't look like the proper key to that lock."

"Wha-?" Curly spun around almost immediately, and was in time to see my right wrist flick out and a strand of greyish-white webbing shoot past his face.

I had aimed not at Curly who stood a foot in front of me, but at his buddy holding the bolt cutters a dozen feet past him. I tugged on the web-line and the cutters flew out of his hands, skittering across the ground out of reach. I released the pressure on the trigger resting high on my palm and the nozzle of the web shooter closed, detaching the web I had just fired.

My next shot, again from my right web shooter, was a short one that struck Curly's hand as he reached for the gun tucked in his waistband, leaving his left hand glued to his stomach.

Goatee Guy, who was apparently the slow one of the group, finally reacted. "Who the hell are you?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not taking questions at this time. Please try again later."

My head tingled sharply and I leapt over Goatee and landed on the roof of the SUV. The two bullets that the bolt cutter man had fired at me struck harmlessly against the concrete wall. Two more quick flicks of my wrists and the third goon's arms were webbed to the warehouse door.

"Excuse me, sir, but your friend and I were talking. Please don't interrupt."

I turned my attention back to Goatee who had begun to try and tear apart the webbing on Curly's hand and stomach. One final shot and now Goatee's own hands were stuck to Curly's, which I'm sure was too close to Curly's crotch for comfort.

"Aw man, what is this shit? Get it off me! Why won't it come off me, get it off!" Goatee was panicking. Curly, to his credit, just stared at me apparently stunned to silence. Not that I could blame him; wasn't everyday a weirdo in spandex shot ropes of sticky gunk at you. Or maybe it was; I didn't know these guys' personal activities, and hey, it was New York, I wasn't going to judge.

"Answer my questions and I'll take it off." Yeah, right, like I would really do that.

"Wha- what do you want?" Goatee stuttered.

"Who's Rose?" I asked. "What did she order you to do here?"

"She?" Goatee looked confused. "Rose ain't -"

"Shut up! You don't tell this freak any-mmpf!" The bolt cutter dude suddenly found himself with a mouthful of web.

"I asked you not to interrupt. So rude. Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"

I looked back at Goatee expectantly, but he just stared at my wrists. I guess he was afraid of getting webbed again.

"Well," I prompted, "you were going to tell me about this Rose chick?"

"Uh... I don't think I should be saying nothing 'bout Rose."

"That's a double negative."

He stared at me blankly.

"You said that you don't think should say nothing about Rose. That means you think you should say something about her." I explained to him. "So say something."

More blank staring.

I sighed, but before I could question him further police sirens sounded off in the distance. Somebody must have reported those gunshots earlier. I wanted to stay and find out who this Rose was and what was in the warehouse that was so important, but I wasn't going to get caught by the cops wearing a mask at the scene of a crime. Definitely didn't need that on my personal record.

I webbed Goatee's and Curly's feet to the ground to make sure they wouldn't run away before the police arrived, and then made my exit. I should have been getting home already anyways. It was Aunt May's day off, and I was sure she would want to know how the first day of the school year had gone.

"What's up, Chuck?" Logan asked as he took a seat in front of the Professor's desk, kicking his feat up. Charles Xavier was the greatest man Logan had ever met. He had done more for the mutant people than anyone that had ever taken a breath, and more importantly, he always had treated Logan with respect, even if the Wolverine didn't think he deserved it. Chuck knew everything that Logan had done in his time during the Weapon X program, and all Charles told him was that it was now Logan's time to make it right. And that's what he's been trying to do with his time here.

"How many times do I have to tell you about putting your feet on my desk, Logan?" he asked with fake exasperation in his voice. The two of them often ribbed one another in their exchanges, and it seemed like this time it would be no different. "And what's up is nothing, much to my chagrin."

"Still no movement on the Brotherhood?" Logan sighed.

"None at all," Xavier wheeled his chair over to the window, peering out intently. "I've scanned the globe with Cerebro multiple times, but have found no trace of Erik, Scott, or Alex."

Cerebro, the machine that allowed Charles to scan the earth for the mutants, was the X-Men's one ray of hope in this fight against the reformed Brotherhood. It gave them the ability to find and track the Brotherhood members. At least that's what they figured. Unfortunately Charles had been unable to get a trace on them so far. Erik Lehnsherr, better known as Magneto, had helped Charles build the device, so maybe he had also found a way to block the signals it produces.

"So where do we go from here? We don't have the time or manpower to perform a search."

"Not at all," Xavier shook his head. "Erik will show himself soon. It's his way. For the meantime I think we should focus on the Purifiers and where they're getting their significant backing."

"You know I'm all for that." The Purifiers had long been a thorn in Logan's side. They were the ones that had killed Jean's parents and countless other mutants he had tried to ferry to safety during the Purifier Attacks in the late 80s. When they reemerged Logan had luckily been with the X-Men and had a way to strike back at the racist bastards, but they had weapons and armor more advanced than he had ever seen before. Where they got it had been bothering him since the first clash with the New Purifiers. "The quicker we shut them down the quicker I can get a good night of sleep."

"As would I," Charles agreed. "I'm going to send you and Storm on a fact finding mission with a friend of mine in SHIELD. You'll leave in the morning."

September 5th, 2013. 11:26 am
Queens, New York



It had been a few days since my public little tiff with Gwen, and, as I had predicted, she was still giving me the cold shoulder. I had been giving her space, intending to let her approach me once she had forgiven me, but Mr. Davis, our Civics teacher, seemed to have other plans. We had been discussing the attack on the West Coast S.H.I.E.L.D. base that had taken place a few days before. Mr. Davis was explaining to the class the importance of the attack, and how it would likely be a critical turning point about something or other. To tell the truth, I hadn't really been paying much attention, which is why I was caught off guard when Mr. Davis announced our first project of the year and asked us all to pair up. I hadn't even registered what was going on, so caught up was I in my daydream about Liz Allan, until Gwen plopped down in the seat to the right of mine.

I looked over at her, startled, and asked lamely, "what's going on?"

She stared at me briefly before turning away. "I'm still mad at you."

"Then why are you talking to me?" Oh yeah, I was smooth.

Gwen whipped her head back to glare at me. "Because everyone else was taken, and you were all that was left."

'Huh?" I didn't follow.

She sighed, exasperated. "Great, you weren't even paying attention, were you? Look around, Peter," Gwen gestured at the other students who had similarly paired up.

I quickly figured out what was happening, embarrassed that I had been so slow on the uptake. "Oh. So, uh, what do we have to do?" I asked a little sheepishly.

"Mr. Davis is having us research events in history that we think had a significant impact; something similar to the recent Triskellion attack, and then we're supposed to juxtapose the two of them in a presentation we'll have to do in front of the class." Gwen held up a white slip of paper. "We have to pick a subject before class ends, and hand it in to Mr. Davis."

"Okay," I said, trying to come up with a worthy topic so I wasn't completely useless. "Well, why not go with that 'monster' attack on the city from last year. The one those four Future Foundation people fought. Both events involve superhuman teams combating supervillains of sorts."

Gwen frowned. "S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't a superhero organization, and you can't compare a Neo-Nazi terrorist strike with an accidental chemical spill that resulted in some freak mutation. They're not even close to the same thing, Peter."

Well, if I hadn't felt useless and stupid before...

"Here." Gwen said, passing me the slip of paper."I already chose Pearl Harbor, I just need you to put your name on it so I can hand it in."

"Oh." I took the piece of paper and scribbled my name down. I had to admit, it made much more sense than what I had suggested. Pearl Harbor and the Triskellion attacks were both assaults on non-civilian, U.S. installations. It was actually probably the most likely choice the others would decide on, which explained why Gwen was in a hurry to give Mr. Davis the topic paper. That, or she just wanted to get away from me as soon as possible. I hoped it was the former.

"Good." Gwen said, preparing to get up and leave. "We can meet later today to work on the research and decide on how we'll do the presentation."

"Actually, I can't today." I told her. "I'm going t swing by my Godfather's lab after school for a visit. Tomorrow, though? We can go to your house and work on it there."

Gwen was silent for a few seconds, but finally nodded in agreement. "Okay, but you better actually show up, Peter. If you don't..."

She didn't need to finish her sentence. I knew that if I wanted to repair our friendship I couldn't skip out on her. Not again.

'I'll be there, Gwen. I promise."

The school bell rang and she began to gather her stuff.

"You better." Gwen's voice was stern, but as she got up to hand the slip of paper into Mr. Davis I thought I saw a hint of a smile.

I vowed right then and there that I would be there tomorrow no matter what. I wasn't about to let Gwen down a second time, not when she was just letting me back in. Nothing short of a natural disaster would keep me away.

Daytime Anguish
Downtown Queens
The screams of anguish and rage echoed throughout the apartment. The cheers of glee overpowered them at times as the anger boiled over from the torment and anguish. Deadpool leaned forward, relishing the torture of the victims as they screamed in agony. Deadpool grinned from ear to ear.

“Told you he wasn’t the Daddy! Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!”

Deadpool laid panned out on the couch, in nothing but his underwear, hip holster and mask, which was pulled up above his mouth so he could stuff another handful of cheeseballs into it, the orange dust covering the edges of his lips and the tips of his fingers. Some leftover orange crumbs covered the scarred chest of the Merc as the next set of guests on the daytime TV show stepped up.

*You claim to be the world’s best mercenary, yet here you are, watching daytime trash TV while we have a high paying job sitting in front of us, literally!*

A small stack of files sat on the coffee table, a couple of photos sticking out of the cardboard covers that showed people, places and strange looking equipment. The thickest lay at the bottom, several papers rifled through from being shifted through several times.

“Also one of the most dangerous, I mean S.H.I.E.L.D.? I need to focus, collect my thoughts….”

The self-argument came to an end as the apartment loft’s door opened wide and a figure stepped through into the loft. Years of intense training snapped into place as Deadpool drew his S&W from the holster at his hip, the barrel snapping to the target and the finger hovering over the trigger. The laser-point on the barrel’s end hovering over the entrant’s eye….or at least where the eye should be. The left patch covered the left eye area, the young girl stepped in to see the weapon pointed in her direction, only to sigh.

“D, didn’t I say that I would be back soon? I just went to get groceries.” She shifted her arms, the brown paper bags ruffling in her arms.

Deadpool shrugged, “One has to always be careful when you’re as dangerous as me, Al.” It would have sounded more impressive if his mouth was not spluttering chewed orange cheeseballs all over his semi-naked body as the handgun is slid back into its holster.

Al shook her head and marched into the kitchen area of the loft. Alexander Althea had known Deadpool for the past several months and had gotten used to some of his stranger quirks, she had to, considering he was giving her room and board in exchange for her services. Nothing sexual, Al would never sink that low, but Deadpool never seemed to show that kind of interest so she was content with the affiliation so far.

Al met Deadpool in a homeless shelter after the Merc had come recruiting, looking for his “Alfred” as he put it. None met Deadpool’s odd standards until Alexander stepped up. Wade told her if she could break down and reassemble the .45 ACP pistol, he’d take her in for free, chores included. Not only did she do just that, she did it in a very respectable time, under 5 minutes. This intrigued Deadpool and he took the young 20 year old into his loft apartment, informing her of her duties. She also didn’t ask why Deadpool wore his costume and he didn’t ask about her missing left eye.

It was then she began noticing Wade’s stranger quirks, such as taking to calling her “Blind Al”, despite the fact she had full vision in her right eye. When she finally asked him why, he merely shrugged and stated that “you remind me of someone I used to know.” Deadpool refused to comment further and, once when she’d pissed him off about it, he locked her in a room he called the “Box”, a room filled with sharp objects. She was thoroughly confused now, seeing as the room was lit and she could clearly see all of the obstacles.

Al sat the bags on the counter top and opened one of the overhead cabinets. A bunch of soft bags fell on Al’s head as she groaned, turning one of the bright bags over to read the front of the bag.

“Captian Carl’s CheesyBalls? How many did you buy, D?”

She answered her own question when she opened the other cabinets, finding more bags stuffed inside. She pressed her fingers into her eyes, calling out to Deadpool.

“D, I thought we discussed this. You bring in the money, I do the shopping and we don’t ask questions about what the other does.”

“But they were on sale! And we’ll be bringing in some big bucks soon.”

“What, the S.H.I.E.L.D. job?” Al bit her lip as she spoke too soon, realizing her slip.

“You’ve been reading my files again, Al? Didn’t we discuss that as well?”

“It was just sitting there wide open, you were out….. So it looks like it would be smart to do some of the other jobs first. Especially that HAMMER tech one……” She poked the conversation forward, hopping D would forget her infraction if he concentrated on the job.

Deadpool nodded in silent agreement. He’d been looking over the equipment that X wanted him to steal and he’s figured that taking some of the smaller companies would do first before going up against S.H.I.E.L.D. The HAMMER job looked the most promising, with the development of some new teleport tech that was still in the trial stages, giving the user only short range capabilities, but, with the layout to the Helicarrier in his possession from the mysterious voice on the other end of the phone, it would mean that none of the locked doors would be a problem. Deadpool stood up, the crumbs falling from his scarred chest as he struck a valiant pose for his one audience member.

“Time to go to work! Now, Al, fetch me my pants!”