---

“My brothers and sisters, it is time.”

The voice was clear as it spoke over the private feed.

It had been years since the leader of this secret society had pooled all of his resources and connections, gathering the world’s greatest enemies and rivals to the heroism of the infallible Justice League in a plan that would create an epic that would make Homer’s poetry seem infantile; the historians of the future will look back in awe at this glorious human achievement and all of the events that it would cause to unfold. Truly, it had been easy to acquire aforementioned allies as all he needed to mention was the goal of the first phase of his plan— to take out and demoralize the Justice League; and because of that his allies were diverse indeed.

Many people would consider this a vicious attack made out of vengeance, but unlike his allies he had nothing against the Justice League; it was just that they had lived up to their purpose and it was time for their fall to be used to strike a message to the world. Which was most certainly the first step in the plan that he called Insurrection and the world would know his voice.

The world would recognize the control that Vandal Savage and his allies held over them.

The voice of Lex Luthor followed after Savage’s on the feed, “Is it, now?”

“Indeed. I believe Batman is soon to take his bait, he will be the first – then you will initiate your plan on the Man of Steel...” Savage paused.

“….and from there the rest of the League will crumble and once the people see their heroes publically removed from play, we will reveal that not even the mighty Justice League is invulnerable and that the real world power is here in this secret society of ours, in this Legion of Doom.”

---

I can still remember the night where my little idyllic life in The Bronx fell into the shadows of the darkest pits of misery; the night where my brother, Hector, was taken from not only from me but this world. It makes me so utterly angry to the point there is so much hate and rage that I don’t know what to do as I can feel it festering in my stomach like a disease. Hector had always told me that hatred was like a disease, and I understand that now firsthand as I feel it. But what is the cure for such an emotional disease? Every instinct I have in my body tells me the answer, and I’m not sure my brother would agree… no, he would definitely not; because the answer I feel in my bones is taking what has been done upon me and striking out at those who have wronged me – an eye for eye. But where would my brother to disagree with how I feel? He brought down an entire criminal faction that was poisoning The Bronx over a family matter. This is the same; I can feel it in my heart.

What is more legitimate than what is in the heart?

As I think this I reach to my belt, retrieving something from one of the pouches; my eyes gaze downward.



“We looked so happy then.”

I can feel my eyes tear a little beneath the mask, but now is not the time to break— there will never be another time again. Weakness is why I am standing on the edge and Hector is with our parents. If I could’ve been stronger I could’ve stopped that man from striking the last injury my brother received. But that was then and this is now; the people who did this to me and my family will pay and they will receive their vicious justice, I will make sure of that.

I flip the photo back where I retrieved it from, my eyes narrowing in the darkness of the night.

I will find the shadow who escaped me, I will find out who sent him, and I will see justice served by my hands. I don’t know how I will achieve these goals but I know I will, there is no question about this, there is no answer in the universe that will tell me I will not or can not; such things would fall upon deaf ears. The only clue I have is small and my brother’s small logbook of contacts suggest I talk to one Alexander Knox for information going forward; which is exactly what I will do.

There is much in-between my current location and Knox’s place of employment, and I have been craving on dealing with the criminals of The Bronx. Is it an outlet? Probably; but it is also my responsibility since donning the attire of my late brother and I will continue his legacy as the White Tiger.

The fight continues, as they say.

Two gunshots.

—and from what I can tell it is nearly around the corner from my current position.

Heh.

The timing is almost too perfect, but it is too close to pass up my first encounter with armed thugs as the new White Tiger. My toes are lifted from the rooftop before I even think too much on the issue; moving forward on a sort of primal instinct. Before I’ve even landed on the next rooftop my thoughts are moving and wondering if it’s me or the amulet that is in charge of my reactions here. My brother never really taught me the history of this amulet and it’s not like it is whispering in my ear either, so all I have is a little bit of training and some of my brother’s convoluted speeches to go off of. I… I really miss those speeches, to have one more lecture or boring lesson about meditation or self-defense from him… it would be wonderful.

I have to remember them before the memories are faded like dust.

I will remember them.

I can feel the anger in my body twist and turn as I land hard on the next rooftop; the anger that keeps me going.

My feet don’t stop as soon as they hit the rooftop— turning into a sprint as I come closer and closer to where I heard the gunshots from. Though this entire sprint could turn out to be pointless, which is something I realize as I consider that it could be anyone from armed police officers to other vigilantes… perhaps not the latter, I don’t think there is another vigilante in The Bronx outside of perhaps The Prowler and he doesn’t use bullets; he’s much too extravagant for that. That leaves me with police or thugs; my gut tells me it isn’t the police and I don’t hear any sirens or screams of authority.

My body halts on a dime on the ledge of the current rooftop as my eyes instinctively dart downward to the left.

That’s when I see it: a group of hooded thugs, who I don’t recognize flying any important colors or flags, are approaching a woman about my age as one of them holds out a smoking gun in hand as she holds her boyfriend who is bleeding out pretty bad. If he can make it to the clinic around the corner maybe he can survive— but I’m sure these pieces of crap don’t want to let it be. What gain do they have on attacking some couple in an alley? No sirens yet— probably won’t chime off, this isn’t a great part of The Bronx. I bite my lip underneath my mask as my brows narrow.

Not in my neighborhood.

My body flings itself off of the ledge as I turn mid-air into the side of the adjacent building that also overlooks the alleyway and I slam down into the group of thugs in a matter of an instant. The likelihood is they are still armed if a handful just hit the concrete like a sack of potatoes. I’m pretty sure a few of these men will have plenty of fractures and broken bones— and I haven’t even thrown a punch yet.

This feels satisfying.

“Holy shit, it’s the White Tiger!?”

I grin underneath my mask. That’s damn right.

“Naw man, the White Tiger ain’t a—”

She is now and your doubt is why your arm is broken and you’ve just been thrown into a dumpster.

These thugs know the original White Tiger, and admittedly my brother was a bit of a gentle guardian who never intended to do harm. That is the big difference between him and I; as I very much intend to do lots and lots of harm to people who rightly deserve it and these people certainly do. I can hear their heartbeats pace faster and faster as I almost imagine the taste of their fear. One of them scrambles and aims his handgun at me. However, he’s too scared to notice when I jumped his group I dropped his magazine clip and I can't help but chuckle in his face. Oh, I’m going to break him worse than The Amazing Newt broke the Hollywood Blockbuster standard.

The next few minutes go by fast as I feel the effects of the amulet augmenting my strength, reflexes, and speed. The last thug bolts out of the alleyway but that doesn’t matter as I will catch him. The rest of the group is dealt with by now and my eyes are upon the couple to which I reply by pointing in the direction of the clinic.

“There’s a free clinic. If you hurry, he’ll live.”

“Are you going to let that guy get away?”

“He won’t get far.”

Red Hook, Brooklyn
3:41 AM

The black sedan raced down the Brooklyn side street. Its brakes squealed as the driver slammed the car to a stop in front of the small garage. Four men in black clothing and balaclavas leaped from the car with shotguns in their hands. The leader ran past the graffiti tagged sheet metal garage door and kicked in the wooden door beside it.

"What the fuck!"

Four men were gathered around a card table with piles of cash --crinkled up tens, twenties, and one hundred dollar bills-- surrounding them as they counted. The garage that operated under the name Pasha's Auto Reair was, in fact, one of the most successful bookmaking and loan shark businesses in the five boroughs. With the big St. John's/Georgetown game that night, there was easily fifty grand on the table.

"Hands up where I can see 'em," the leader of the masked men said. "You move, you fucking die."

"Fucking Leonid," one of the men at the table said in a thick Russian accent. "I knew he was a fucking rat."

The Russians stayed in place while two of the masked men swept the cash from the table and into duffle bags slung over their shoulders. Two of the other robbers kept their shotguns trained on the Russians to make sure they stayed in place. Pasha, a fat and bald man dressed in a rumpled black suit, could barely contain his rage as he watched the money disappear from his table.

"You think you can steal this from me and get away with it?" Pasha fumed. "You are dead. Everyone you loved. Dead. Anyone you ever talked to. Dead. Anyone who sold you a fucking sandwich. Dead. You masked cowards."

The two men with the bags stepped back. Their leader stepped up and looked at the men at the card table for a moment. He reached up and removed his balaclava, showing the Russian gangsters his large head with a perfectly flat top.

"Get a good look at my face, asshole," Flattop said with a wide grin that showed off the gap in his teeth. "And know this is the last thing you'll ever see. Big Boy sends his regards."

The four Russians began to yell, their screams cut short as Flattop and his men opened up with their shotguns and plastered the garage floor and walls in human blood, bone, and brains.

--

Lincoln Square
Manhattan
5:18 AM

Calling Dick Tracy! Calling Dick Tracy! Calling Dick Tracy!

Tracy groaned and sat up in bed. The ringtone on his cell phone was a joke recording Pat had made one night at the bar. Somehow Daz had gotten ahold of his phone and set Pat's nasally call as his ringtone. Tracy wasn't tech savvy enough how to take it off, and nobody in the squad would help him. Buncha smartasses.

"This is Tracy," he said as he answered the phone.

"Cap'n, it's Tork.

Tracy tried to climb out of bed as quietly as possible. Tess stirred in the bed beside him. He should have gotten out of bed before answering the phone. She always was a light sleeper.

"What's going on, Tork?" He asked softly as he padded towards the kitchen in his pajamas. "And why can't it wait until I came in the office?"

"Apologies for the hour, but I'm out here in Red Hook. The boys in the Seven-Six's homicide squad caught a quadruple out here tonight. Pasha Popov and three of his guys got turned into paste by person or persons unknown. They ran Pasha's ID through the system and it pinged Major Case and our investigation."

"Dammit."

Tracy leaned against the kitchen counter and sighed. Popov was Major Case's in to the Caprice Crime Family. He was part of the money side of the organization and their quickest way to find out exactly where Big Boy's money was coming from and going to. Now that was as dead as Popov apparently was.

"What are the Seven-Six doing with the investigation, Mike?"

"They can't wait to pawn it off on us, Cap," Tork grumbled. "I think the precinct captain's gonna call you as soon as he can and ask you take it off his plate."

Tracy rubbed his face, trying to wake himself up. Today already had the makings of a long day. He checked the clock on the wall and quickly devised a gameplan.

"Okay, I'm heading up there now. I'll call Pat and let him know what's going on. He and the rest of the squad can stay on surveillance detail while the two of us work the crime scene. You up for running with the old man, Mike?"

"You kidding? I just hope you can keep up."

Tracy laughed and quickly said a goodbye to Tork. He put his phone on the counter, cracked his neck, and prepared to get to work.

The Tiger Pit

The crowd filled the underground arena with a roar louder than any real tiger could manage, a roar so intense that it should have been impossible for it not to shake the streets of New York above. Tonight, the infamous street-fighting venue was packed to capacity and overflowing besides, the only clear spaces were the raised ring at the center still shrouded in darkness and the high platform used by the Pit's ever-popular MC. The man himself strode out onto the dias, the spotlight highlighting the snarling orange-black tiger design of his mask and gleaming off of his metallic three-section-staff, and as he arrived to take up the microphone the multitude in their thronging hundreds fell completely silent.

After all, they had gathered to watch a man die.

"Ladies and gentleman, Brothers of Heaven and Earth, fighters of all ages! Tonight I, Chaka, give you a show the likes of which this august battlefield has never before witnessed! Tonight, I give you that which many of you have claimed is impossible! I give you the breaking of a living weapon! I give you the death of an Immortal! I give you...IRON FIST!"

Floodlights finally lit the ring revealing four equally musclebound and menacing fighters at the corners and lying in the center, a masked figure in green and gold with a dragon-mark on his chest and his costume bloodied and torn, his feet tied together and his hands bound behind his back. The masses screamed their approval at the sight and cheered wildly as the sound of a bell pierced through air thickened by their bloodlust but as the four bare-knuckle brawlers converged on their victim, he actually managed to stand, wobbling just slightly in his bonds and...smiling.

Despite this bizarre development, the first of the fighters to reach the masked man sauntered right up to him and lashed out with an almost contemptuous right hook, certain that the blow would wipe the insolent grin right off his face and send him sprawling back to the mat to be beaten...

only for his fist to meet empty air as the still smiling man rocked back on his heels and swayed away from the punch. Suddenly, with whip-like speed and the same sickening crack the still tied up smiling man snapped his whole body forward into a headbutt that sent his attacker reeling back and screaming against a tide of blood and mucus from his now pulped and shattered nose.

As the crowd's gasps of astonishment turned to shouts of outrage the other three fighters rushed the smiling man as one, attempting to pummel him with a rain of punches and kicks from all sides. But the man never stopped smiling. Instead, gold mask dripping red, he twisted, weaved and pivoted in place and almost miraculously the fighters' blows seemed to flow around him like a river around a rock, instead crashing into his enemies. After a few moments of this two on opposite sides had beaten each other to the point of collapse while the last backed off exhausted and eyeing him warily as the crowd and Chaka alike fell silent at their failure.

Perhaps overwhelmed by shame, the final brawler circled, then roared and charged his tormentor from behind, launching into a diving tackle to bring him down and immobilize him. Without missing a beat and despite his bound feet the masked man launched into a jump that carried him over the tackle before bringing his full weight down on the big man's back and driving the air from his body in a pitiful wheeze. After which he hopped off the unconscious lug and gave the crowd an apologetic bow.

By this point the original assailant with the broken nose had recovered himself enough to give a last screaming and desperate charge, only to be met by a sudden dropkick that brought both attacker and recipient down together. Only one of them got up, and he was still smiling. The crowd booed and raged in disappointment, only to be cowed by the voice of the somehow calm Chaka

"My brothers I feel your disappointment! Your rage! But do not think that the Iron Fist will go unpunished for his insolence! No! For we were prepared, even for this! No common beating for our great foe, no! Instead I give you the death of a thousand cuts! I give you...ROUND TWO!

Suddenly, eight men in bestial masks leaped from the shadows into the ring, each wielding a straight-bladed Chinese jian. With impossible grace they rushed the man in green and gold though his hands and feet were still bound, preparing to slice him to ribbons in a slow, agonizing death. Once again the crowd ignited, eager to see the hated man's life blood spilled across the canvas and sure now that even his skill couldn't save him from eight trained swordsmen.

But then with no apparent effort, he flexed and snapped the ropes binding his feet together.

What happened next was lost in a flurry of kicks too numerous and varied to track and a few impossible-seeming leg based grapples that turned a roundhouse into a chokehold and a somersault into a flipping throw, but the only thing everyone could see was that in the end all eight swordsmen were strewn about the ring out cold.

At this, the gathered crowd completely lost control. They rose up in tens perhaps even in hundreds, almost all of them trained fighters and all of them rushing the ring in blind fury to tear one man apart with their bare hands and anything else they could find, hellbent on killing him themselves and lent strength by an untamed rage.

The man at the center of it all snapped the ties on his hands.

A lot could be said about what happened next, but the only words that matter are these.

He is the Immortal Iron Fist

and they fell as rain in a storm.

---

After a long half hour of healing meditation, Daniel Rand-Kai looked back at what he'd done with more dread and disappointment than pride. Chaka had fled the Tiger Pit as soon as the mob got too worked up and apart from the a hundred or so semi-skilled thugs beaten or arrested for street-fighting in a city of millions, no real justice would be served tonight. Worse yet he was no closer to bringing down the Chiantang's organization considering another pit could be opened just as easily somewhere else. So the question had to be asked...

Why? Was it just selfish rage and self-indulgent violence? Is that how I squander my father's gifts, my master's teachings? At least I didn't use the Chi of Shou-Lao, the Iron Fist, but if I can't find a good use for them then why do I have them?

Danny pushed his doubts aside and ascended the stairway out of the pit. Somewhere up there were more villains to fight and innocents to protect.

Hopefully a purpose would come with them.

---

August 23 1948
Las Vegas, Nevada

Taking a maintenance entrance, one man slithered past a dedicated crew of security workers. His stiff leather trenchcoat silently drug behind him as he snuck out of the boiler room and into a vibrantly decorated hallway. The tip of his fedora hung over the front of his mask, a glimmering helmet fitted perfectly to his face, smirking everywhere he went regardless of what he was going through. For whatever reason, perhaps a death wish, passion for truth, or giving in to the spirit of the times, he'd made it his mission to face off against the filthiest snakes he could find in Sin City.

One of them happened to walk into his sights. With a draw faster than a panther, he pulled out his dart gun and spat a small dose of a debilitating neurotoxin into his jugular. The needle breaking the skin felt like a bee sting, but the venom exploring his veins felt like whiskey flooding his soul.

As soon as the body dropped, a guard came running. His weapon was drawn, but he charged right into the sight of the pistol-firing marksman. His career ended with the whizzing sound of another dart jumping at his arm. The vigilante snuck ahead, creeping down on the floor, ducked beneath the site of any sentries before picking an isolated one off.

Near his goal, Copperhead, the classiest crimebuster Vegas had seen rose up beside an open doorway. He swapped weapons for an option that was definitely lethal, a dart packing venom enough to kill a dozen elephants, all for a single lowlife who'd abused his immune system to Hell and back with drugs, alcohol, and promiscuity. Stepping through the doorway, he nonchalantly stepped into plain view, impatiently bouncing his trigger hand against his forearm like he had somewhere to be. Without any remorse, he sabotaged the target's nervous system beyond any hope of survival, let alone recovery.

---

7:45 PM, February 25 2010
New York City, New York

"No,n-nn-n-n-No!" This was not how my first day was supposed to go, the costumed inventor thought to himself as he used his signature boots to slingshot himself off of one balcony and onto another. "No matter how far ahead I get, I can't shake him."

Leap Frog, as he had begun to call himself, was having a rough day. To make up for his receding wages, he decided to kidnap a little girl to give his income the boost it needed, with the extra insurance of parental worry and cooperation provided by masquerading as a supervillain. He didn't particularly like the plan, but felt it was his best option. His own kids were starving, his inventions were unappreciated, and while he was trying to make a name for himself, he'd only made a fool of himself by failing to even run away. When Daredevil got on his tail, he quickly realized that he had to drop the girl to make his own escape. The only problem was that his inventions were malfunctioning, and it had nothing to do with Daredevil. They weren't supposed to be used so much, and at this point it was frying the motor. Unacceptable. The electric coils beneath his feet were receiving so much current that it was beginning to burn his heels.



Checking over his shoulder, he saw the crimson clad crusader chasing him hadn't given any sign of letting up. It registered that even if he wasn't being pursued by a judgemental spirit, there was no reason to assume his captor wouldn't burn him with his own brand of hellfire. The thought put the burns on his feet into perspective.

It was impossible to think of a clever way to escape with the ruckus from a nearby train, despite having the ultimate option literally strapped to his feet. Desperate for a way out of accepting responsibility for his actions, Leap Frog sprung over a terrace and onto the rails of the train that had just passed. He then arched his back and pounced wildly, landing on top of the locomotive.

"If that were any closer I'd end up like that stilted fella," the man in the bulbous green costume chuckled, relieved from the prior moments burden like it were years ago despite watching the man in red shrink back into the distance. But.. there was something getting closer, a brown blur that slipped past Leap Frogs' eyes with its natural inspired camouflage against the rusted beams and rotting wood.

Not Daredevil or anything like him, the approaching predator was fast, like his ankles also had coils to thrust him. Leading with his forehead, his body was like an arrow that burst through the air. Running up the back of the train and crawling over the roof's edge, he was hardly seen before he struck with hundreds off pounds of pent-up fury. Springing off of his feet, he rammed Leap Frog, impacting his soft belly and throwing him off the side of the train before he flopped on the ground.

The casing of his battery pack took the worst of the fall. But Leap Frog was shaken by the strike. All he'd seen were the terrible snake eyes and scaly brown hood. His inner self said to run away without looking back, but his flesh disobeyed, trembling in place before being bombarded by his own fear. He shook on the ground, traumatized by a murderous gaze and terrified by a set of talons that raked his arm, a quaking shield to his face. The snake struck again, compacting his full might into a crushing blow dealt by his knuckles. The fists landed like the sky was sprinkling dumbbells.

"I think that's enough for now," the devilish figure seemed to burst into place, his molten red eyes locking onto the criminal's assailant with automated accuracy. The contender met his warning with a venomous glare. "Unless you want to leave as rough as he is, this is your last chance to back out." Getting the hint, the scaly fighter slipped into the background, shooting across the ground like a deflating balloon. Redirecting his attention, Daredevil's neck dropped to the ground before he focused on the kidnapper at his feet.

"Sn-s-snake-man," he croaked, too weak to say anything clearly besides fumbling through a barebones description.

"Anything more to say?" Daredevil's voice rumbled, intentionally distorting his range. Passion ignited by silence, he slipped out the billy clubs from his holster and fired the hooked end into the distance, grabbing the green child-snatcher in arm before zipping off to the police station. There was no hope of catching the snake in the concrete jungle he hunted in. At least, not yet.

---

9:30 PM, February 25 2010
Hell's Kitchen, New York City

It's not that I had something against him, besides his secrecy, it's just that he was an unknown factor in my war on crime, an extra beat in the ballad of truth and justice. If something outstanding were to happen after he caught Leap Frog, I needed to know because inevitably one of them would come back around to bite me.

The chattering of my phone jackhammering on my nightstand drew me into a conversation with exactly the right man to solve the mystery: Mr. A.

"Incoming call from: Rex_Graine."

"Answer," I commanded my phone.

"Matt, I got your message last night so I did a little digging. The man you described is most likely Copperhead, vigilante from the area that has a few advantages over the every man, venom for one. There are few reports of his activity, but his M.O. is just what you described: Guerrilla tactics enacted in urban locations. There's nothing there to be suspicious about, but, he paused, "that is a reason in itself."

A ping from my phone dropped off a few audio files of internet recordings, read aloud by Graine personally.

"Great, snakes.. Is there anything else to him? How do you think I can get ahold of him?"

"I dunno, kidnapping worked the first time. That's worth a try."

"Alright, thanks Rex." Without actually answering me, he hung up. So I picked up my phone and said "Play the Recordings." Cooperating with Graine is great, especially because I can't read anything on a phone.

"Playing File One: In the late 1940s, there was a vigilante named Copperhead who wore an expressionless copper mask and a trench coat," much like Mr. A himself. "He tactically liberated Las Vegas of dozens and dozens of mobsters with his venom gun. The impression he left was minimal once he disappeared though. How, or if, he died was never confirmed. But his golden face has been recreated and used as a symbol by Vegas gamblers as a disrespectful tradition."

"Skip."

"Playing File Two: The rats of New York City have been getting swallowed up by a new criminal hunter dubbed Copperhead. His agility and blazing speed, in combination with venom-filled claws on his fingertips have sped through a slew of the NYC's colorful criminals."

"Skip." I continued on like this for roughly two hours or so, playing everything Sage sent me over a couple times, making sure I really understood what I could. More than anything, I got the feeling that he was inspired to continue a legacy.

---

11:20, February 25 2010
Hell's Kitchen, New York City

The taste of sweat in the air is overwhelming. Usually the backroom of Potter's shop smells more like melted wax or various fragrances. I crept in through the back door, unlocking it with a heroine needle I'd picked up out of an alley. I can't really imagine knocking on the door being good for a highly surveyed man whose job is to keep me off his employers backs. I listened to the area while I was coming in, the only heartbeat was his own. So gently, I walked up making a little noise and set my hand on his shoulder. "Melvin."

"Gaugh!" A scream like a banshee popped out of his lungs. Catching his breath, he even gagged on his own saliva.

"Melvin, I need to ask you a favor."

"Of course you do," he gathered some poise, even spiting me a bit, "but it'd be great if you'd actually knock 'er something instead a' breaking into my shop. Or maybe you could do me a favor, and stop with the dramatic entrances. I've known you for years, you could call me. We both know we aren't really enemies."

"Yeah, well.. Melvin, I need to borrow a mannequin." Swallowing my pride a bit, I hoped he'd come around.

"It's fifty dollars." Dead serious, stonewalled, and compassionless.

"Please, just for one day."

"I have a business to run, I can't afford to lose any more money, money costs me time and time makes me money. Besides, I know how rough you play. I can almost guarantee you won't bring it back."

"Melvin, I swear I'll bring it back. I'll even pay you, but I don't have it on me right now. Please, just take my word for it."

"Said the man who literally masquerades as a devil," the words stung. "Take it, but I can't afford to do you favors all the time. That suit I made you," I felt the breeze of his finger sailing towards me, "yeah, the one you're wearing. It cost me money."

What do you say to that? "Thank you, Melvin," letting my head hang down a bit, I went to pick up a nearby mannequin, removing it from its stand before discreetly Trying to leave through the back.

"You didn't say anything about my clothes, Daredevil."

With a deep sigh, I apologetically acknowledged him. "They'll be back, Melvin."

---

1:30 AM, February 26 2010
Hell's Kitchen, New York City

"Someone help me!"

The high-pitched scream could be clearly heard throughout the nearly empty street beneath the train tracks. While everyone with a relatively normal life goes to bed, it's well understood that after dark is the most dangerous time to go out, for average joes, villains, and vigilantes alike. With such a ravishing blonde in my arms, I was sure someone would pay attention, and it took a little longer than I hoped, but I got exactly who I wanted on my tail.



He arced through the air, bouncing off walls like a soccer ball to catch me. Now I know what it must be like to be The Owl. If it weren't for the fact that I patrol the worst and most generally dangerous section of the NYC, I'd probably have to deal with bad press or something. But I don't have to work under that constraint.

"That'ss enough running, Daredevil," my animal-themed pursuer commented, purposefully elongating his pronunciation of the letter "S" and giving a loud whisper to the rest.

"Almost," I spat back. His heart gave off a heavy thundering irregularly. Alert, focused, and less confident in himself than before I had spoken.

My nose caught a whiff of a nearby ice cream shop, run by ice cream artisans if there ever truly had been such a thing. Dashing with renewed strength, the balls of my feet fired like they were automated, throwing me in front of a short staircase. I nearly stopped on a dime, skidding on the sidewalk before pouncing up the stairs and using the feminine figure in my arms to break through the door for me. We made it inside right before Copperhead did.

As soon as I heard his feet land on the rusty metal surface beneath us, I dropped the blonde to the ground, tugging on a rope hanging from the ceiling and slipped backward before a metal door dropped in front of me.

I'd led him into a shipping container before dropping the doors, baited by recording, a mannequin, and a dose of the makeup from Karen's desk. Honestly, I would've been inclined to rescue the doll.

"Now," I chuckled, "now, I'm done running."

Instead of any threats, I heard round after round of the crate roaring, echoing as he struck the walls mightily. If he was using his hands, I couldn't tell. The overlapping echoes muddied my radar-sense to be complete uselessness. I found myself on my knees, debilitated by the rolling thunder. I swear to god, I need some ear-plugs in this thing. It came wave after wave, mixed with his screaming and the echoes that were born in my mind from hearing it go on.

Finally, he stopped, and the sound washed out.

But I was laying on the ground, hands crushing my ears to block the noise as best as I could. I tried to push myself up off the ground, but all I could do was roll over, sweeping my forearm against the floor. But I tried again. I made myself get up. My skull felt heavy, nodding down when I shakily got onto my feet.

"L-listen up.. I'm only going to say this once." I stopped for a second. Talking made me want to throw up. Work through it. "I didn't want to fight you. I still don't. I just.. needed to know whose side you're on, what it is that you do."

A long silence stood between us. But it let my head clear.

"I fight. I fight criminals, I stop them, and when they're done, I fight some more."

"Why? Are you protecting someone, maybe something?" Fighting for fun is beyond preposterous, but it still happens every day. I'd be shocked if I didn't know better. But at this point, I'd have to be living under a rock to forget everything I've seen.

"The only thing I'm protecting, is the original's legacy from being eroded by time."

"I'm not so intent on protecting stories of the past as much as I'm invested in a better future. Perhaps you'd want to join, fight with me for tomorrow, where people can appreciate what you're doing today."

"I'm not interested," he snipped. "Now that we've had this talk, can you let me out of the cage?"

Stupid. I wouldn't turn him into the cops, they couldn't handle him. I wasn't about to call SHIELD because he played a little looser than me. If he didn't want to do things right, to do more than play make-believe, it wasn't my problem. But I didn't have to make it easy for him.

"When you're motivated enough to get out and do something worthwhile, you'll find a way." Leaving it at that, I stepped away from the crate, hearing the sharp gasp jump out from his lungs.

"You can't leave me here!"

Yes

I

Can

Leonardo could still see it sometimes. The blood that flowed from the bodies as the Kingpin's men screeched away in their car. It was the Turtles' first taste of violence. Well, real violence. He had seen guns in the movies Donnie downloaded off the internet. He had been trained in nearly every form of hand-to-hand combat the world had ever seen. There was nothing like the real thing, however. Seeing what a firearm could do had told Leonardo many things. That those that used them had no honor. That violence was king on the surface. But most of all it told him that there was a need for him and his brothers to protect the people that lived in this great city. They were his responsibility now. That was something he wouldn't take lightly.

It was a great responsibility, and certainly not an easy one.

"Hey look, he's brooding again!" Raph laughed as he slapped Leo on the shoulder. "What're ya thinking about? What would Captain America do? We should make a bracelet for you with it on there."

"Very funny, Raph," Leo rolled his eyes and looked around the lair. Mikey was buried in a video game, Donnie was tinkering with something, and Raph was on his third set of pushups for the day. They had been on patrol the night before, and had taken down a few groups of Foot soldiers doing who knows what. They were in a good mood, that's for sure. "So are we patrolling tonight?"

"Do we have to?" Mikey whined as he pressed away at the controller, half his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. "I'm so in the zone."

"You don't become a hero like Superman by taking nights off, Mike," Leo shot back to his brother.

"Yea, well, maybe when you can fly around the world in an hour you can be like the big blue boy scout," Raph grunted through his reps. "Hell, you definitely got the boy scout part down."

"Besides," Donnie piped in, "we told April and Casey we'd meet them at the movies later."

"Yea, bro!" Mikey exclaimed. "The new Fast and Furious! Ride or die, Leo!"

He chuckled, and had to admit they were right. They had been working for weeks without a night off, and it would be good to hang out with their friends when they weren't nearly being killed by gangsters or ninjas. Still, Leo kept his mind on the Foot. They had been getting more brazen in their moves. The leader of the Turtles wasn't sure if it was due to the vigilante group's emergence into the gang war or what, but The Foot were pressing the advantage they were building against Kingpin. Things would come to a head soon.

"Seriously, Leo," Raph shook his head as he grabbed a towel, "no one can possibly brood this much."

As his brothers got ready to leave, Leonardo slunk into his father's room and found him meditating. Leo crossed his legs and sat directly across from his sensei, "Father."

"I thought you were going to the movies?" Splinter asked without opening his eyes. "I would not want you to miss the show."

Splinter was right of course. But the nagging in the back of his mind wouldn’t leave him alone. If the Foot were ready to move, wasn’t this a waste of time?

"We have time," Leo shook his head. "Father, I'm worried about-"

"The Foot," he cut his son off. "Of course you are. We all are. As we should be. The Shredder is not to be trifled with. But until we find out what his true intentions are, we will stab blindly in the dark to stop him. What have I always told you about control, Leonardo?"

"Without control and wisdom, we lose everything," Leonardo recited from memory. "A true combatant needs steady ground under his feet. Must mind his surroundings. Fighting blind means losing, no matter how strong you may be."

"Which means go to the movies. Have fun with your friends," Splinter smiled. "The Foot will be there when you're done, my son."



“Casey! We’re gonna be late! Hurry up!” April called to Jones. He had just finished both a workout and a practice with the hockey team. She knew he’d probably be flexing in front of the mirror after his shower. She’d think it embarrassing if not for the fact that it was cute in a dopey sort of way. She, on the other hand, was in front of the hall mirror fixing her striking red hair. Around her shoulders was a yellow peacoat with a black scarf to accent it. “If we miss the previews Mikey is going to be pissed!”

“Comin’!” he responded from the bathroom. He emerged wearing an old, grungy leather jacket and his long, black hair pulled back.

“Do you have to wear that coat?” she grimaced playfully. She knew he did. He never explained why, other than his mother gave it to him. At this point she teased him about it, but he knew it didn’t really bother her.

“Do you have to ask me about it every time I do? ” he sidled up to her and planted a kiss on her cheek.

She wiped it away with proper over exaggeration, “Gross.”

They stared into each others eyes for a moment, and April still wondered how they had gotten here. They were as opposite as can be, yet they were now part of a family neither could have even imagined. Both were part of a war against evil in their city. She was training with a ninja...who was also a rat, and he was a vigilante fighting alongside vigilant Turtles. Each was the others rock, but even then they felt like the tide might wash them away.

“You’re the one who chose to date me,” he shrugged before putting his arm out. “Shall we go, madame?”

“Oh, how chivalrous,” she rolled her eyes. “Let’s go, Casanova.”



Vin shifted uncomfortably as he watched Old Hob overlook the shipment of weapons they had just been given. Hob wasn’t someone to be trifled with, and his temper was legendary. The speed and ferocity with which he had killed the old leader of the gang to take over leadership was astounding. Now he had managed to get them signed up with the Kingpin in exchange for helping the big boss take out the vigilantes that infested New York.

The weapons were high-powered automatic rifles, and each was military grade. The quality and deadliness of the shipment solidified something that most in the streets of New York had known for months: War was coming. Things had been escalating for years. First gangs started muscling one another on the streets, and then the heroes and vigilantes showed up to try and cleanup the city. They had been in a long game of tug-of-war ever since, but it seemed like that was about to change. The heroes had to be taken care of. Even if the criminals of the city couldn’t do it, it was time to go out firing.

“How’s it look, boss?” Vin asked Old Hob nervously.

“It looks like we’re going hunting tonight, boys,” Hob responded in an ugly, guttural growl. He pulled the hood back from his head, revealing the mutant’s face. The mangy fur on the mutated alley cat’s face was a dirty grey. His one eye was missing, covered by an eye-patch, and the skin around it was scarred. His fangs snarled through as he smiled at his men. “Time to hang some Purple Dragon pelts on our wall.”

The other gang members cheered this. The Dragons were a vigilante gang that had drive Hob’s gang out of Brooklyn with the help of four mutant turtles, humiliating them in the process. Hob and his men had desired revenge ever since, and their alliance with the Kingpin would help them do that.

“Saddle up, boys! Tonight we take care of the Dragons and the Turtles!”



Purple Dragons Safe House
Brooklyn

Bullets ripped through the brick walls of the safe house, splattering plaster and debris through the air. The firepower on display was like nothing the street gang had ever gone up against before. Handguns they could handle, especially when they had the element of surprise. But this was more. This was military grade.

Cries of pain filled the moments of silence between rounds being discharged, and Angel Bridge, leader of the Dragons, knew she had to do something. Next to her, Chun, her second in command, laid bleeding, shot through the abdomen. He saw the look in her eyes, and shook his head. He coughed out, “No. Don’t even think about it.”

“If they take me, some of you might survive,” she pleaded with him. “I have to.”

She crawled along the ground as shells continued to make Swiss cheese of the safe house. She crawled over and around other Dragons, some who were wounded, others who were praying, and some who were taunting the men trying to kill them. The Dragons may not have been as deadly and dangerous as the gangs they fought, but they had bravery. That’s why she loved the makeshift family they were.

Angel made her way to the front door of the Dragon’s hideout, and kicked it open. She heard someone call to stop firing. Hob himself, she figured. With an eerie quiet save for the moaning of the wounded, Angel called out to Hob and his men, “Hob! Take me and let the rest go! They’ll stand down!”

She heard the mutated alley cat’s laugh echo across the street, “They ain’t doin' much standing now, girlie!”

“You know there are more Dragons out on patrol!” she retorted. “Without me they’ll disperse. I’m trying to save as many men as I can, Hob! Take the deal.”

After a few moments, Hob called out, “Deal! Come on out. We have a ride to take!”



The scenes flickered on the scene in front of the assembled kids, and Leo did have to admit the movie was damn entertaining. It had taken his mind off things, but hanging out with his brothers and friends like they were normal people always did that. They would never be normal, of course. There was no status quo for them. They weren’t human, and they were barely even turtles at this point, Leo figured. It’s something he and his brothers had struggled with, especially after they discovered television and the internet. They’d never be able to fit in and have normal friends. It wasn’t an easy reality to live in for teenagers, but they all made due.

Thankfully, April and Casey had put together outfits for them in order to hide them from view when in public. The bulky hoodies and pants worked during the winter, but Leo wondered whether they’d pass muster in the hot summer months. That was a worry for another time. For now all he did was sit back and enjoy the movie.

Once the credits rolled, they filed out of the theater with the other patrons, and Leo couldn’t help but notice the stares he got from some looking under his hood. He ignored it and followed his friends to a nearby park where the assembled group discussed the movie.

“I don’t know,” Donnie shrugged, “it was awfully unrealistic.”

“Oh come on, Donnie!” Mike pleaded with him. “It’s a movie!”

“Yea, egghead,” Casey punched Don lightly on the shoulder, “turn off the melon and enjoy!”

“Seriously, Donnie,” Leo laughed, “jumping a car between buildings is awesome, realistic or not.”

“Whoa!” Raph feigned a heart attack. “Who are you and what have you done with Captain Logical!?”

“Hey, a good movie’s a good movie!”

“Well at least we know you’re not a complete Vulcan, Leo,” April chuckled and threw her arm around him.

As the group laughed, Casey’s phone went off. As he looked at it, his face turned chalk white, “Guys.”

“What is it, Casey?”

“A text from Angel. All it says is ‘S.O.S.’.”



Secret Foot Clan Compound
Somewhere in New York City

In a dimly lit warehouse, two men in ninja garb faced one another and bowed. A gong went off from the darkness that surrounded them, and the two squared off. The two danced and flip over each others' attacks as they engaged in a beautiful, but dangerous dance. They were obviously well trained in their art. As one attacked, the other parried beautifully into a throw of their own, before the first regained his bearings in mid air. Each attack that did land happened to hit lightly, and most devastating strikes missed by the slimmest of margins.

Suddenly, one of the combatants manages to deliver a back kick to his opponent's stomach, doubling the man over. He quickly delivered another strike to the man's neck, dropping him to the floor.

"Well done!" a booming, terrifying voice called from above. The lights in the room exploded to life, revealing the army of ninjas that had been watching the bout. On an ornate, Japanese throne raised above them all was a man in scarlet red garb with shining blades adorning his shoulders, shins, and hands. He was Oroku Saki. He was The Shredder. He was their master. With a press of a button, the throne pedestal lowered to the floor, and he approached the victor, "You have shown us your honor and skill tonight. For that, you will receive the greatest gift of all."

From his belt, The Shredder pulled a slate gray headband with the mark of a bloody foot emblazoned on the front. He placed it over the victor's brow, and tied it in the back as he said, "Only the most skilled of warriors get the honor of fighting for the right to join the Foot Clan. Only the best of them win the right to wear our emblem. You are now a part of something greater than yourself. Together, at my side, we shall remake the world and the heavens, and in the end you shall be rewarded. You shall all be rewarded!"

A single cheer of acknowledgement rolled through the members of the Foot, and the man bowing at Saki's feet said, "Thank you, my master."

"Rise, my son, and take your place with your brothers and your sisters," Saki lifted the young man up. "Tonight we celebrate your rebirth. As for you..."

The fearsome ninja master turned to the defeated man, who was only now getting to his knees, "You have failed, and in doing so you have disgraced your name. As such, there is only one way to cleanse your soul of this dishonor."

Saki unsheathed a short sword from his belt and tossed it at the man's feet while he hissed, "Take your own life and regain your honor."

The masked man looked at the sword and picked it up. Instead if disemboweling himself, however, he lunged weakly at the Foot leader. Shredder easily batted the strike away with the blades on his left hand, while he drove those on his right into the man's chest. Shredder slowly withdrew the blades, and allowed the man's blood to drip off them onto the concrete below, making a faint splash. With a move of frightening speed, Shredder latched onto the man's mask and ripped it away, then stared menacingly into the man's eyes, "You had your chance. Now suffer."

Oroku Saki's eyes began to glow with an ethereal, white glow, and his would-be murderer could not look away. After seconds, the man let out an inhuman cry of pain that lasted uninterrupted for minutes, before he slumped to the ground dead.

The Foot, being reminded of their master's power, filed out of the room to celebrate their new brother, while one of them approached Shredder as he cleaned the blood from his hands. He green hair and lips were in stark contrast to the black ninja garb that adorned her, but Shredder had insisted she keep it as a reminder of her past life which she had betrayed to join his side. Viper was the perfect lieutenant, and didn't hesitate to fulfill her master's wishes.

"What is it, Viper?" he asked without looking up.

"Master Shredder," she began, "we have word that a group of men hired by the Kingpin has attacked the Purple Dragons. There are reports of casualties, and that the Dragons' leader may have been captured."

Saki had to smile at that. The Dragons were little more than street thugs, but they were exceptionally crafty street thugs. They had meddled in his affairs recently, and would be happy to see them destroyed.

"The only shame in that is the fact that the Foot will not be the ones to finish the Dragons off," he lamented. He hated to see the Kingpin succeed at anything.

"That's not the most interesting part," his second in command continued. "It's said they took the Dragon girl captive in order to draw out...the freaks."

This caused Shredder to turn and face her. Viper of course spoke about the four turtles who had been a constant thorn in his side for months. Normally such things would not draw his ire. New York was, of course, filled with would-be heroes and vigilantes he would have to purge before his ultimate triumph. But there was something different about these creatures. How his men described how they moved and fought was familiar to Shredder, and that planted a seed of worry in his mind. Worry was not something The Shredder did, which meant the Turtles needed to be eliminated.

"Find where he's keeping her. I want you and some of our best to wait for the fighting to begin," Oroku Saki commanded.

"And when it ends, I expect neither of the other sides to be alive."

The Juicy Fruit Gentleman's Club
The Bronx
6:05 AM

"Missy wore them go-go boots; it did something for him. Made him think his wife back home was homely and boring."

While the southern-twanged singer crooned through the small radio on the desk, the man in the suit sat back and went through the profits of the night. His face was wrinkly, almost to a grotesque level. Back in Kentucky, they picked at him and called him names. He knocked their teeth in back then when he was young and impulsive. Now he owned the malformity and took pride in it. By calling himself Pruneface he gave them one less thing for them to call him.

"Mr. Pruneface?"

He looked up from the sheet on his desk and raised his eyebrows. Renee stood in the doorway. A three hundred pound bull dyke, she had short hair dyed the color of blood red and could kick almost any man's ass. Pruneface used her as a bouncer and bodyguard just to fuck with the macho dickheads who worked in their business. Nothing like getting patted down and manhandled by Renee to make one of these gangsters feel like less of a man.

"What's up, babydoll?" He drawled in her direction.

"Got a visitor."

Pruneface flinched when he saw Flattop's bulky frame and even bulkier head step through the door past Renee. The boss loved the boy, but in Prunceface's estimation Flattop was nothing but trouble. The only time he showed up was when someone was dead or about to die. There'd be a day when he would come for Pruneface, that was why he kept the sawed-off shotgun in a hidden space just below his desk. He cradled it now, pointed right through desk at Flattop while the kid sauntered towards him with that unbearable grin on his face.

"Need a place to lay low," he said as he sprawled out in one of the chairs opposite the desk. "Watch the news this morning and you'll see why."

Pruneface relaxed his grip on the shotgun but kept it close. Duplicity wasn't one of Flattop's strong suits. If he was coming for Prunceface, he'd have a bullet in the wrinkly folds of his forehead by now. With one hand, he opened the desk drawers and rifled through them, watching Flattop out the corner of his eye. He pulled a folder out of the desk and slid it across to Flattop. The kid opened the folder and saw a single sheet of white paper with an address written on it and a key taped to the paper.

"The address is in Queens. Buy a burner phone on the way there and call here when you get to the house okay. I'll pass the message along to the boss."

Flattop grunted and tucked the paper and key into his jacket. He gave Pruneface a wink and a toothy grin before he stood and left without a word. Pruneface put the shotgun back in the covert rack under the desk and sighed in relief as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He undid the knot in his tie and hit the intercom button on his desk.

"Mumbles?"

Mumbles replied in his usual mushmouth speak that Pruneface barely understood.

"Flattop's heading out through the backdoor. Follow him as best as you can. If you lose him, give me a call and I'll take it from there."

Mumbles said something that sounded like a yes and the line went dead. Pruneface brooded for a moment before he went back to work reviewing the club's nightly profit.

---

Major Case Squad Offices
1 Police Plaza
6:30 AM

"Morning, morning, morning."

Lieutenant Pat Patton was chipper as he walked between the crowded MCS cubicles. In one hand he carried a large mug of coffee and a brown bag stained with grease in the other. Always a morning person, Pat sipped coffee and whistled under his breath.

"My god, could you not?!"

Sitting at her desk with her head in her hands, Sergeant Jean DeWolff nursed a hangover. Pat knew that because he and a few others were out with her last night.

"Here you go, Jeannie," Pat said, laying the bag on her desk. "Bagels and donuts from the deli around the corner. That'll soak the booze up."

"How are you not hungover?" she croaked.

"I been a cop for over twenty years, Jean. Through trial and error, and a lot of vomiting I've learned just the right amount of alcohol my body can handle."

DeWolff opened up the bag and went to work on a donut while Pat walked to the big cork board hanging up in a corner. On it they had what little information there was about the Caprice Crime Family. A mugshot of Big Boy was at the top with strands of red twine strung between him and all his known associates. They had a surveillance photo of Pruneface with the words "DISTRIBUTION/TRAFFICKING" underneath it. Parallel to him was a mugshot of a chubby man with gray hair labeled GCPD. Written in marker below the mugshot was the name Lew Moxon and "NARCOTICS" There were question marks above the sections on the board labeled "MUSCLE" and "EXTORTION". The only other known subject on the board was Pasha Popov and his mugshot at the bottom of the board with "GAMBLING/DEALING" beneath his photo. Pat took the time to draw a red X on Popov's face and write the date of his murder.

"Did you call Vin and Daz?" Pat asked DeWolff.

"Yeah," she did between bites of her donut. "Daz lives over in Jersey, so he should be here soon. Vin? Who knows."

Pat grunted and took a long sip of his coffee.

"A member of Big Boy's organization was gunned down last night. The captain and Tork or on that, so we got to keep going. Regardless of who's behind it, we need to be out on the street and following the folks we know works for Big Boy, Moxon especially. If Popov had people acting as drug mules for Moxon, then his people may be the next targets. I'm going to text Daz on where to go, and we're heading out to find Moxon."

DeWolff sighed and rubbed her head. Pat couldn't help but smirk when he saw it.

"We'll swing by Cavanaugh's on the way out. We'll get a little Irish coffee going for you. Sound good?"

"Pat, I could kiss you."

"How about we wait until I get you nice and liquored up before we do that?"

He winked at her and grabbed his coat before they headed back out.

The alarm clock is set for 6am, but it's not for me. Like most mornings, I'm up well before dawn.

Three eggs, in warm water for five minutes before cracking.

In the meantime, the roof of a low-rent tenament building in Buenos Aires is about to collapse. I suit up and make my way down south, holding up the support beams with plenty of time before they buckle and make sure everyone is out safely.

A tense showdown between police officers and a depressed file clerk with a rifle is about to turn tragic in Charleroi, Belgium. It's a practice called 'blue suicide,' where a person deliberately forces police to kill them. As the man lifts the rifle to open fire, I touch down in between him and the officers, blocking both parties' line of fire, and I introduce the man to a local psychologist who's agreed to work with him.

I spend the next three minutes or so high above the equatorial Atlantic, carefully adjusting temperatures with sweeping rays of Heat Vision and correcting with gusts of chilled Arctic breath, to prevent the current weather patterns from forming into what would have otherwise become a hurricane over the next week or so. As it is, there will still be scattered thunderstorms throughout the Gulf region, but it's certainly a better outcome than the catastrophic damage that would have resulted instead.

The eggs have warmed enough. I head back to the apartment, crack the eggs into a bowl, add a pinch of salt, and stir, before applying a teaspoon of butter to the skillet and setting to medium-high heat.

While the skillet warms up, I fly up north to the Fortress for a bit of work in the lab. Kelex assists me in reading through the human genome and unlocking a potential 'super-charge' for the immune system that would render homo sapiens impervious to bacterial or viral infections. I write up a quick thesis on the subject, and anonymously send my research off to Reed Richards, STAR Labs, and a few other trustworthy institutions for review.

I notice Krypto is getting restless cooped up inside, so I take him for a quick stroll to Venus and back, to let him stretch his legs and do his business so I don't have to clean up a mess in the Fortress itself. Re-entering the Earth's atmosphere, Krypto and I spent the next minute or so digging out some irrigation trenches for a land-locked village in Mauritania to make sure the people there have access to clean running water, before he returns to the Fortress for a nap, and I get back to the kitchen and put the eggs on the skillet before the butter boils away.

This is where the risk is at its greatest: for the next fifteen seconds, I need to carefully tilt and move the pan to make sure the stirred eggs don't stick, which means any crises requiring my attention will ruin the meal. Obviously, helping people in danger comes first, but I won't lie and say I don't look forward to a job well done.

The eggs begin to turn into a solid mass, as the liquid yolk cooks in the pan. Things are starting to come together.....

"Superman, help!"

"On my way," I sigh.

....and it's back to work. I flick the skillet, flipping the mass of eggs into the air before heading back out the window.

There's a man in a powered suit in Glenmorgan Square, his armor glistening with heavy weapons. It looks like something from one of Tony Stark's competitors, probably traded through a labyrinth of dummy companies and criminal fronts before winding up in the hands of this lunatic, calling himself 'Firepower.' This has all the markings of a 'call-out,' which is annoyingly common among career criminals who've recently acquired metahuman abilities or high-tech weaponry: as soon as they get something that they think makes them more powerful than they were before, the first thing they want to do is pick a fight to show that there's a new 'big dog' in town.

I analyze Firepower's suit, looking into its interior to understand its weapon systems and structural weaknesses, before speeding in faster than the on-board targeting system can track and disabling the suit's power source, leaving the would-be troublemaker a sitting duck for Metropolis Special Crimes Unit to arrest at their leisure....

....then I get back to the kitchen just in time to catch the omelette as it lands on the skillet.

"Gotcha!" I say out loud with a bit of a laugh. Most mornings, that interruption means I have to settle for scrambled eggs instead.

After that, it's five more seconds to cook on the other side (during which I do some preventative work on the East Anatolian Fault in Turkey), then I sprinkle in a quarter cup of grated sharp cheddar cheese, fold the omelette over and slide onto a plate, garnish with some finely chopped chives, and breakfast is served as she steps out of the bedroom in one of my oversized T-shirts.

"Morning, Smallville," Lois says as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes, picking up her tablet off of the kitchen counter to check the morning news. "I see you kept the world from exploding while I was asleep."

"Thankfully, nothing Earth-threatening so far today," I say, only half joking-- things have an unfortunate habit of going from calm to apocalyptic unreasonably quickly in this day and age. "Thankfully it's been a pretty easy morning."

Lois rolls her eyes as she scrolls through the various Superman-related headlines on her tablet in between bites of her omelette.

"'Easy' for you is still 'impossible' for everyone else," she says. "And you wonder why all your enemies think you're being smug."

"I tried snarling at them like Bruce once or twice back in the early days, to show them how seriously I was taking things," I shrug. "All I got out of it was a sore throat."

Lois laughs, and finishes her breakfast.

"Well, at any rate, it's nice that the world was quiet enough that we got to actually have breakfast together for once," she says. "I'm gonna jump in the shower, and then I'm going to get started on following leads on who sold that Firepower loser his battle-suit. Are you thinking it's Lexcorp again?"

"Not this time," I shake my head. "Luthor's not above selling weapons and tech to goons, but it's usually to keep me distracted from something bigger. This one didn't seem to have much of a point in it. Although off the top of my head, I wouldn't be able to tell you exactly where that one came from."

"Well, good thing you're dating a Pulitzer-winning investigative journalist, then," she says with a grin. "I'll see what I can dig up; after all, someone's got to be doing some work around here."

I return her grin, and get up from the table.

"I'm going to swing back up to the Fortress for a little bit, finish up some lab work," I say, clearing my throat. "I'll see you at the office, okay?"

"Just don't accidentally create a black hole or let out some horror from a parallel universe until I've had my coffee," she says as she gives me a quick kiss. "Love you, Smallville."

"Love you too," I say, leaving her to get dressed for the day as I head out the window and back up into the sky.

After a short flight to the North Pole, I enter the glittering sunstone main hall of the Fortress, the carved statues of my biological mother and father holding up a holographic image of Krypton between them in a towering arch over the primary AI console.

"Welcome back, Kal-El," Kelex greets me, its digitized voice resounding through every part of the hall. "I am currently not reading any events on the planet requiring your specific attention. The current global situation is relatively calm."

"Good to hear," I say. "Have there been any responses from the scientific community regarding this morning's research on human immunity acceleration?"

"Full reviews and replications of the experiment are forthcoming, but the general consensus thus far is positive," the AI answers. "There may be political controversy involving the implementation of it, due to its reliance on synthesizing a mutant X-gene in baseline humans, but given my projections, we can expect most countries to adopt it within five years."

"Excellent," I say, pleased with what we've accomplished so far. "What about the experiments involving the Interstellar Refuge? Have you made any progress in freeing Kandor or the rest of Brainiac's Bottle Cities?"

"Not yet-- I must confess the Coluan miniaturization technology is still far superior to any countermeasure I have been able to devise. However, initial models involving a dimensional auger similar to your father's Phantom Zone Projector seem promising. I will begin virtual trial runs within the week."

"That's...disappointing, but at least we may be headed in the right direction with that. Any luck in finding a reversal for the Bizarro Plague?"

"Currently, evidence suggests that the Bizarro Plague is irreversible. However, I am in the process of developing a way to inoculate humans to prevent future infection, in the event that the Bizarro World creature emerges from the Underverse again."

"And my Bizarro duplicate?"

"Still conscious, but inactive. He has been standing motionless at the South Pole for one year, nine months, twenty-two days, six hours, and eighteen minutes. There is currently no reason to assume any change in his condition."

"It all sounds promising," I say, though a touch of skepticism creeps into my words. "We're coming close to making some real lasting change in the world, being able to say that we left Earth and its people far better than we found it. Even Luthor and his cronies have been on the quiet side lately......"

There's a pause in the air that hangs for just a while too long. There's a cold, tightness in my chest as I try to work up the next words, a feeling I almost never experience, so rare that it takes me a moment to even register what it is.....

....I'm afraid to ask the next sentence.

"Kelex.........what's the countdown?"

"Eight months. Sixteen days. Thirteen hours. Forty-five minutes. And counting...."

It's a bitter pill to swallow. Not long ago, the Fifth Dimensional imp Mxyzptlk transported me into the future, where I re-connected with my old friends in the Legion. I started searching through Brainiac-5's temporal archives, trying to find a way back to my time, and through the numberless threads of potential timelines converging and branching and twisting and contradicting each other between the present and the far-future, I accidentally saw something I shouldn't have.

A fixed point in every potential timeline, one that shapes every possible future. One that's far too close for me to truly grasp, but one that I don't think I can avoid.

I haven't told Lois yet. I don't know how to break it to Ma, or Lana and Kara. I haven't told Bruce or Diana or anyone else in the League. But I can't put it off for much longer-- sooner or later, we're going to need to have plans in place for what happens when time runs out.

Eight months. Sixteen days. Thirteen hours. Forty-five minutes and counting.

Counting down until Doomsday.

Counting down until the moment that I die.

Stephanie Carter nodded to her doorman as she stepped out onto the streets of Washington DC as the first rays of light crept over the horizon signaling the start of a new day. She knew he was a SHIELD agent. Hell, Steph knew that the vast majority of her neighbors were as well. They weren't there to keep tabs on her. No, Fury was smarter than that. They were there for her protection. It was funny to think about, really. Captain America, superhero and leader of The Avengers, needed protection. But she was SHIELD's primary asset, not to mention a so-called national treasure. She didn't think of herself as such, but she had been called it by more people than she could count. Steph understood why she was guarded day and night, and the way her life went, maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world.

She took off towards her normal route and began her morning run, and the car that followed her every morning rolled behind her. Being an enhanced human, the run would last about an hour and cover the distance of a normal half marathon. It helped cleared her head, at least most of the time it did. On that day, Steph couldn't do anything but notice how many people stopped to watch her as she passed by. Children pointed and waved, adults looked star struck, and some of the elderly even saluted her.

It was still terrifying to her.

They saw her as a symbol of strength or as an immovable object. Superman had the world's attention and love, but Stephanie was considered America's superhero. She was the one who was supposed to stand for them no matter what against anything. She was one of the least powerful superhumans on the planet, if she was being honest with herself, but she was the last line of defense for the homeland if it came down to it. Hell, even Captain Atom on her own team had the ability to destroy small countries if he so chose, but she was the one they all counted on.

Stephanie often wondered how her father dealt with it. In Steve Rogers's day he was the only one of his kind. He was the be all, end all of the Allied hope. And he made it look easy. She tried to find strength in that, but most of the time it made her feel even more inadequate. Sometimes she wondered if Bucky's first impression of her was correct.

Which is when, of course, she ran past the statue that commemorated her father that stood along the Potomac River. He stood defiant, with the flag held high in his right hand, and his shield prone to defend it in his left. It made her proud...and made her run a little faster.

As she passed in front of the Capitol Building, her communicator went off. Steph picked it up, "Go for Carter."

"Oh captain my captain," a sarcastic and annoyingly confident voice came from the other end. "Always so official."

"Stark," she sighed, "what a surprise. It's before noon. Shouldn't you be deep in a hangover?"

Tony Stark was one of her very best friends and allies. She'd never admit that, of course. And the way the two treated one another you'd never know it. But Stark's tech, as well as his superhero alterego Iron Man, were invaluable to her fight against evil. He was brash, egotistical, and took nothing seriously, but he was as good as they come, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

"I don't think her name was hangover."

Steph cursed herself under her breath, "I walked right into that one."

"Yes you did," Stark laughed. "So how you been? Good? Enjoying all the avenging?"

"I can't complain," Steph chuckled. "It'd be a lot more fun with you on the team."

She had wanted Iron Man on the Avengers for longer than she could remember. He would be an invaluable member of the team, but Stark was dead set on being independent. He'd help SHIELD when it was necessary, but that was the end.

"Everything's a lot more fun when I'm added, Cap. I'm like alcohol. Or ecstasy."

"Yea well, I wouldn't know about that," she rolled her eyes.

"Right, you didn't get to go to college."

"Is there a meaning to this call? Or are we going to quip each other to death?"

"Oh, right. Yea. Fury wants to talk. Big stuff. End of the world. You know the deal."



Triskelion
SHIELD Headquarters

The elevator stopped at the top of SHIELD headquarters, and Cap stepped out in her full uniform, sans helmet. There, waiting for her were Stark, dressed in a custom Italian suit, and Nick Fury in his normal, black tactical gear. Fury's office overlooked the capitol, and Steph had to admit it was one hell of a view.

"Captain, I'm glad you got dressed for the occasion," Tony smiled as he shook her hand.

"You're looking a lot less shiny than normal," Steph shot back.

"New face wash," he flashed his million dollar smile. "Thanks for noticing."

"Can we get down to business?" Fury sighed. Nick Fury was a man of action. He wasn't here to make friends. No matter how hard she tried, Steph couldn't break his defense systems. Maybe it came from running the world's preeminent defense initiative, but it was clear Fury was all business.

"Aye-aye, sir," Stark saluted sarcastically. "Or I guess just eye in your case."

With nothing more than a glare from Fury, Tony continued, "Right. Well, at 0400 Eastern Standard Time the entire world's electrical systems turned off for a fraction of a second."

"Everything?" Steph raised an eyebrow.

"All of it," Fury nodded.

"Even JARVIS and my tech shut down," Tony continued. "I had him scan the time preceding the blackout. All we know is there was a vast surge of energy in the upper atmosphere before the shutdown. Unknown origin. But that's where we're at."

"So what? EMP? Some weapons test?" Steph theorized. "Or alien?"

The two men exchanged a worried glance, and Fury shook his head, "To be honest we don't know. Which is why we called you in. We need to figure this out. Whether it's a weapon or something alien entered our world last night, someone knows."

"So we put pressure on our usual contacts. Arms dealers. Terrorists. The like," Steph nodded.

"I've got some feelers out in my old contacts," Tony patter her on the shoulder. "If I get any hits, I'll give you a call."

"Thanks, Tone," she nodded. "Looks like it's time to get the team together."

Virgil stared at his hand, electricity bouncing off of it emitting what seemed to be a purple and blue glow. What did he just do? Well, sadly that question was about to be answered, his keys magically flew to his hand the glow of his hands passing through the keys as they floated toward him. Virgil, of course did not react well, he began to step back. However, he slid immediately out of his bed and onto the floor. The keys jumped from his han, just as his alarm went off. He gasped and tried to reach for it, only for a bit of the electric aura to shoot from his hands and into the clock, shorting it out and shutting it off. He stopped and looked at his hand…Was this really happening to him, It was almost like the comics he would steal out of the corner store that only sold them to try and make a cheap buck.

“Virgil, Get down here for breakfast already!”

He was actually surprised his father was still home, Usually he was at work, probably working on something super secret, like the Metahuman Serum that has been going about. Virgil, tried to take his mind off of the deal gone wrong, the bruises on his face and back were still visible. So it seemed he had to cover up, or make an excuse. In Virgil’s case, he found it best to do the former, his dad was not a fool, and would probably not be happy about hearing about a drug deal gone awry. So he went into the bathroom to get himself ready and apply a bit of concealer to make sure the old man stayed out of his head. It took him a few minutes, and his father inquiring what was taking him so long, but he eventually came down to the stairs anyway. His father sat at the table while his siter began to set their plates. “Good morning dad.” Virgil stated as he sat down and waited for his plate to be served. His father got his plate first, his sisters then sat down holding her own plate while she smiled. “Sorry Virgil, I forgot to set your plate…”

Virgil got the message, he groaned and moved toward the food. His father was slightly confused by their interaction, but nonetheless decided to strap on otherwise. “I’m going into work late today kids, but…I might need some assistance at the lab, Either of you want to come along?” He asked. Virgil raised his eyebrow, he didn’t think he was going to be dealing with his dads work anytime soon. Trying to filter tainted batches of metahuman serum was more than enough for him not to return there. However Virgil really had nothing else to do and he needed to stay low for a while. “Sure Dad.”

He grabs a nearby fork, and begins to eat, taking a few bites before trying to put the item down, only to see that it was now stuck on his hand. An Attempt was made to swing the fork out of his hand, to the shock of his family at the table. "Virgil, what the hell are you doing, were you playing with the super glue again!" Robert spoke with a scowl, It was like Virgil to do something stupid, including playing around with the super glue to try and glue something stupid back together. Virgil began to stammer, "No Dad, Seriously...I just...I'll be right back!" With the fork still in his hand, he ran out of the kitchen and toward the front door. He had to find out what the hell was happening to him.

Unincorporated Gotham.

They called it Billyland. Rednecks and peckerwoods from all over Appalachia flocked to the city during and after WW2 to work the industry jobs all the upstanding crackers left behind when they went to war. The Hillbillies, Billies to those in the know, made unincorporated Gotham a hicktown haven and had been there ever since. Billyland was a running joke through the city. You going through Billyland and hear banjo music? Roll up those windows and drive faster, boy. How do you castrate a Billy? Kick his sister in the mouth. What do you call a Billy girl who can run faster than her brothers? A virgin. Billyland: 10,000 people and only six teeth.

Slam drove down streets in his heap. He nursed a flask of gin and kept his eyes peeled for Peter Dubose.

THE JOB: Peter Dubose has a huge crush on Glenda Glitter, feature dancer at the Gold Rush Strip Club. Dig Gorgeous Glenda grind on the floor. Guys go gaga over Gyrating Glenda. See Pete pop his peepers at that sight. Pervert Pete likes to watch Glenda glide around the Gold Rush. Paramour Pete's heart pumped passion for Glenda. Purser Pete won't take a pass. Persistent Pete paws at Glenda and takes no prisoners. Pugnacious Pete gets violent. Glamourous Glenda gets a shiner. Enter Slammin' Sammy. Slam gets six bills and lapdances gratis for putting the fear of god into Pesky Peter. A straight up muscle job, just the way Scary Slam liked it.

Slam cruised through Billyland for two hours and took in the sights. Dig those trucks and big ass tires. Dig that Billy music. Fat girls in tight jean shorts and tighter tops. Muffin tops abound. Tweaker sores abound as well. Teenage mothers pushing babies, rebel yells, motorcycles, more jacked up trucks. Confederate Flags and "Heritage, Not Hate" signs as far as the eye can see. Slam hit the gin and sang country songs under his breath.

"Sun's coming up... something-something griddle, blah blah blah fiddle, thank God I'm a country boy!"

FEATURE: Peter Dubose coming out of a bar. Pudgy Pete looks like he's three hundred easy. Pimply Pete picks acne and pops zits. Slam cruised sloooow and watched Pete climb into a shitbox of a truck and speed off, blowing exhaust behind him. Slam counted seconds, got to twenty, and went. The exhaust smoke gave him a beacon to follow. He gave Pete a long leash and cruised, polishing the gin off and kept singing.

"Let's go to Luckenbach, Texas, with Waylon and Willie and the boys. This... something-something feuding like the Hatfields and McCoys."

Slam caught up with Pete when he was leaving his shitbox parked outside a grocery store.

"Peter Dubose?" Slam asked.

"Yeah. And you are?"

"I'm a friend of Glenda Glitter."

Pete's eyes went wide just before Slam laid into him. He had big hands. Once upon a time the hands pulverized light heavyweights and cruiserweights without prejudice. Not so long ago they worked over murderers and robbers in the GPCD interrogation pen with beaucoup prejudice. Now they turned Peter Dubose's sides into shredded beef and sent his teeth flying across the parking lot. A three combo sent Pervy Pete flying against the side of his truck. He slid down the side and spat teeth. Slam rubbed his knuckles and watched Pathetic Pete sob.

"You touch Glenda again, you're dead. You get within ten miles of her, you're dead. You even step one foot back in that strip club and you're dead."

Slam took the driver's side mirror and ripped it off. He cradled the mirror in the palm of one hand before smashing it into the ground.

"Get what I'm saying, boy?"

--

Door pounding woke Slam up. The hangover pounding his temples was even worse. He reached across the bed to find a bottle that wasn't empty. No dice. He stumbled through bottles and cans towards the front door. He still wore last night's clothes: an unknotted tie and rumpled shirt with pants that had just a hint of puke on them.

"Samuel Bradley?"

Two men at the door. Meatheads in black Armani suits and Ray-Bans. Très goon chic. Slam cut odds he could take them. Not even a chump like him would take that bet. Instead, he nodded and lit up a smoke.

"We need you to come with us, Mr. Bradley."

"Why is it these things always start with two dickheads in suits wanting me to come with them?"

One of them meatheads cracked his knuckles. The other popped his neck. Flexing and posturing was a punk move. Slam knew the way to scare a man wasn't by cracking your knuckles, it was by cracking his bones.

"If you two gorillas can get me a stiff drink then I'll go wherever you want me to go."

--

Slam sipped Thunderbird out of a paper bag covered bottle. The T-Bird was cut-rate, but there was enough booze to stop the headache. He sat in a study filled with books. Slam thought of a book he read in school once, it had a rich guy and a big study filled with books that were never read.

"Mr. Bradley."

An old man shuffled in. Stooped shoulders and Wrinkled skin and blue veins and white hair. Thick glasses made his eyes look huge. He wheezed and collapsed onto a chair beside Slam.

"James Doheny, at your service."

The name clicked. Doheny Oil. One of the titans of industry in Gotham. Nix, former titan of industry. Somebody bought the old company out years ago.

"What's so urgent that you need to get me up at the crack of dawn--"

"--It's three in the afternoon, sir--"

"--And force me here to talk?"

"You're a hard man to get in touch with, Mr. Bradley. I've been calling your number for the past three days."

Slam swigged the T-Bird and shrugged. "I've got problems with bill collectors. I don't want them to know I'm home."

"You're speaking of the ruthless looking Russians my men saw stop by your house repeatedly over the past two days?"

"The people I owe money to have... aggressive debt collection tactics."

"Indeed," the old man wheezed. "Which is why you should be eager for employment opportunities."

Slam chugged the rest of the T-Bird and wiped booze from his mouth. The cut-rate warmed his chest and worked its way upward until he got that familiar fuzziness back into his brain. The buzzed state of existence he called life for the past twelve years.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Doheny, that the two pet apes that brought me here can't?"

"You have a reputation for finding the dark places in this city not many others can. I'm afraid my two bodyguards are only adept at making people hurt. I need someone of your affections."

"Affectations." Meaning a stumblebum drunk fits in better than meatheads in designer threads.

"What's the job?"

The old man pushed his glasses up his nose with Shaky hands and wheezed.

"My granddaughter. She's... she's my daughter, you might say. I raised her from a pup and now she... betrayed me. She's out there, messing with a boy she shouldn't be. They ran away from the house three days ago. She's over the age where I can issue an amber alert, and the cops they tell me they can't intervene because she wasn't kidnaped."

The old man shook in something that seemed half sob and wheeze.

"I have all this money, but nothing I can do with it. Back in the day, I could snap my fingers and the mayor himself would be here to wipe my ass. And now..."

Slam inferred: "All I can rate these days is a single smokehound former cop who makes for a shit PI."

Slam felt kinship with the geezer. Doheny was a used up, wrinkled husk that was soon to board the night train to the big adios. He looked on the outside like Slam felt on the inside. Slam cut odds he would live as long as Doheny. He gave up and set odds he could make it to fifty. Both were sucker bets. Instead, he tucked the empty bottle of T-Bird into his jacket and pulled out the pen and pad he kept on him.

"Tell me everything about your granddaughter that may help me find her."

Nathaniel Adam sat alone at a bar staring at an untouched bottle of beer that rested on the bar in front of him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drank. “Captain Atom” didn’t need to drink. It didn’t matter anymore that Nate used to enjoy a beer from time to time or some whiskey every now and then. No matter how much he drank he couldn’t get drunk. He could leap into a swimming pool of whiskey and he wouldn’t even get close to being remotely tipsy, let alone drunk. He wouldn’t even need to come up for air anymore. “Captain Atom” didn’t need to breathe. Dugan hadn’t told him that when he signed up for Operation: Atom, SHIELD hadn’t seen any of this coming, but the process had changed him in more ways than one. It had swept away Nathaniel Adam and in his place built a superhero with no need to drink, breathe, eat, or sleep. After a lifetime of needing to do those things it was more than a little jarring to wake up one morning and realise you don’t need to anymore. He was barely even human anymore. At least that’s how it felt.

It was even worse before Nate was capable of retracting his metallic skin. For the best part of a year he was stuck in that form, unable to change back, to see his face without the reflective alien metal that encompassed it. The SHIELD scientists had worked day and night trying to figure out a way to get his appearance back to normal so that Adam could have a life outside of Captain Atom. They worried he’d be driven insane by being constantly awake, not drinking or eating, and looking in the mirror and being unable to see the face he’d called his own for nearly three decades. They were wrong. Nate dealt with it, as he dealt with everything else life had thrown at him to date, by simply embracing his new identity and pushing his old one to the side. He policed the world night and day in search of HYDRA and AIM without stopping for a moment’s break. Eventually after enough testing from Hank Pym and Janet van Dyne he worked it out. You’d think being able to see his own face would make him feel more human but it didn’t change a thing. He wasn’t the same anymore. Life wasn’t going to the same anymore. He’d have to accept that.

Yet here he was sat in a bar alone pretending to be a normal person. The ID he brandished read “Cameron Scott” rather than Nathaniel Adam, but what was in a name? For an hour or two he’d hoped he could sit here, watch the baseball, and pour alcoholic beverages that had no effect on him into his mouth in the hopes that it would make him feel a little more human. He had planned to do that alone until he heard the door to the bar open and Clint Barton, better known to the rest of the world as “Hawkeye”, stepped through and took a seat beside Nate. Without so much as a hello Clint leaned forward and ordered himself a drink, which came a few moments later, and gestured towards Nate’s drink as he took a mouthful of his own.

“Are you going to drink that thing or sit there and look at it?”

Nate sighed.

“What difference does it make? I can’t get drunk anymore.”

“Have you tried absinthe?” Barton said with a smile that went unreciprocated. “It’s not all bad, I think most people would trade hangovers for the ability to fly unaided and shoot energy out of their hands. I know I would.”

He didn’t understand. How could he understand? Barton was a lot of things, confident, quick-witted, swashbuckling, and brave more than anything else, but his was still a human being. He still got to go home at the day end of the day and lay his tired body down to rest after a hard day’s work. He could drink himself into a stupor, shovel down handfuls of food and feel bloated, and get sick. Nate could do none of that. As much as he might try to make light of the situation or empathise with him he’d never know what it was like to be a walking nuclear bomb rather than a person.

“What are you doing here?”

“What do you think? I followed you.”

There was a cheer from the television screen positioned above them as the batter made contact with a pitch and sent it flying across the stadium. Barton took another mouthful of his drink as Adam shook his head, clearly unimpressed with Barton having followed him.

“Why?”

Barton shrugged.

“You looked like you could do with the company.”

“You should know by now I’m not one for conversation.”

Clint downed what was left of his drink and then made a noise that sounded more beast than man as the alcohol hit him. He placed his glass down on the counter and slid it towards the barman and then gestured to him for another drink.

“Fine by me,” Barton smirked. “You sit there not getting drunk and I’ll do enough talking and drinking for the both of us. How does that sound?”

The wry smirk on his face remained there as Nate looked in his direction blankly for a few moments. He knew what Clint was doing. He was worried about him. Was the whole team worried about him? Did they whisper about his lack of sleep? How little time he spent with people? Nate wouldn’t have been surprised. Outside of Janet he’d done little to reach out to his other Avengers since he’d joined the team and he was aware how close some of the other members of the team were. Stephanie and Natasha were like sisters, Clint and Natasha were almost inseparable, and Janet and Hank obviously had a bond that outweighed all of them. Only with Janet did Nate consider himself close. Outside of Hank he didn’t dislike any of the rest of the team, in fact he thought in their own way they were each pretty spectacular, but he’d had trouble bonding with people since the process. What was the point? He wasn’t even sure if he could die. He didn’t want to have to watch the ones he loved wither and die and the best way to ensure that didn’t happen would be not to get close to anyone.

For tonight though Nate would allow it. He was many things but impolite was not one of them. Clint had gone out of his way to follow him here and the least he could do is sit with him for the night. Only because he would be impolite to send him away and not because he was quite fond of him, of course.

“It doesn’t sound like I have much choice.”

A small but sincere since appears on Nate’s face as Clint pats him on the back.

“That’s because you don’t.”

Clint took another hearty mouthful of his drink and, without looking away from the baseball on the television screen, pushed the untouched bottle of beer on the counter towards Nate. Without thinking Nate picked it up, pressed it to his lips, and poured a mouthful of beer down his throat with an appreciate nod. Maybe he’d never be able to get drunk again, maybe he’d never have a hangover or make a drunken mistake he barely remembered the next morning, but these moments, taking in a ball game with a friend, these were the moments no one, nothing, could ever take from him. These were the things that reminded him he was human.

---

It has almost been nearly ten years since I started this mission I have sworn myself to. So why is it that I feel like I’ve accomplished so little here in Gotham?

My crusade against the shadow of darkness in the city feels hollow as I can recount every victory of mine and answer with an equally dangerous consequence of said victory. Sure, I dismantled Carmine Falcone’s hold over Gotham, but was it worth opening a criminal vacuum that only brought more dangerous replacements in that absence of Falcone’s order? Dismantling that empire of his only left an open door in the criminal underworld and it was such a door that people eagerly approached; for Falcone’s incarceration he was replaced by people like Zucco, Mandragora, Dimitriov, and Valestra. These people were far more violent and public about their methods— this much I know as I can still recall the blatant murder of Franco Bertinelli by a Mandragora assassin, and I remember when Zucco disrupted the truce of the crime families of Gotham and descended the streets into a mob war that took too many lives even with my interception.

Then came waves of psychopaths criminal masterminds like The Penguin and The Scarecrow; the former still eluding my justice to this day. But worst of all, my appearance… this mythlore associated with my vigilante identity has gone on to either inspire or entertain the likes of psychopaths like The Joker, Killer Moth, and countless others which brings me to only question if I’m doing more harm to Gotham rather than a ripple of positive change. If I am to blame for these psychopaths, how do I go out there and look the citizens of Gotham and not blink in a fit of moral dilemma? What if I’m not the cure I thought I was, but a much harsher disease?

That’s when a thought hits me: it doesn’t matter if I am or not because for all the harm done I am still the guardian of this city much like my partners on the Justice League are for their respective domains. If I am not the cure I thought I was the damage is already done and all I can do is serve who I can before what I created engulfs Gotham in a never ending flame of destruction… perhaps this is what Tarantula meant years ago when he told me about the greatest curse that superheroes & vigilantes have that they can never escape from.

“Information compiled.”

That’s enough about reflection for now, ORACLE’s databasing seems to have finished.

It’ll take some time, but it seems I have a very valid and finished blueprint to present to the Justice League – it will of course take some time convincing them we need a covert headquarters, but with the help of some consultation by Adam Strange, Reed Richards, and William Magnus I think I have what we need to keep a better look at world crisis’s.

There is, of course, still much to do with the project such as upgrading ORACLE’s artificial intelligence so it can be of better use outside of a glorified traffic observation system for Gotham City. The one person I’ve shared in information about this ‘lookout project’ is Alfred, but he’s not sure what to make of it— probably due to the fact that he is from another era entirely where all of this seems like science fiction to him. But given the invasions of aliens, the growth of criminal presence, and the ingenuity of people like Lex Luthor… we need to have a back-up plan in place and we need security that can handle the issue. I also think it’s about time we do light expansion of our membership of the Justice League as I doubt we can juggle everything too long even with initiatives like The Avengers, The X-Men, The Fantastic Four, and The Doom Patrol out there protecting the public; but how long will it be until SHIELD declares us a threat and this supposed metahuman arms race endangers us all?

I need to talk to Clark about all of this, especially considering the big blue boy scout is supposed to be our fearless leader yet everyone on the league leans on me for matters that aren’t punching things at mach ten.

Heh.

I can hear the clapping of footsteps in the batcave, the sounds is familiar and easily recognizable. My fingers don’t leave the keyboard as I speak out.

“Alfred.”

“It appears that you have been invited to New York City by Tony Stark for an attendance this weekend.”

I’m not a fan of the glib man-child, or his sudden transformation into a ‘superhero’. My eyes narrow as I scroll through some information about The Cathedral Murders case.

“Not interested.”

“You will be.”

I pause, brow raised. I will be? He has my attention. There’s only a small number of things that could get me out to New York City on supposedly short notice, and to think this could be an occasion that overrules the importance of my work in Gotham is at least interesting.

“I’m listening.”

A sly chuckle leaves Alfred as he stands next to me, looking up at the computer monitor.

“The attendance is for a charity occasion due to the insurance spike of superhero-related incidents in residential areas. I believe he has basically so gregariously implied that you, Luthor, Queen, and others as cowards if you do not attend; not that you care about that segment. Perhaps you will be more interested about this—”

Alfred tosses down a photograph of a familiar face that I instantly recognize—one of the men who trained me, and a deranged psychopath who serves Ra’s al Ghul. His name is David Cain.

“—this was taken by one of my contacts who I tasked with keeping an eye on any appearances of your POI dossiers from your files. It was one of your requests after the incident in 2002.”

I haven’t heard of activity about the League of Shadows in a few years… they have been disturbingly quiet. This is very important, considering the last time they appeared… almost cost several people their lives at a near-riot at Robinson Park and before that they tried to poison and sabotage Gotham’s infrastructure… despite New York City not being my interest or my problem—the League of Shadows is my responsibility.

“Alfred, prepare my suit.”

“Which one?”

I grin and turn to him.

“Both of them.”

I wake up and slip out of bed automatically at five AM just like every other morning, although more of those seem to start in the little modified penthouse at the top of Rand Tower than they do in my actual apartment these days. It feels as close to home as anything does these days, there are still traces of my father in the architecture and now that the last remnants of Harold Meachum’s influence have been scrubbed out of the place it almost feels comfortable. More importantly, it connects directly to my personal training hall.

I had it built to replicate the feel of Lei-Kung’s the Thunderer’s domain as exactly as I could, walls lined with weapon racks, each corner dedicated to one of the Four Heavenly Beasts, even the Thunderer’s symbol inscribed on the back wall behind the striking posts. It’s a little slice of K’un-Lun in the Big Apple, and it’s just about the only place that really feels familiar.

As soon as I step into the sacred space and finish paying my symbolic respects to the Thunderer and the Dragon, I start the day off right. Three straight hours of action meditation, each movement of the K’unlunquan forms performed precisely and deliberately. It comes to me easier than breathing, my body flowing through techniques meant to disarm, to disable, and to kill with all the natural ease of water in a river. I let my mind grow blank as my body remembers every step, block, counter and strike drilled into me since childhood, linking me back to a tradition that transcends not just Danny Rand-Kai but human history. At various points I whirl to pluck weapons from the racks and weave them into the forms without stopping, speed increasing with each move until there’s no longer time for conscious thought, only action and being. By the time I’m done at eight I shift into passive meditation as much to cool down as I do to discipline my mind and spirit.

This is exercise of a different kind, and as I pull my body into the lotus position my mind focuses on the unseen, both inward and outward. The flow of qi is everywhere and if you’ve been trained to sense it like I have you can feel it pulsing through the earth, hanging ambient in the air, surrounding, penetrating and binding together each living thing. By the time I’ve focused enough to match my own qi to the flow surrounding it I can feel my morning fatigue slip away along with the aches and pains of last night’s battles. By the time nine in the morning rolls around I’ve performed ablutions, changed into a decidedly non-super suit and gotten ready to face the day.

That’s a good thing, because even being the figurehead for Rand Incorporated is a whole new kind of battle I was never trained to fight. Before I even have time to sit down at my desk Jeryn Hogarth’s already bustled in with a folder of reports in-hand. He’s a short man, balding a little, pudgy and definitely no superhero. But my father’s financial empire rests in his capable hands and I’ve watched him control boardrooms and courtrooms alike with the sort of mastery I only wish I could have on the battlefield.

”Danny! I’ll skip the pleasantries and get right down to brass tacks! The head of the Japanese Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism’s on line one and he’s asking for you.”

“Really, For me personally? Isn’t it like ten at night over there?”

“Well apparently there was some kind of minute timing failure on their automatic train protection system around five hours ago. Nobody’s dead, thank God, but he still wants a personal statement from you as the head of the company that we’re looking into it. A lot of the Shinkansen uses Rand trains, Danny.”

Fortunately K’un-Lun was a surprisingly good place to learn formal, apologetic Japanese and with enough sincerity and some advice from Jeryn I managed to avoid outraging half of the Japanese government.

“What’s next?”

This time a mix of amusement and irritation instead of panic:

“First off, more demands from J. Jonah Jameson. Apparently since the Daily Globe’s a subsidiary of Rand Media he’s demanding you to pressure the editor to ‘start publishing the truth about That Arachnid Abomination, Spider-Man!’ his words not mine. I wouldn’t bring it up, but he’s started denouncing you in the papers.”

There’s not a word descriptive enough for how weary my sigh is.

“Tell Jameson that I don’t believe in corporate interests interfering with the free press.”

“A shame or we could just buy him out and shut him up, huh? Moving on…”

Over the next hour or so Jeryn brings up other aspects of Rand Incorporated business and my public image, we work through our response to the railway fiasco in Japan and he updates me on our progress on getting Wayne Enterprises, Stark Industries and the other major multinationals on-board with a joint charity effort. A dizzying amount of work, and I hardly understand most of it, but it’s all necessary to preserve my father’s legacy and see that it grows.

By ten ‘o clock it’s off to the Thunder Dojo, one of the charity and PR efforts I spend most of my time involved in as Danny Rand. Teaching martial arts to underprivileged kids probably wasn’t what the board had in mind when they suggested I get personally involved with my charities, but at least I’m doing what I know. The kids aren’t exactly ready to learn the ancient secrets of K’un-Lun, but the safety and discipline’s good for them like it was for me and being able to beat seven shades of crap out of a thug doesn’t hurt in a city like this. The smiling faces whenever you show a kid how to flip a guy through a window don’t exactly leave you hurting for warm-and-fuzzy feelings, almost enough of them to make up for the fact that I probably helped put some of their parents in jail.

On that note, the real deal doesn't begin until the afternoon. Then I trade one suit for another and its’ Iron Fist’s turn to get to work. Today though, I barely get the mask on and start hopping roofs before my Randtech communicator starts whining. It’s Colleen Wing on the other end, the modern-day Tomoe Gozen that heads up the daughters of the Dragon with Misty Knight.

“Danny, where the hell did you go last night?! You just vanished during that bust at the fish cannery and next thing we know the Tiger Pit gets busted up with over a hundred goons inside?”

“Colleen it’s fine, I ran into a little trouble trying to take down Chaka but-“

“But nothing Danny! I know you’re Mr. Kung-Fu Badass and everything, but if you’d taken half a second to signal us we could have nailed Chaka to the wall! I know you've had some things to work out ever since all that stuff with the ghost ninja, but you need to stop being so self-destructive.”

She’s probably got a point, but before I can say anything a scream interrupts from an apartment window. I leap down from the roof above then grab the sill and swing through, ignoring the pain from the braking glass. The scene inside only registers as a series of disjointed sounds and images: a bloody upraised knife, a bleeding, screaming woman on the floor trying desperately to shield a wailing child, a leering face twisted in strange bloodlust, a shout of ‘Blood for the Master!’…

My body moves even before my mind catches up, grabbing the man’s wrist before the blade can descend again, twisting it into a lock that I know will hurt, kicking his legs out from under him faster than he can react…

Or that’s what should happen, but he slips my wristlock like nothing, turns to face me as he checks my kick with ease and rams the knife into my stomach with force that pierces my quick attempt at a qi-shield, twisting…I fight through the blinding pain, shut it out and grab the knife hand as it stabs, ram my forehead into his face while enhancing the blow with my qi. For a second I see his eyes, the whites glowing a strange, soft blue. He crumpled then as the headbutt connected, but it never should have gotten that far.

---

The police picked him up later after they took care of the woman and child, said he was just some kid who went missing a few weeks back, probably strung out on something. But I know better. No untrained runaway could’ve tagged me with that knife. Worse yet, I think I know what drug he was on…

And it came from K’un-Lun.

“Danny, what happened? You cut off and-“

“Colleen, you were right, I don’t think I can manage alone. I need you to meet me and bring Misty.”

There’s someone new in town and they've been ordering killings…

And the Immortal Iron Fist might be the only one who knows enough to stop them.

Skid Row

Slam sat in his heap and cruised a booze brainwave. Hell loomed outside. Skid Row: The bottom of the barrel in Gotham. Considering this city, that was saying a whole hell of a lot. This was his beat back during his days in patrol. It was hard work, lots of scraping and fighting. One time he knocked a rape-o shitbird's teeth out with a nightstick when he tried to fight back. It was good work and he went home at the end of his shift feeling like he actually accomplished something. But that was a lifetime ago. Budget cuts and targeted policing meant no cop cars prowled consistently. They were too busy protecting the fine, upstanding citizens of the city who actually paid taxes.

Here homeless families squatted side by side with homeless drunks. Meth head hookers walked the streets with scabbed faces and reeking of desperation. Slam saw hookers with the Bug prowling for work, not giving a fuck if they killed the men they screwed. Slaw saw junkies shooting up on the steps of a Catholic church. Slam saw a little girl who had to have the Bug. His jaw got tight and he gulped his gin. He watched the lowest of the low sauntering around like they owned the place. Maybe they did? Maybe it was better to rule in hell here than to serve in the Burbs. Some social welfare people and nuns came by, tossing out clean needles and rubbers. Everyone whooped. A drunk slapped a volunteer's ass and asked if they had a pint of Ripple they could give them. Beleaguered nuns did sign of the cross. Winos did the watusi. Smokehounds did the shimmy shake. Junkies did Irish jigs. Slam figured two years. At least two years until Slam was right there on Skid row cutting a rug with the whores and junkies and drunks, five at the most.

He finished off the flask of hooch and got out the heap. He was fresh meat to them. Panhandlers panhandled, junkies made vague threats for money, hookers pawed and promised carnal delights of the sort he'd never had. He stopped in the street and lit up a smoke. He cocked a finger towards a rooftop and got wide eyed.

"Oh, shit! It's the Batman! Everybody run!"

The roaches scattered in the light of vigilante justice and beaucoup beatdowns. Slam laughed and walked unmolested towards a dilapidated building. A dirty, sagging sign above the door said The Ferguson Arms. The hotel was the last known address of Bianca Doheny, twenty-six, heiress to the Doheny Oil Fortune. Fortune should come with air quotes, thought Slam. The old man's house was just as rundown as this flophouse. Slam had two G's in his jacket pocket for the job. Good enough for him, but chickenshit pay for one of the big PI agencies in town.

Slam flashed his PI license at the clerk fast enough that he may think it was an actual badge. The fat man looked up from his stroke book (XXX Girls of Gotham 69) and squinted through thick, crust stained eyeglasses at Slam. He showed a photo of the girl from a few years back when she graduated at GCU. Gramps said it was current enough.

"Seen her?"

He slid the clerk a C-note to get the wheels greasing. He squinted harder at the pic before nodding.

"I think that's her. Jesus, that's what she used to look like? "She's checked into 2C. Long-term tenant. Haven't seen her in a few days.

"Seen her with a guy?"

"Lots of 'em, mister," he snickered. "Day and night they come in and out for her. I might be one of those lucky few thanks to you. Tell you what, you give me another Ben Franklin and I give you the key to her room."

Slam resisted the urge to turn his face into bloody pulp and instead blew smoke before he shelled out fifty bucks and passed it across the counter.

"Ben's out for the day, but maybe you can do business with the Jackson Twins and Alexander Hamilton?"

He grabbed the cash and produced a key. Slam palmed it and headed up rickety stairs. He padded down carpets stained with blood, puke, and cum. Old Man Doheny said she got a solid three grand allowance from her trust fund. Why the flop when she at least had enough money to clock a HoJo's?

2C was a dump like the rest of the hotel, like the rest of the whole goddamn neighborhood. Dirty sheets, old pizza boxes, a makeup bag with garish eyeshadows and bright lipsticks, a medicine bag with junkie works, unopened rubbers with used ones, sex toys, a mirror with traces of coke lines. Slam suddenly knew why she sprung for the cheap and rundown no-tell motel. He found something scribbled on a pizza box. VIKKI - PLASIADES DELIGHT, and then a phone number. He wrote it down in a notebook and rummaged through the filth.

The only thing Slam couldn't find was definitive proof of a guy shacked up with her. The geezer said she bolted with a boy. The clerk said she had lots of men coming in and out. Bianca was hooking? Why? Had her drug habit gotten bad enough that three grand a month couldn't support it? Or was it just part of the aesthetic of the neighborhood? A rich girl slumming and playing street walker. Buy a room in a flop, sell your body, and shoot up morning til night. Très Slum Chic. All the kids were doing it.

Slam pulled the photo of her out of his jacket. Young, big smile and lots of pretty white teeth. Dark hair and a cut little nose. Full of promise with just a glint in one of those eyes Slam knew all too well was hope.

The Clerk: Christ Almighty, that's what she used to look like?

If she'd changed at all, Slam knew that glint in her eyes was long gone. Somewhere between GCU and the Ferguson Arms it had been snuffed out and ground to powder in that cruel and inglorious way only life is capable of.

His cell phone buzzed. He didn't recognize the number but answered it anyway.

"Mr. Bradley, it' s James Doheny. A note just arrived at the house. It seems to be a ransom note. I need you here as soon as possible, sir."

Brooklyn

The Turtles stood on the rooftops above the Purple Dragon hideout, surveying the carnage. Ambulances were on the scene, and most of the gurneys being carted out of the safehouse where stained with blood. The side of the building looked like it was made of Swiss cheese there were so many holes in it. Leonardo knew the Dragons had been assaulted by firearms, an high powered ones at that. His blood boiled knowing his allies had little chance against such firepower. If he didn't already despise the use of guns, he certainly would have now.

"I'm gonna go in the roof access," Leo told his brothers. "If there's someone alive in there, I'm going to find them and find out who did this. Keep me updated on the comms."

"Leo," Casey said, through their comm system Donnie had designed, from April's van below, "find Angel. I...at least need to know."

Angel and Casey were cousins. The two of them had watched out for one another for nearly their entire lives. Leo knew how much she meant to him.

"I'll find her, Case. I promise."

Taking a running start to gain momentum, Leonardo leapt silently across the gap and landed lightly on the roof of the safehouse. He had always been the best of his brothers when it came to their stealth training. Donnie worried too much about his moves to work quickly enough. Raph knew he was strong, and relied on that far too much. Mikey was...Mikey. Leo moved swiftly to the door and made his way inside. It was quite, like a tomb. The thought sent a shiver down his shell as he began searching for a living Dragon.

Leonardo tried his best to ignore the slumped bodies that lined the hallways of the building as he traversed it calling out to anyone that may respond. He still hadn't gotten used to the sight of dead bodies, let alone dead bodies of people that had recently agreed to fight alongside him. Was this the reward for standing up for what was right? Was this the destiny of anyone who chose to follow him?

He shook such thoughts from his head, just in time to hear a weak voice respond. Leo found the source to be Chun, Angel's second in command. He had been hit and was bleeding, but seemed to be in decent shape, "Leo. I've never been so happy to see you."

"Who did this?" Leo seethed. "Where's Angel?"

"Luckily I can answer both your questions with one word," Chun chuckled and winced in pain. "Hob. The bastard hit us hard and took Angel."

"Well then I guess we're going to have to hit him back harder," the turtle smiled broadly. Before calling to the paramedics, "Help! Someone needs help up here!"

He turned to leave and Chun added, "Give him a few for me."

When he returned to his brothers, Leo gave them the information before dolling out the plan, "Casey, get April to the lair. Her and Splinter are our eyes. We'll find where Hob and his goons are and you can meet us there."

"Sounds good, be careful dudes."

"Yea guys," April added, "watch yourselves."

"Good afternoon, Mister Jefferson," I say at the doorstep, extending a rubber-gloved hand in greeting. "Rachel Roth, of Roth and Anders Paranormal Investigations, at your service. I understand you have a potentially dangerous situation involving your daughter?"

"Oh, thank goodness, yes!" he says, shaking my hand and practically yanking me inside. "I'm amazed you were able to come out here so quickly. But yes, it's Amanda. She's......she's not well. We moved in about a year ago and I think....I think there's something wrong with this place....."

Looking around the living room, I see little out of the ordinary. Ugly green sofa, coral blue carpet, white walls adorned with family photos, a bookcase filled half with 'inspirational' fluff and half with books about World War II. A coffee table covered in magazines. A television with too many remote controls.

Upstairs, I hear a loud thump and a pained howl.

"She keeps saying there's something inside of her, something that's....making her do things," Mister Jefferson says in a worried voice. "Ever since we've moved in, there have been weird sounds, things moving where they weren't before....and it's only gotten worse in the last few months. Melissa and I, we've always been skeptical about religion, but......I don't know.....I think there might be something here. My little girl.....I think she's....possessed....."

"Well, you called the right person for the job," I say, pulling my hair back into a tight ponytail in the back, and then reaching into the pockets of my thick denim coveralls for a pair of safety goggles and a hair net. "If there's any kind of malevolent entity in this house, I'll be able to find it, identify it, and get rid of it."

My heavy work boots make a loud clunking noise as I make my way up the stairs.

"I, er, I can't help but notice.....erm, your outfit...." Mister Jefferson stammers.

"Believe me, I've handled my fair share of demons," I assure him. "If this goes anything like my last job, you're going to wish you'd put on some gloves and some old clothes, too. Demons tend to be very....biological, when it comes to resisting exorcism."

"You don't say....."

We reach Amanda's room, and I open the door. Inside, a girl about the age of fourteen is writhing painfully on her bed. She's shouting and snarling, and screaming as her joints pop and her body contorts. It's all very hard to watch.

Still, I've got a job to do, and the first part of that job is finding out exactly what I'm dealing with.

I spend the next few minutes examining the supposed victim, monitoring her breathing, getting her heart rate, seeing how she reacts to various herbs and holy symbols (one of the reasons I'm wearing rubber gloves, in fact-- I can't touch the things myself), before looking her square in the eye and noticing the movement.

"She's an epileptic," I conclude. "She needs to be taken to the hospital and treated there. I'm sorry that you've wasted your time, but there doesn't seem to be any demon here, Mister Je--"

And then Mister Jefferson bursts into a swarm of spiders. Amanda screams as thousands of menacing little black-and-yellow arachnids scurry across the room. The door slams shut, and the room fills with a sickening stench as hot feces begins to splatter down from the ceiling.

THE CHILD IS OURRSSSSSSSSSSS...... the spiders hiss in unison.

I sigh with annoyance as it splats on my hairnet and stains the thick flannel shirt under my coveralls.

"Never an easy day on the job, is it?" I say, pulling out my cell phone and making the call. "I'm going to need an extraction on the Perez Street job. Little girl, having an epileptic seizure. Second floor, window on the right side."

"I hear and understand," she says on the other end of the line. "I will be there presently."

NO ONE CAN SSSSSSAVE YOU, EXORCIST........ the spiders taunt. WE SSSHHHHALL DEVOUR YOUR SSSSSSOUL.....

"Cute," I say with annoyance, searching through my case of herbs for the right combination of ingredients. "You'll forgive me if I don't start shaking and wetting my pants just yet-- you're hardly the first swarm from the Plateau of Leng that I've dealt with."

WE ARE LEGION, LITTLE GIRL..... They spout out, spraying the room with ropes of dripping, mucous-covered webbing from orifices that look nothing like spinnerets. WHAT CAN ONE LONE WITCH HOPE TO DO AGAINST USSSSS?

"First of all," I say, glancing to the window to see a glowing green light racing towards us, "I'm not alone."

The window crashes inward, and the spiders are sent flying by a spray of neon-green bolts of plasma. Starfire doesn't so much enter the room as she does flow through it, with a natural grace that would put lifelong ballerinas to shame. Every spin to avoid the demonic vermin, every retaliatory star-bolt splattering an attacking spider, every swoop and whirl to dodge falling splatters of fecal matter from the ceiling, is done with such ease and precision that you'd almost believe she was from the other side of the supernatural spectrum. You'd be wrong, though-- Kory's much less annoying than an actual angel.

"I apologize for my lateness, friend Raven," she says, casually blasting another clutch of spiders. "However, it appears together, we may have this battle won!"

"Not quite," I say, looking at the piles of half-charred gore strewn across the room as they begin to quiver and move. "These are Leng spiders, and can't be completely destroyed by normal means. Blowing them up is just going to make them angrier."

Indeed, the bits and chunks of spiders begin to knit themselves back together, even worse than they were before. Some of them are nearly the size of a small dog now. Some have eyes on stalks, or pincers and scorpion-like stingers, some have over a dozen legs. The more they stay out in the open, the more wrong they get.

"Get the girl to safety," I tell my partner. "I've got the swarm."

"I hear and understand," Starfire says, scooping the suffering girl into her arms. "I shall take her to the nearest emergency ward. And then I shall return to the office and await news of your glorious triumph!"

As Star leaves with the girl, several of the spiders try to leap up after her through the window. They slam into an invisible wall in the air, then fall twitching to the floor.

"I made sure to surround the house in a circle of salt before coming in," I explain, taking from my case a pinch of mugwort, mixing it with some vetivert and a healthy amount of agrimony. "Nothing from the other side gets in or out of the house unless I say so. It's just you and me now."

YOU HAVE LOSSST YOUR ADVANTAGE..... the spiders hiss, leaping and clawing at me as I duck and dodge them. From my knapsack I pull a small egg-shaped plastic appliance and put the various herbs in it-- normally I'd use a proper mortar and pestle, but in a pinch, one of these compact food-processors will do. YOUR ALLY IS GONE, AND YOU ARE BUT A LOWLY WITCH AGAINSSST A HORDE OF LENG.....

"About that," I say, pressing down on the egg-shaped blender to start the motor. It whirs and shakes in my hands as I mix the potion together. "When Trigon sent you into the mortal plane to spring this trap....he didn't tell you who you were trapping, did he?"

IT MATTERSSSS NOT, FOR WE--

"Look in my eyes."

The spiders stop their assault, and a single, basketball-sized spider with half of its legs transformed into a vague approximation of a human hand and a single compound eye lowers down from the dung-dripping ceiling. It looks me in the eye for a moment, and at once the spiders speak in unison.

.....OH SSSHHHHHI--

"Tell Dad I said hi," I say, throwing the blender full of potion into the heart of the swarm. The concoction explodes, filling the room with noxious green smoke and the ear-piercing screams of thousands of hell-spawn arachnids.

I quickly tuck my face down and cover my nose and mouth with my flannel shirt as the oily smoke rolls over me. The potion won't banish me like it does to the spiders, but it's still incredibly unpleasant-- like cutting onions that are filled with tear gas.

After a minute or so, the smoke clears, and the Leng spiders are gone. I reach into my case for a piece of chalk, a candle, and a quartz crystal, and I draw a pentagram seal in the center of the room, carrying out a short ritual to close off the portal between this world and my father's infernal realm.

I inspect the rest of the house to be sure that it's completely clear, and I eventually find the girl's parents, hung upside down by spider-webs in the basement. I pull them down, explain that their daughter is in good hands, and then go over Roth and Anders' very reasonable payment plans for the job.

I don't know why Trigon is sending minor peons like Leng spiders into my city, without even telling them they're going up against me. Maybe he's probing my defenses for some avenue of attack. Maybe he's trying to keep me distracted while he carries out something worse. Or maybe he's just taking pot-shots at me to keep from getting bored.

As I step out into the fresh air of Jump City, half-covered in demonic spider-webs and splatters of sewage, there's one thing I know for certain.

"I could really use a shower."

Gotham East End

Slam swung by his pad on the way to Doheny's. He sat in a chair, slugged gin straight from the bottle, and worked angles.

FEATURE: Bianca Doheny, scion of the oil-rich Doheny Family, was missing. Old Man Doheny paid Slam to find her. Slam scoped out her flop house and got some of the skinny. Bianca does blow, Bianca shoots horse, Bianca turns tricks on the streets of Gotham. Bianca has a trust-fund. Slam inferred: The hooking is pure thrill seeking. A middle finger in the face of the old man. The plot thickened an hour ago when a ransom note showed up at the Doheny house. Slam was en route.

He got his .38 snub out of a locked drawer. If the kidnapping was legit, things might get rough and he'd need the piece. Slam slipped it into a shoulder rig and slipped the rig on under his coat. He pocketed the gin after a few more slugs from the bottle. The hooch hit his throat and sent buzzes through his brain. Booze clicks clicked his brain into working order. Something gnawed at him. The gin amplified the gnawing. Bianca Doheny's mom, the old man's daughter, was out of the picture. Slam asked the old man for the dope.

Doheny: "She ran away some years ago and never came back."

The answer didn't jake with Slam. His response was too quick and dismissive. Slam pressed for more details and got the short shrift. Doheny said, "Do your job and find this one." Slam left it at that but didn't have to like it. A few more plugs of hooch to work up the nerve before he flopped on the couch and called up the number he wanted.

"City Desk, Agee."

Arthur Agee, city news editor for the Gotham Gazette. A lifetime ago, Agee was on the cop beat hungry for copy and Slam was a young Homicide detective looking for press. A match made in heaven that came to an abrupt end when Slam got the boot from the GCPD.

"Artie, it's Slam Bradley."

"Slam?! Boychick, long time no speak. How the hell are ya?"

Artie was all mick but still liked talking like a jew. He could spit Yiddish like the old world jew in Bennett Beach.

"I'm fine, Artie. Making ends meet."

"I heard you were a private dick now. Meet any sexy femme fatales yet?"

Slam thought about the crack whore from last week. She had only three teeth and could trip on her tits if she walked too fast.

"Oh, yeah. The sexiest."

"You'll have to tell me about it."

Slam tipped the bottle back again. Somehow it had gone from full to half empty faster than he thought it was supposed to.

"I will," he said. "But for now I need some help on a job."

"Gimme the spiel, Slammy. What do you need."

"James Doheny, you know him?"

"Yeah, rich oil guy back when Gotham still had oil. Owns all those creaky oil derricks south of town."

"I want you to comb through your paper's archives and see what you can dig up on him and his family, especially his daughter."

"Interesting. Anything you can tell me about this job?"

"Just that if it ends up being story-worthy you'll be the first one I call."

"Promises, promises, Slammy. I'll hold you to that. What number can I reach you at?"

"I'm on my cell, let me give you the number."

Slam gave Artie his phone number and hung up. He sucked the gin until a quarter of it was left in the bottle. Properly buzzed, he headed out to James Doheny's house.



Dutch Hill

Slam walked into Doheny's house. The two heavies from before stood in the hallway, all big muscles and hard stares. They eyeballed him with attitude. He winked and passed on by into the study. Doheny sat in a chair facing the door, his pasty face coronary red. The old man shook a piece of paper at Slam and flew spittle as he talked.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

"I had to pick up some things from my apartment."

"You goddamn drunk goldbrick, you better not be conning me."

"You keep talking like that I'm apt to leave and let you deal with this on your own."

Doheny scowled and passed Slam the paper. A ransom note straight out of a movie. Cut out letters pasted to form sentences:

We HavE the giRL. 4 MILLion doLLars 2 see hER ALIVE again
oUr pHone CAll wITh instRucTIons will BE sOOn
NO COPS!

Slam passed it back before lighting up a smoke. Doheny scowled again and waved smoke from his face. Slam took the hint, stubbed the cigarette out and asked Doheny questions.

"How did it arrive?"

"One of my men found it at the front door. The doorbell rang and he did not see anyone nearby when he answered it. He brought it in and I called you after I read it."

"That was an hour ago?"

"Yes."

Slam reread the message and brooded. A real cop would dust the message for prints. A hunch gnawed at him worse than the mom angle. The hunch: Bianca Doheny's fingerprints would be all over that ransom note.

"Mr. Doheny, sir."

One of the gorillas sauntered in with a cordless telephone.

"It sounds like them."

Doheny snapped for the phone. Slam skittered out the room and down the hall. A second phone sat on the wall. He slowly picked it up and listened in.

Dohney: "Hello? This is James Doheny, who am I speaking to."

THEM: "Peter. Peter Cottontail. Hopping down the bunny trail--"

The voice sounded hard. Too hard, thought Slam. Like the note, it was a Hollywood production of what a kidnapper would sound like. Peter Cottontail put on his best Jimmy Cagney and fronted for the old man.

"Do you have my granddaughter?"

"Sure do, old man. It's up to you if you ever see her alive again. You got our note, can you swing the ransom money?"

"It will be a chore, but I can do that."

"Good. We'll do the handoff tomorrow night at nine. The place is gonna be the north shore, near the ferris wheel. Got it?"

"I'll be there if you can give me proof of life."

"Hold on a sec..."

"Poppa?!"

Bianca Doheny's voice sounded more like out of breath than genuinely scared to Slam. The old man ate it up.

"Bibi, baby! Don't worry. Everything is going--"

"Tomorrow night at nine, geezer. Remember no coppers. We get a hint of flatfoots and we'll kill her."

The line went dead. Doheny hung up. Slam read the caller ID. BLOCKED. He shrugged and went back into the study.

"Can you get the money by tomorrow night?" Slam asked.

"I can have it by tonight if necessary."

"Good. Get the money ready. I'm going to spend tonight chasing leads and I'll be back first thing in the morning."

Doheny protested, but Slam was out the door before the old man or his goons could get a paw on him.

He drove six blocks straight before stopping in a parking lot and pulling his phone out. He lit up a cig and inhaled it deeply. Slam blew smoke and plotted steps. He pulled a battered notepad from his jacket and flipped through the pages of personal information and access codes. Jim Gordon? No. he was too high profile to use. Harvey Bullock? No. Bullock would have changed his passcode by now, the paranoid bastard. Nevermind that Slam was about to justify his paranoia. Cris Allen? No. He was probably a captain by now with different badges. Charlie Fields? Yes. A hump who kept his passcode his kids' birthday, no way he'd change jobs or codes. Slam flicked his cigarette butt out the window and dialed Gotham Tel.

"Gotham Telecommunications Police Line, how may I help you?"

"I need to get the number and location of a phone line that just placed an incoming call in Dutch Hill. I also need a location on an unlisted phoneline."

"Yessir. I need your name, rank, badge number, and police access code."

"Sure," Slam said, flipping to Charlie Fields' page.

"Charles Fields, detective second class, badge number 01257, and my access code is 840221505."

"... Okay, Detective Fields. What was the first number."

Slam rattled off Doheny's phone number. A few quick keystrokes later and the operator had the phone traced to a downtown payphone. She gave Slam the address and he scribbled it down.

"And that second number, Detective?"

Slam filled through pages until he found it. The information he glommed from Bianca's flop. Vikki - Palisades Delight. Beneath it the phone number. He gave her the phone number and waited a few seconds. Another downtown address. The address just two blocks away from the pay phone. Slam thanked her and hung up. He killed the bottle of gin and looked at the note. Palisades Delight. The name sounded like an escort service. Vikki had to be a madam. The skin trade. When it came to whores and porn, there was only one man Slam knew who would be in the know.

Bruce Vain.



Gotham East End

He had black hair and clear blue eyes. Heavyset, somewhere between normal and fat. The extra weight threw off the resemblance, but otherwise he was a dead ringer for Bruce Wayne. To hear him tell it the extra weight all came from having to carry around that thing between his legs. He called it Wayne Tower, and according to him it was always open for business. He ran a gigolo service out of the East End. Old ladies, fat ladies, lonely ladies, the occasional man, and all kinds of freaks flocked to him. Who wouldn't pay a grand an hour to be reamed, steamed, and dry cleaned by the one and only Bruce Vain?

"I know Palisades Delight."

Slam watched him from across the diner table. Bruce was a good informant, the few ones he had left from his cop days. The only problem was Bruce charged Slam for information like he was a john. Slam supposed he was, just in a very different way than the usual clientele.

"Call-girls, high-end stuff. I'm talking a few grand per hour. I've worked with them before on... things."

"What things?"

Bruce got cagey and looked at his tuna melt. Slam scowled and forked over a C-note.

"Extortion," he said without making eye contact. "The rooms they used are set up with cameras. They blackmail businessmen and anyone else they can afford to squeeze. I was in on a few of the squeezes, lot of right-wing congressmen and councilmen who are in the closet. Let's see how much those bible thumping fucks will support them when they see the good congressman with his lips wrapped around Wayne Tower."

Hookers and extortion. Slam flashed back to his last days on the force. A dead call-girl consumed him and the burnout that was slowly building became a raging inferno. He got fired, he punched the Homicide CO, and curled up into a bottle he still called home.

"Thanks for the time, Bruce."

Slam stood up and passed him another C-note before heading out into the night. A little under twenty-four hours before the ransom. Slam cut odds on the whole kidnapping being bullshit. No bookie in the world would take the odds he made.

The truth, whatever it was, rested with the call girls and whoever Vivian was. And he was going to find out what that truth was.

Sweat beaded on the bridge of Natasha Romanoff's nose as she hung precariously above the floor. Her morning workout involved weights, cardio, and the hot yoga she currently was deep into. Sure, it was trendy. Yea, it was for housewives and valley girls when instructed by a coddling teacher in some suburb. But Natasha never did things the easy way. The Black Widow was once the word's preeminent assassin and provocateur. She didn't know the definition of simple. Her muscles burned as she stayed cemented in one of the most difficult poses yoga had to offer. When she felt as if she could take no more, Natasha held the pose for five more minutes before heading for the shower.

Her life had changed drastically since getting and offer from Captain America to redeem herself and leave her life of contract killing behind. At first it seemed to be an easy way out and a way to finally have her own life which she desired so deeply. She did not count on the fact of Stephanie Carter's stalwart leadership and infectious heroism, however. Nat often ribbed her now-best friend on the fact that her boyscoutish ways spread quicker than the common cold. Still, Romanoff would have it no other way. She was an Avenger now. Little girls looked up to her, and she was a hero her past life would never have allowed her to be.

As she began to shower, she thought of all she had done. She stood up to HYDRA, AIM, Doctor Doom, and even an alien invasion. She fought alongside gods and monsters to protect the people of this planet with only a few bullets and her wits are her disposal. Natasha Romanoff had never expected to be proud of her life. Hell, she had never even considered a life where she made choices for herself.

But she was damn proud of herself now.

When she stepped out of the shower, her mirror, which doubled as a communications hub, flashed with a text message. As the single word appeared on the screen, Natasha knew it was time to get to work.


Sparks flew up from the workbench as Hank Pym cursed under his breath. He had been working on this suit for ages, and nothing seemed to work. It was maddening for someone so brilliant as him. Hank Pym wasn't a patient man. All you had to do was ask Janet about that. The two had more yelling matches over him working too long or too intensely then Pym could count.

And Hank Pym could count to 1000 places of pi.

He pushed the chair away from the table as Janet came into the lab. She rolled her eyes as she noticed what he was working on. She wiped the sleep from her eyes as she passed through the lab into the bathroom. She was a scientist, same as Hank, but she wasn't nearly as dire as he was about it. Still, his passion and drive were what drove her to him to begin with. She did wish he spent a little less time with his work and a little more time with her, however.

Once she was done brushing her teeth, she came back to find Pym staring at a message from SHIELD.

"And I was really looking forward to a day off," Janet sighed.


Clint Barton's head swam with the lingering effects of last night at the bar. It wasn't a hangover. At least not one that would be debilitating. He had shared a few beers with Adam before heading home, a small, spartan apartment in the city. He had a bed, a TV, a microwave, and a fridge. A few pizza boxes where stuffed in a trashcan they clearly had no chance of fitting into. The only thing that was out of place in such modest quarters was the high tech armory on the wall that contained his bows and specialty arrows. Clint wasn't someone who needed extravagant things, but he was never going to give up his bows.

He groggily made his way to the toilet and filled it up a bit before pouring himself some stale coffee and a bowl of cereal with some milk that he was pretty sure was beginning to turn. He'd have to have one of the other agents in the building get him some more later. He sat at the small table in his room and thought about what his life would be like if he led a normal life. Maybe he'd have a family on a farm somewhere. But his life wasn't normal. He was a hero now. A guy who shot arrows at aliens and Nazis and robots. His life made no sense whatsoever, and he freaking loved that.

His phone vibrated on the table. He glanced down as he slurped the milk out of the bowl and smiled.

"Time to go to work," he hummed to himself as he tossed the bowl into the sink.


Nathaniel Adam lay motionless in his bed and stared at the eggshell white ceiling above him. His unblinking eyes were an eerie, endless blue and there was an eerie quality to their stillness as Nate’s thoughts drifted to that fateful day in Fallujah that had brought him here. He remembered the sound of the bullets as they riddled his fighter jet and the pain he felt in his hand as he hammered it against the eject button. More than anything he remember the feeling of dread that swept over him as he saw the three US Marines that he had gunned down laid faced down and dead in the dirt. They had been trying to help him. And he’d killed them. He’d spent the year that followed trying to clear his name and fighting Wade Eiling’s attempts to run him out of the Air Force. If you’d told him then that half a decade from then he’d be working for SHIELD alongside Captain America he’d have laughed you out of the room. “Avenging” hadn’t quite sunk in for Nate.

He sat up on his bed and stared emptily in the direction of a mirror before his eyes caught his reflection and they remained there for several moments. His face was youthful, his features deep set, and his eyebrows thick and striking. From what he could tell he hadn’t aged a day in the past five years. It was startling. Nate took a long, heavy breath and a reflective metal that coated every inch of him replaced his youthful skin. His eyes were completely pupil-less and glowed with a throbbing, yellow light. The metal coating his skin was so reflective that looking at his own face in the mirror created a seemingly never-ending loop of reflections, each slightly blurrier and less recognisable than the last. It was hard not to get existential sometimes.

From the kitchen the sound of a phone jarred Nate back to reality and he reverted back to his unpowered form before he left his bedroom. He didn’t need to do it. He knew everyone in his apartment block were SHIELD agents, it was standard SHIELD procedure for their more delicate assets, and despite his own military record he knew he wasn’t an exception to that. The nature of his powers, the damage he could cause were he ever to go rogue, meant they were obligated to keep tabs on him. He understood it: duty came first. It always had and always would with Nate. As Nate approached the kitchen he saw a cell phone that lay flashing on the counter and his expression, once wistful and empty, was replaced by one of steely determination as he read the word that flashed across the screen.

“Assemble.”


Captain America entered the Avengers briefing room next to Fury where she found the entire team assembled. Clint looked like he was sleeping. Natasha smiled at her friend as she entered. Pym looked like he was deep in thought, while Janet and Nate were talking away about something or other. Realistically, Janet was the one talking, as Nate snapped to attention when Fury entered the room.

"At ease," Fury waved Adam's show of respect away. As serious as Fury was about the mission, he was rarely one to stand on ceremony. He kind of hated people treating him like he was better than others. Steph liked that about him.

"So, who's trying to take the world over today?" Clint grumbled from his seat.

"We don't know," Cap answered truthfully.

"But someone is trying to destroy the world?" Hawkeye's eyebrows raised.

Steph shrugged, "Probably."

"Good, I was worried we'd have to do something new," Barton coughed.

Cap ran down the situation as Stark and Fury had told her about an hour before. The EMP disruption, the worldwide blackout, and the unknown source.

Pym's mind, she could already see, was racing, "A worldwide blackout is nearly impossible to create. If this was a weapon there's only a handful of people that could create something like this. Especially in secret."

"You're thinking AIM," Steph nodded. They were the first ones that came to mind for her as well.

"It would make sense," Natasha shrugged. "Hold the world ransom using their tech."

"They really need to get a new MO," Janet sighed.

"So what do you think, Nate?" Cap smiled at Atom. "Wanna go bust some skulls and find out what they know? I figure we go in hot and hard. Let them know we mean business."

"We have been getting reports of a new AIM base," Fury nodded. "Could be a good place to start."