---

---

“This transmission was transmitted through the internet several hours ago, and I warn you that the following recording is not for the faint of heart. If you have any children watching, I suggest you take them out of the room now.” The voice of GCN broadcaster Victoria Vale was clear as the red-haired journalist and reporter waved her hand as the picture fluttered from the broadcast to that of a pre-recorded video.

The boldness of the crimson logo burned through the television screen as the news network began to play the feed that had been received only hours before. The symbol was an old and tired one that was one remembered in the memory of the 20th century and it’s history. It was a symbol that had not been seen since 1978 on the shores of Madripoor. It was a symbol that had represented the pure darkness that engulfed Germany during the Second World War. It was a symbol that forced the Soviets, French, Brits, Chinese, and Americans to work together through the UNCLE initiative during the Cold War.

It was the symbol of pure terror. The symbol of HYDRA.

“Your world governments are weak— allowing the presence of inferior beings to walk among you, allowing these aliens and mutants to dirty your lands and ideals. Those who resist are blatantly pathetic as they are seen being routed by children and fools insulting the vitality of the human race. Your president cowers behind his desk as he focuses on a useless plot of sand rather than focus on the true enemy. What will it take for your pitiful leaders to take action?” The voice was angry, full of bitterness and abhorrence. The hateful mentions of superheroism, the mutant condition, and the national government's diplomacy towards both issues. The accent was distinctly German but it was also distorted by the recording.

“But that is okay, for it is we who return order to the world and be the true purifiers of such blatant weakness and filth.”

“We are HYDRA.” The figure of a shrouded man walked in front of the ebony and crimson logo and rose his head— revealing a face drenched in blood red with a scowl that ripped through the screen. The appearance of the man had only been seen in films depicting Captain America’s battle against HYDRA in the past… a face of evil incarnate that brought more fear than the logo could ever do. The face of the Red Skull.

“Before you scream for your old protectors of our banner let me tell you this: SHIELD is nothing, SHIELD is dead. HYDRA has taken your precious Belle Reve and your weak director from you, and there is nothing you can do.”

“Know this though; this is only the beginning.”

The scowl turned into an arrogant smirk.

“You will try to stop us, but you can not defeat us. We are HYDRA, for if one head is removed two more will rise in its place. The return of the Red Skull and the reign of HYDRA is inevitable. You will see when I descend upon you.”

“Heil HYDRA.”

---

---

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.”

A light snowfall fell over Peter's head as he dragged his feet through the slush that came with March's milder weather. After day of school had come and gone, another day when Flash had attempted to lock Peter in his own locker, make fun of Peter's lack of a girlfriend and once again call his sexuality into question. To make matters worse, Flash had even called attention to Peter looking in the same direction as Liz Allen while she was bent over. While Peter had noticed her thong riding up, he hadn't been staring at it. That didn't stop Flash from calling Peter a 'gay pervert' however. Nothing in Peter's life could ever go his way, things had been bad before Uncle Ben's death but at least Peter always had Uncle Ben to come to. Uncle Ben had always known exactly what to say.

If only Peter hadn't been out that night, foolishly spending his evening wrestling of all things. Sure he had been making money, but to what end? It's not like he was trying to help out his Aunt and Uncle, no instead all he had been concerned with was making money to buy new clothes and maybe even a car to impress the girls at school. Puny Parker would finally have been a thing of the past, everyone would have known his name. But all that had been in vain, if he hadn't been so obsessed with his popularity he could have been home. He could have used his new abilities to stop the gunman, disarming him in one quick move being the hero that his Aunt and Uncle had needed. Instead Peter had come home to police outside the house and the front door's glass smashed in from where Uncle Ben's lifeless body had fallen.

Feeling his pocket vibrate, Peter removed one of his gloves as he reached into his pocket to pull out the new cellphone that Aunt May had given him. After Uncle Ben's death, Aunt May had been a wreck and rightly so. Uncle Ben had been her life partner of nearly forty years. Highschool sweethearts, the two had lived through the sixties and seventies together. Travelling the country even attending the 'Summer of Love' in San Francisco. Life without Uncle Ben must have been hell for Aunt May and Peter held himself responsible.

"Hullo." Peter said as he brought the phone to his ear before answering it.

"Oh Peter, I'm glad to see the phone I bought you works." Aunt May replied as she started to ramble on. "It's amazing how far technology has come in the last decade. I could scarcely believe it when the salesman had told me that little device was a cellphone. You should have seen the ones that came out in the eighties, your father used to carry one around."

"I think I found that phone in a box in the basement." Peter added as he felt his throat tighten upon hearing Aunt May's voice.

"Anyways Peter, could you pick up some eggs from the store on your way home or are you almost here?" Aunt May asked as Peter nodded his head before turning on his heel.

"It's okay Aunt May, I can go back for them." Peter answered as he started to walk towards the store he had passed nearly two blocks back.

"Sorry Peter, just with Ben gone and filling out all the paper work for the insurance company my mind has been else where. It's just been..." Aunt May's voice paused as Peter heard her sniffle slight before clearing her throat. Tears well up in his own eyes as he heard his Aunt struggling to control her emotions. "It's just been hard." She added quickly before clearing her throat slightly again.

"Aunt May, I..." Peter paused carefully considering his next words. "I'm so sorry, if I had been home that night..."

"Peter don't." Aunt May scolded him. "If you had been home, it could have been you dead on the floor. And I know for a fact Ben would give his life for you Peter, don't go spoiling his memory by wishing you in his place instead."

Stuttering, Peter tried to backpedal as the works struggled to come out. "Aunt May, I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..."

"Shush child, it's okay I know you didn't mean anything by it. Anyways I should let you go apparently you only have so many minutes to talk on your phone. Please don't squish the eggs." Aunt May said before the line went dead as she hung up.

"Yeah... bye Aunt May." Peter said tucking the phone back in his pocket before blowing on his hand to warm it up and pulling his glove back on. Walking into the convenience store, the door bell rang as Peter made his way through the narrow isles. Without a major grocer in the immediate area, 'Browne's Corner Store' had expanded its selection to accommodate most general needs. As such the shelves were often overstocked and crowded but the locals lived the store and the owner actually offered fairly reasonable prices, a rare occurrence in a city such as New York. Walking to the back, Peter opened the fridge before pulling out a dozen eggs and turning around. The 'ding' of the door rung out through the empty store as another man entered. Getting distracted by the magazine rack as he flipped through 'Popular Mechanics', 'Advanced Idea Mechanics', 'Horizon Magazine', 'S.T.A.R. Labs' and 'FoxTech Monthly'. Suddenly a painful tingling sensation shot through the back of Peter's head as he dropped the magazine in his head to the ground.

"Just give me the money in the register man." Peter looked towards the front seeing the man who had entered after him holding up the register. The owner, Marcus Browne had raised his hands in surrender but was still shaking his head towards the armed man. For the first time in his life, Peter was thankful that his meek and nonthreatening demeanor had made him invisible. Reaching into his backpack, Peter pulled out his wrestling mask, the eyes appeared to stare back at him and he could have sworn it nodded as Peter realized what he had to do. Pulling the mask on, Peter opened the carton of eggs and chucked one towards the thief.

"Hey!" Peter called feeling his bowels threatening to empty at any moment. "Yeah I'm talking to you King Louie." The big man turned towards Peter as Peter threw another egg. Catching the egg, 'Louie' crushed it in his hand, yolk and whites falling to the floor before being sprinkled in broken shell.

"Big mistake kid." Louie growled as he pulled the trigger. Peter felt his heart stop only for his body to react and turn as the tingling in his head seemed to explode again. Almost involuntarily, Peter felt his body twist out of the bullet's path as he leaped into the air, adhering to the ceiling.

"You some kind of freak?" Louie growled. "World would be better off without you mutie."

"Now that's just rude." Peter called back, not knowing where his voice was sudenly coming from. "For all you know I could be a really nice guy. We could have hit it off, gone out for beers maybe even found ourselves a nice pair of girls before we parted for the night. But no, instead you had to go and shoot first." Peter quipped as he pushed off the ceiling, his new found strength flung him across the store before his feet connected with the thief's chest. The wind was knocked from the larger man as he was sent flying, crashing into the wall before slumping to the ground unconscious.

"Who are you?" Marcus asked as he looked towards Peter and his mask.

"Uh..." Peter paused before opening his mouth again. "Just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man." He added as he threw down the money for the eggs. "Gotta run." He called as he shoved the remaining eggs in his backpack and ran out the door.

---

The excitement of the afternoon still hadn't worn off as Peter sat in his room later that night. He felt bad about lying to Aunt May about the missing eggs but the truth would have set her off worse than Mount St. Helens in nineteen eighty. After Uncle Ben's death, Aunt May was so worried she had begun to coddle Peter. It was smothering and had come to a head with the cellphone. The cellphone had nearly cost her the mortgage payment for the month but she insisted that Peter needed it for emergencies and so Peter could keep in contact with her.

Sitting in front of his computer, Peter looked up the latest sightings of some of his favourite heroes. The Batman of Gotham had always been something of a favourite of his, his costume, the gadgets, Peter could only wish he was out there swinging from roof top to roof top. Holding up the mask, Peter looked into the eyes again. It had felt pretty good today, stopping that robber perhaps he was onto something. If others with powers were out there saving lives, why wasn't he? Uncle Ben had after all told him that with great power comes great responsibility. Peter had the power, it was time he lived up to his responsibilities. Going back to his computer, Peter began to look for more information about grappling guns.

New York City,
around 6:00 PM, March 20th, 2005

Danny Rand-Kai could feel the qi of this city: a murky, pulsing, constantly shifting thing that felt gritty, strange and just...alien.

This was not his city, this wasn't even his world anymore, and the gleaming metal spears that were the buildings stabbing the sky with cars whizzing by underneath in a grating cacophony of horns and breaks and curses only served to contrast against his memories of K'un-Lun with its graceful architechture and pristine surroundings. K'un-Lun, his home since the age of six, a bubble of frozen time that had suddenly popped and left him stranded in this unfamiliar modern world with its' endless swarms of people rushing about in the blind frenzy of speed that only those who truly know mortality aspire towards. Danny supposed he had no one to blame for his feelings of loss and discomfort but himself, though. After all, he had chosen this path, chosen to give up paradise, eternal life, the love and adoration and peace of K'un-Lun....

For revenge. It was a path he alone could walk, for he had taken up the mantle of the Immortal Iron Fist: the Living Weapon, a title that should rightly have belonged to his father before his untimely death, that of a warrior who fought alone as a burning light against an eternal storm of dark-

"EVERYBODY WAS KUNG-FU FIGHTING!"
THOSE KICKS WERE FAST AS LIGHTNING!"~

*sigh*

His cellphone ringtone was probably Joy's idea of a joke, and even though it grated on Danny, defeating a dragon was nothing compared to trying to figure out how to reprogram the thing. The instant interruptions of cell phones were exactly the sort of thing he hated about this modern world and-

"IN FACT IT WAS A LITTLE BIT"-

*Click*

"Go for Danny Rand, majority shareholder and future CEO of Rand Incorporated."

Joy's laughter on the other line brightened his mood significantly, even if he had to admit it wasn't really productive to his current train of thought.

"Very funny Danny, but we both know the day you have my job is the day the company goes under! Anyways, just calling to let you know that we're going to have to reschedule dinner, this whole meeting's running late but I'm dealing with some pretty important clients that I can't exactly walk out on. You gonna be alright taking care of yourself for the night?"

It had been Joy's idea to start having dinners together at the end of the day, maybe to try and give things a sense of routine, normality, even family. That's what she was trying to be, he supposed, some cross between a mother and an older sister ever since she'd been named as his guardian. It wasn't like they weren't close in their own way, considering Joy had known him since he was in diapers and she and her father had known his parents even before that. If anything they'd only grown closer due to the fact that both of them had lost their parents in those mountains-

He forced himself to respond before he started remembering.

"Yeah, I'm sure I'll be fine, I'll figure something out."

"Okay, if you say so. Oh, and before I forget make sure to get out of the penthouse, experience the city a little! It's not good for you to just sit in your room brooding all day, Danny. After all, you're only sixteen! You need to live a little!"

*Click!*

Danny took a moment to gaze out the window at the skyline and the bustling city below. His father's city. Maybe he had gotten a little too distracted and grim lately, forgotten who he really was and why he was here.

"Experience the city and...live a little...huh?"

---

Chinatown
March 20th, 2005
7:30 PM

"KILL HIM, KILL HIM, KILL HIM, KILL HIM!!!~

Okay, so an illegal underground fighting arena beneath a run down Chinatown restaurant prooobably wasn't the side of the city Joy was hoping he'd experience, but the Young Dragon had to admit for the first time in a while he definitely felt like he was living.

Besides, it felt good to be back in the traditional masked garb of the Iron Fist, dragon symbol plain on his chest, wailing on criminal scum in hopes of fighting well enough to secure an audience with the mob boss known as Chiantang. Because in addition to being one of the most established tong leaders around, The Black Dragon was well known to Danny as a literal, actual dragon in disguise and one of the most well-connected figures when it came to the hidden subcultures where mysticism and martial arts intersected.

The bloody faced, stony skinned man-mountain before him went by the name of Six Elephant Jiang and was his tenth opponent of the night, and if at first both he and the crowd had looked hesitant and amused at the sight of a short-for-sixteen blue-eyed white kid in the garb of a legendary warrior, well, several successive cash injections and the way he was quickly becoming a betting favorite ensured that there were plenty more to come.

But Danny had let himself get overconfident. Before he knew what was happening the mass of muscle that was Jiang had recovered from his latest Thunderfoot Kick to the face and picked him off the ground in a death grip that reinforced the suggestion that he wasn't entirely human. Specifically, boosting his body's durability with qi was only just preventing all of his ribs and the organs in between from being ground into a fine paste and his efforts at kicking out of it or reversing were about as effective as an ant trying to wrestle an actual elephant. If he wanted to avoid dying, there was only one thing to do.

Danny searched deep within himself, deep within his very being, and called upon the fiery Qi of Shou-Lao. Though it was still nearly pinned against the giant of a man, his right fist began to glow...to smolder...to burn.

Until Daniel Rand-Kai hit a man twice his size with a One-Inch-Punch that was Like A Thing of Iron. The impact blew the man off his feet...and through the ropes of the ring...and into a few unlucky audience members...and three inches deep into the concrete arena wall.

The bloodthirsty crowd that had been roaring for death just moments before fell silent and then, the whispers began:

"The real Iron Fist?...the kid's the real deal?...I thought the costume was a joke...Nobody's ever beaten Six Elephant Jiang...If it's the real Iron Fist he's been scamming all of us!...If he's the real Iron Fist he'll try and punish us all..."

"THE KID'S THE REAL IRON FIST! KILL HIM!

Then waves of humanity rushed at Danny like an angry tsunami.

---

March 20th 2005,
The same arena,
9:00 PM

"EVERYBODY WAS KUNG FU FIGHTING!~"
"THOSE KICKS WERE FAST AS LIGHTNING!
IN FACT IT WAS A LITTLE BIT FRIGHTNING!
BUT THEY FOUGHT WITH-"

*click*

From atop his seat on what was less of a pile and more of a small hill of unconscious kung fu gangsters, a slightly more battered Danny Rand-Kai answered the phone.

"Yeah, hi Joy. Oh no, no need to worry about me, I'm doing just fine. Yup, I decided to go get some takeout. Um...yeah, Chinese-" his foot lashed out at a figure that started to stir without actually bothering to stand "-food. The owners were pretty friendly, it's been a nice time. D'you want anything? Well, alright then. It's fine, I understand. I'll see you in the morning before school."

So much for a lead on his revenge, but if nothing else Danny was certainly feeling more at home. Maybe New York City wasn't so bad after all. Besides, from what he'd heard the legitimate front for this place had some pretty badass pork dumplings.

Then he felt it, thrumming across battle-senses still heightened from his melee with the street-fighters. An aura of qi of massive potential power, wild, barely-masked and restrained like a bonfire in the night or music in a soundproofed room. It resonated with him, despite coming from above ground and apparently...from the direction of the Bronx? Regardless It was a savage, bestial aura that Iron Fist was absolutely sure could only have its' origins in one place.

K'un-Lun.

Danny hopped off the pile of twitching, concussed thugs with a grin.

"Look, guys I hate to beat up and run, but something's just come up. So uh, just stay right there, and when some of you are capable of moving again do me a favor and tell the Big Boss that the Immortal Iron Fist is in New York City. Got it? Great."

Martial arts action, occult secrets, sudden and endless mysteries...

Maybe K'un-Lun and New York weren't so different after all.

SARASOTA, FLORIDA
MARCH 21ST, 11:32 AM

It wasn’t right.

It was supposed to be cold in March. It wasn’t cold in Florida.

Greg Saunders sat out on his porch with a pitcher of lemonade, his newspaper and a grimace. While he had to admit the sun’s rays felt nice, warming his leathery old face as they did, they were not particularly welcome. He preferred New York. It was cold, sure, but didn’t that make you look forward to the spring even more?

He was sure it did.

“Hey, Mr. Saunders,” a couple of the neighbourhood kids said as they walked past, carrying makeshift bats and a ball. He waved back to them before turning back to his newspaper. It was the usual story. Superheroes, supervillains, now this HYDRA business again. The Red Skull; it sounded ridiculous.

Did anyone still bother to stop the everyday criminal?

Greg looked at his watch and sighed when he noticed it had only been two minutes since he had last looked. He fidgeted some in his chair. A group of middle age women walked by. Or rather, speed walked by. Greg raised an eyebrow and shook his head. What happened to walking to get from A to B?

This used to be the point where his wife told him to stop moaning. To enjoy life. Wasn’t the sun just perfect?

It’s supposed to be cold, he’d say. She’d laugh.

“Hey, Mr. Saunders, I got a special one for you today.” It was the mailman, coming up the lawn. “It’s all the way from China, can you believe that?”
“Thanks, Toby,” Greg replied, accepting the envelope. He looked on the back. It was a familiar scrawl, even if he hadn’t seen it in twenty years. It read ‘Jim Leong’.
He moved to open the letter, when he noticed Toby was still standing there, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“A man’s mail is a private affair, Toby.”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Saunders,” the mailman replied, a little surprised. “Sorry about that. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks again, Toby. And don’t worry, I’ll probably tell you all about it then.”
The mailman smiled and waved as he left. Greg nodded, waited till Toby had really moved on and then opened the letter.

When he’d finished it, Greg carefully folded it twice and placed it in his shirt’s front pocket. He got up, took the lemonade pitcher back to the kitchen and threw the paper in the trash. Out of a kitchen drawer, he took a revolver and tucked it in the back of his jeans, under his shirt. He picked up his gloves, his hat and a red bandana, which Greg tied around his neck. He stepped outside and closed the door of his house behind him. When he’d put the key under his doormat, he turned to face the sun.



Then he started walking.

---

---

It seems I have many things on my mind this week.

I thumb over Bethany Kane’s invitation to a party held by her husband, and one of my mother’s brothers.

I place the letter down.

Since I’ve returned to Gotham nearly four years ago, I’ve dealt with the worst of society and at the cost of everyone around me. My former relationships that I had forged all those years ago crumbled in what seemed like an instant and all I was left with was only two men who welcomed me back to Gotham with no false pretenses—Alfred Pennyworth and Lucius Fox. My relationship with even my own family has been rough at best; Jacob Kane had never forgiven my father for leaving the responsibility of raising me to Alfred Pennyworth over his own brother-in-law and I could tell that whenever he and I met as equals. My other uncle, Philip Kane was too self-obsessed to care about anything— which is more concerning considering his daughter has to live under that smugness and false sense of pride. I’m not sure what I hate more; an immature discontent or a complacent arrogance. Both are things that Gotham does not need and at a level are responsible for this mess.

Speaking of complacency. Dick is late for the second time in the last eight days. What reason could he possibly have for shirking his responsibilities as Robin? It’s a Sunday, the beginning of a new week. An irritated sigh leaves my lips as I replay the recording from Saturday’s GCN broadcast headed by Victoria Vale.

The Red Skull.

HYDRA.

War on the government, vigilantes, and mutantkind.

It never ends. 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 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 is most certainly a fine scowl, Bruce. Are you preparing for a role in the new Gray Ghost theater production? If so I must say it is dead-on.”

My thoughts are cut off by Alfred’s voice, to my left over my shoulder.

“Alfred. You were active during HYDRA’s prominence. Do you know anything?”

“I suppose you do not trust the Hirsz films or any of the televised serials.” He pauses as I don’t even smirk at his quip. “It is frankly, quite shit that they have returned from their hibernation. I put a bullet in the head of their last leader, Baron Reiter in ‘78. I thought myself and Simpson had ended it once and for all.”

“Simpson?”

“Right, sorry about that. Frank Simpson was one of the individuals I worked with during the assault on Madripoor in ‘78.”

“I see.”

“HYDRA are resilient and vicious, but never have we seen a second Red Skull.”

“You don’t believe it’s the original?”

The original Red Skull perished with the first Captain America at the end of the Second World War. For him to re-emerge now is surprising and a bit of a stretch. But more fantastical things have happened in the past as the world is hardly mundane. Despite that I’m not sure what to believe, I’ve never dealt with HYDRA or even some of the unaffiliated splinter factions like KOBRA— my hands tend to be full with the League of Shadows and other problems native to Gotham or myself. This would be a first if this Red Skull dared to get in my way and endanger the people of my city.

“I find it unlikely.”

Before our conversation can continue I hear the elevator lift hum to life. My eyes look to the clock on the computer and sigh. 9:09. As the doors to the elevator push open I say a comment out loud to make sure Dick knows that I’m not pleased or unaware of his tardiness.

“You’re late.”

Alfred chuckled, “By almost a whole ten minutes. He truly is the tardiest of them all.”

My eyes narrow but not before Dick speaks up himself.

“I don’t get even a little leeway considering it’s my birthday in three hours, do I?”

“Is that your excuse?”

“...no?”

“I believe a sufficient reason to explain your tardiness is due, ‘Master’ Dick.”

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you, Alfred?”

“It doesn’t matter. Don’t let it happen again. Crime doesn’t wait.”

“Yes sir.”

As the ‘boy wonder’ begins to switch into the Robin suit and the conversation and analysis of the HYDRA situation done for the moment I open another window to oversee recent dossiers I have been compiling of notable criminals and extremists. I begin to look over a file regarding a notable high profile thief and serial murderer by the name of ‘Killer Moth’. My arms cross as I look over the file. How can this keep happening to me? No information on The Penguin outside of some fringe operations and a nightclub, No information on The Joker outside of some vague incidents even after his incarceration, and No information on this one. It’s frustrating. Even with ORACLE on my side it seems I am five steps behind the criminal facets of Gotham.

“Who’s the new freak with a moth motif?”

“Killer Moth.” I state as I bring up specific files and articles related to his appearances including bits by Iris West in Central City, Lois Lane in Metropolis, Ben Urich in New York City, and Victoria Vale here in Gotham.

“So neither Flash or Superman dealt with the guy? Either he’s really good or powers are really overrated.”

“The Flash was distracted by a group of villains called ‘The Rogues’ and Superman was solving an international crisis overseas.”

“Interesting timing, don’t you think?”

“Yes. Which begins the theory that this Killer Moth is incredibly intelligent. But what bothers me the most is with his getup.”

I pull up one of the few pictures taken by security feeds that actually caught him. The armor, the motif, the ingenuity. It’s like looking into a warped mirror and it makes me sick.

“Must be a fan of your work, Bruce.”

“He’s been meeting a lot of those recently.”

“Any idea where he’s holed up or whether he’s skipped town yet?”

“No leads on a location, but there is a silver lining. Sandman has acquired a sample of a chemical Killer Moth apparently used during one of his heists. It’ll take a few days to analyze. It’s not much to go on, but at least it’s something.”

“Well, let’s hope he doesn’t find out we’re not on vacation. While that’s processing, what are we dealing with tonight?”

“Standard patrol. Though anything can happen after HYDRA’s announcement on the internet yesterday. Tensions with mutants and metahumans are high enough as is, and Red Skull just gave people a reason to do something stupid.”

“I didn’t know Gotham had such a high amount of neo-nazis.”

“Oh, we’re a regular fourth reich.”

“Heil Hitler.”

I shake my head as I stand from the chair in front of the computer, pulling the cowl up. “We don’t. But we have a lot of avid anti-mutant sentiment.”

“The Red Skull has just declared war, and that’s exactly why I’m worried. People do stupid things when they are afraid, and it gives the local Purifiers movement in Gotham a reason to do something. We cannot let that happen on our watch.”

It was time to get to work.

Center City, WA
12:21 AM

Linda Flynn and her girlfriends walked down the sidewalk on unsteady feet. The group of four girls swayed and bobbed on their big high heels, clinging to each other as they walked. All four wore expensive and tight cocktail dresses and heels that were just a bit too big for them. They didn't care how gaudy they looked. They were young, they were rich, and they wanted the whole damn world to know it.

"Denise, you are such a slut," one of them said in a drunken slur. The rest of the pack broke out into a fit of giggles.

"You're the slut," Denise countered. "I saw you with that guy, just grinding on him. He looked so fucking ugly! You're such a slut."

The girls looked up at the sound of a roaring engine. A large black van raced down the road and skidded to a stop beside them. Two men in balaclavas jumped out with pistols in their hands. The girls let out screams of horror as the two gunmen zeroed in on just one of them. They took Linda roughly by the shoulders and shoved her into the van. The three remaining girls tried to reach out to their friend, but were pushed back by the kidnapper. He aimed his gun at them and put a finger to his lip.

"Tell her father, we'll be in touch," the masked men said. "Tell him if he goes to the cops, she fucking dies."

The two men jumped into the van, slammed the door shut, and the van peeled off into the night, leaving the drunk and hysterical young women to cry and panic for their kidnapped friend.

--

4:48 AM

It was the middle of the night, but Tracy Lawless was wide awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette and staring through the darkness at the city outside. Sleep was something he no longer seemed to need much of. Years in the military had taught him how little he actually needed to function. No more than five hours a night and he was good until another twenty-four hours.

The woman in his bed stirred and he looked back at her. Gennelle was her name, or at least her stage name. She was one of the strippers at the club he managed for Hyde. It was stupid, taking her home that night after they closed... but Tracy's base biological functions had been gnawing at him for the past few weeks. He needed to clear the works out, so to speak, and Gennelle with her long legs and rich coffee colored skin was just what he needed. He should have just went to a bar and picked a woman up, or even better bought a call girl for the night. Sleeping with one of the girls would no doubt cause some sort of trouble back at the club.

The cell phone on the dresser across the room rattled as it vibrated. Tracy stood and padded towards it. A blocked number was calling.

"Yeah," he said softly.

"It's me."

The voice on the other end was recognizable enough. John Galston, some lawyer type Hyde just recently started to use as a go-between for him and all the people he dealt with. It made Tracy wonder why he set up the stop-gap. Maybe he was getting paranoid in his old age?

"He needs some work done," said Galston. "Get to his office right now."

"Okay. I'll be there."

Tracy hung up without another word. He walked towards his closet and started to dress. When he was done, he took a key off his ring and placed it on the nightstand beside the sleeping woman. He left her a note, asking to lock up after she left. Tracy tucked his piece, a Smith & Wesson compact .40, into the shoulder rig he wore under his coat and left out of the apartment before the morning son had a chance to creep up over the horizon.

--

6:02 AM

To look at Sebastian Hyde's office, you would think he was a college professor or some well to do businessman instead of the kingpin of Center City. There were books, shelves and shelves of books on the three office walls. The lone wall not loaded down with books had an entire long pane of glass that stretched across the wall in a window that gave off a pretty impressive view of Center City. The books were all random as hell. Everything from Gibbon's six-part series on the history of Rome to Danielle Steel. Tracy doubted very much that Hyde had even cracked open one of those books in his library. The man didn't care about books, and he didn't care about his impressive view. The books and window were all a show to anyone who came into the office. It was projecting power. Look at how many nice things I have, it said, look at the entire town that I sit above like a king. All of that boiled down to a simple message: Do not fuck with me.

"Tracy," Hyde said as he came in.

Tracy stood and wordlessly greeted the old man as he walked towards his desk. Hyde wasn't in his usual three-piece, but he still wore dark slacks and a collared shirt. Tracy remained standing until Hyde sat down behind the desk.

"It's late, let's skip the usual bullshit, son. Do you know Thomas Flynn?"

"Rings a bell. Does he owe you money?"

"No, unfortunately not. Flynn owns a good deal of the industrial park here in town. Supposed to be worth half a billion. He keeps his nose mostly clean, as clean as anyone worth that kind of money can be. Early this morning, his daughter Linda was kidnapped by some masked men. They called the house a few hours ago, demanding five million dollars for her safe return. They also demanded no cops be involved. Flynn wants security and he's afraid to go to the police... so he came to me. For a nominal fee, I'm guaranteeing her safe return. For a cut of that fee, you'll provide the service."

Hyde working for money didn't jive true to Tracy. He had more than enough money than he or his kids would ever spend. But what was left unsaid Tracy knew all too well. Flynn was asking Sebastian Hyde for a favor. All it took was for Hyde to get his foot into the door and he owned you. Flynn thought it was a simple transaction, money for goods and services, but it would be so much more than that. For Hyde to get in good with a man like Flynn would give him something much more valuable than money. Flynn got you connections, contracts, businessmen, and politicians. Influence, a half a billion dollar's worth of influence Hyde could call on.

"Do I just watch over the deal, make sure it goes down smoothly?"

"Very much so. And when the deal is over, it is expected you find the kidnappers and liquidate them. These cocksuckers are operating with impunity in my city, son. I will not let that stand."

"And the money from the ransom?"

The old man's eyes lit up and his eyebrows arched as he smiled.

"You know how it is, son. Things sometimes go missing. If Flynn can't recover that money, it's a small price to pay for the safety of his family."

Message received. Tracy nodded and stood, heading towards the door. He hated when Hyde called him son. He made a mental note that when he got his revenge on the old prick, he would hit him in the balls for every time the old man had called him his son. After tonight, Tracy's count was up to 219.

_Drip.

The steady fall of water droplets off the leaky copper pipes echoed through the isolated room. From within the room, one could hear the orderlies making their way around the Asylum for the Mentally & Criminally Insane. The shift was changing over as the night crew took over and performed the first of their hourly inspections. Walking the long narrow halls, the creaking floor boards echoed throughout the entire facility as the orderlies ensured that each member of the former Circus of Strange were still safely locked away in their cells.

"Man, Pyg makes my skin crawl." Came the voice of one orderly as they climbed the narrow stairwell. "Did you see what he did to all those children? Ugh, I hope they were put out of their misery because there's not coming back from that."

"You're afraid of Pyg when they have a cannibal with crocodile skin and a grin that could give you know who a run for his money." Came a female voice in reply. "Croc is a monster, why is he not in Blackgate?"

"You did not just mention you know who!" The other voice came back in reply as the sound of the orderlies began to get closer to the isolated room at the top of the Victorian spire.

"I didn't call him by name." The female protested.

"Close enough, we need to stop mentioning him even vaguely. He gets off on it, and I'm pretty sure he's just bidding his time. I really don't want this to be the next Haly's Circus Massacre." The male voice chided before he suddenly jumped with a slight high pitched scream.

"Oh relax!" Scolded the female's voice. "It's just a rat."

"Yeah but they put the Ratcatcher in here too!" The male voice argued. "Whose to say that rat isn't doing his dirty work."

"There were rats in Arkham before Otis Flannegan was put here and there will be rats here long after he rots to death in his cell." The female voice said as she dismissed the male's fears. As the voices stopped, so did the foot steps on the other side of the door to the isolated room.

"Well since you're so brave, you check on him." The male voice ordered as the female laughed.

"Alright I will." The female replied as she slid the view port open. Staring inside she looked around the dim room, the sound of a leaking pipe echoing in the darkness before she caught side of the dirty white straight jacket. Long green hair spilled over the slumped shoulders as the edge of a pale face could be caught in the light of the doorway. "Give us a smile Mister J." Came the female's voice.

"Harleen!" The male scolded again. "Don't egg him on."

"Oh relax, he's been a perfect patient since he was admitted." Dr. Harleen Quinzel stated as she closed the viewport and turned towards the stairs. "Now c'mon, I need coffee if I'm supposed to make it through this night." She added as the two doctors headed back downstairs. From within the cell, the Joker turned his head as the sound of a rat's squeak caught his attention.

"It's time." The Joker muttered before his chest started to shudder with mirth as a low chuckle escaped his chest. "Heh, heh haha."

"_Haha

March 20th, 2005
02:39am

Carol Danvers lay asleep in her bed beset by dreams of tumbling through the air over an Iraqi sky and a cockpit filled with smoke. She tossed and turned in her bed, clearly distressed by what she was seeing, until he sheets were soaked through with sweat and her covers lay crumpled at the foot of her bed. Most of Carol’s nights had been like this since she’d come home from Iraq. It wasn’t the dreams that got to her so much as the waking up. Never once had she dreamed of herself without her legs and each time she opened her eyes from some fresh nightmare, she stared down at the stumps where once her legs were and let out a heavy sigh. Tonight would have been no different were it not for the flash of green light that shook Carol’s tiny apartment. A buzzing noise sounded and beside her table a green ring rattled around noisily until Danvers opened her eyes and noticed it. She pulled herself up and slipped the ring over one of her fingers.

There was another flash and a hulking figure appeared as a light construct in Carol’s bedroom. It was Kilowog, Carol’s closest friend in the Green Lantern Corps and the Corps drill instructor, but from the look on his face something was wrong.

Carol reached for her covers, pulling them up to obscure her stumps from sight. “Kilowog? What’s going on?”

“You had better get to Oa, Carol, something’s going on here and I have a feeling we’re going to be needing all our heavy hitters on this one.”

It wasn’t often that Kilowog hailed her privately and even less often that he looked as distressed as he did. People passed by Kilowog in the background, some she noticed and others she didn’t, but they too seemed to be moving with an urgency that was worrying to say the least. Something was definitely going on.

“What’s happened?”

Kilowog let out a guttural, earthy snort. “What always happens? Some poozers need their heads cracking. I’ll explain more once you’re here.”

With that there was another flash of light and Kilowog disappeared. Carol threw the covers away from her stumps and waved her hand, creating two green prosthetic legs out of energy, and stepped atop them as she began to ready herself for the journey that lay ahead. She stared down at the pictures that adorned her bedside table: one of her parents in happier times, one of Carol stood beside a fighter jet, and one of herself in full military uniform with the Purple Heart pinned to her chest. In half an hour she would be further from Earth than any human barring Alan Scott had ever been before but her memories of home would weigh on her even there. There was no place she could run or fly where they wouldn’t follow her.

It had taken her longer than she anticipated getting to Oa but when she did the whole place was bustling with movement. Her arrival turned a few heads, as it always did amongst the recruits, but outside of that the other Lanterns were too concerned with whatever was going to notice. Danvers was the first terran Green Lantern in decades and though she’d only been one for nearing two years was well regarded in the Corps, especially by Ganthet, which had earned her the admiration and disdain of some of her fellow Green Lanterns in equal measure. She spotted Kilowog’s pink skin amongst several Lanterns outside the dining hall and strode up beside him.

He looked round and with faux annoyance barked in her direction. “What took you so long?”

“I’m here now, that’s all that matters. Are you going to explain to me what the hell’s so important I had to haul ass halfway across the galaxy in the early hours?”

“Some newbies have gone missing,” Kilowog grumbled. “The Guardians thought it was nothing to begin with, some technical glitch or something caused by being that far out, until it started happening across a few sectors. They sent Sinestro out there and there wasn’t a trace of the poozers.”

Carol shook her head as she followed after Kilowog, making their way towards the Central Meeting Hall. “That’s not good.”

“Talk about an understatement,” Kilowog said, exhaling through his large nostrils. “Sinestro found some of that negative energy there, thinks someone dragged the newbies off to the Negative Zone, and has been kicking up a stink trying to get Ganthet to let him invade the damn place on his own. You know how Sinestro gets.”

That she did. Sinestro had rode Carol harder than any other Green Lantern from the second she’d arrived there. Kilowog had told her once that he resented her for bearing Mar-Vell’s ring and the way she’d rose up the ranks at the Corp so quickly. Mar-Vell had been the greatest Green Lantern of all time, proven by the fact that he was the only Lantern that Sinestro had ever deferred to. They weren’t friends, they had never been friends, but it was clear from the way that Kilowog spoke of Mar-Vell that Sinestro held a deep respect for his abilities and would had followed him into hell and back. He seemed to have the opposite opinion of Carol and had been intent on making her life difficult at every turn. He succeeded more often than not.

“Yeah, well even Sinestro needs help sometimes.”

Carol and Danvers made their way past the crowds of confused Lanterns assembled outside the Central Meeting Hall and passed through its doors to find Sinestro stood before an assembly of Guardians. He looked exasperated, annoyed even, and was gesticulating angrily as he spoke to them but stopped dead in his tracks when he heard Kilowog and Carol approaching.

A wry smile appeared on Sinestro’s pink face. “Look who it is, Ganthet’s favourite daughter finally decides to grace us with her presence.”

Carol let out a little laugh as she descended the steps with Kilowog and stood beside him. “Behave, Sinestro.”

There was something about Sinestro that Carol couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was no denying that he was charismatic and his will was legendary even amongst Green Lanterns but there was something more than that. Danvers had met someone with as much purpose as Sinestro. Everything he did, every move he made, even the words he used were decisive to the point someone that didn’t know him might believe they were selectively chosen or painfully rehearsed. It was that purpose that gave him his strength, that unwavering self-confidence that made him shine so brightly even amongst thousands of Green Lanterns, and it was what made him so dangerous. Only Sinestro dared lecture the Guardians.


“Four Green Lanterns are missing, Danvers, and I mean to do something about it. Negative Zone or not, Green Lanterns are Green Lanterns wherever they may be and if we allow this insult to stand it will undermine our authority across the entire universe. We must act.”

A voice emanated from amongst the row of blue faces that belonged to the Guardians. “You know we have no jurisdiction in the Negative Zone, Sinestro, and the evidence you have compiled is sketchy at best. We must bide our time, investigate further, before we rush headlong into incurring into enemy territory on some half-cocked hunch.”

Only Ganthet had Carol spoken to privately and only Ganthet showed some semblance of understanding or displaying human emotion. The rest were completely expressionless and still to the point it made Carol uncomfortable. She could see from Sinestro’s face that the last sentence had rankled him.

“A hunch? Whilst you dither our brothers and sisters suffer unimaginable torment.”

Kilowog stepped forward, his footstep so heavy it shook the ground they were on, and pointed in Sinestro’s direction. “You watch your tongue, poozer”.

Sinestro smiled. “You don’t hand the orders out around here, Kilowog.”

The two men stared one another down for a few seconds and Carol watched on, uncertain of what might happen, before she spotted Ganthet gliding from behind the other Guardians to the forefront. He hovered in front of Carol, Sinestro, and Kilowog.

“Enough of this bickering. What say you, Lantern Danvers? What course of action do you advise? Would you follow Sinestro into the Negative Zone or have us bide our time?”

Carol looked from Kilowog to Sinestro and back as she considered her options. Kilowog’s face was sympathetic, understanding the pressure that Danvers had been placed under, but Sinestro’s emblazoned with conviction and he stared at her intensely as if willing her to agree with him. Carol thought of the pain those Lanterns could be suffering in the Negative Zone, the possible consequences of intruding into it without good reason should they not be behind it, and what would happen if they did nothing. She’d done plenty of stealth runs before. She was the best goddamned pilot in the world, even without her legs, she could get in and out of that place without being seen. She was sure of it.

“Send the two of us. Sinestro and I will go into the Negative Zone, find out what happened to those recruits, and get out without causing a scene.”

A broad smile appeared on Sinestro’s face. There was the briefest flicker of doubt on Ganthet’s but he nodded, accepting the judgement of his most prized Green Lantern, before floating back towards the other Guardians. As he did so, three words escaped his lips.

“So be it.”

March 19th, 2005
11:47pm

Bucky Barnes opened his eyes for the first time in decades and recoiled as the blinding light made it almost unbearable to keep them open. After a few seconds the distress began to subside and his eyes darted around as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He was in a hospital room of some sort though given there were no doctors, no charts, he could only presume it was an infirmary of some sort. Wherever it was the place was sterile and silent all for the sound of a man puffing on a cigar at the foot of Bucky’s bed. The man looked up at him and blew one last mouthful of smoke out before stubbing his cigar out on the side of Bucky’s bed. The man’s brown hair was peppered with grey and his chin was thick with stubble, across his face was an eye patch that Bucky presumed could only be covering some grievous wound, and it was clear from the way he carried himself he’d seen combat.

Bucky looked at him, his face awash with confusion. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

The man slid his stubbed out cigar into one of the many pouches along his blue and white uniform and reached out to shake Bucky’s hand.

“Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD.”

Bucky went to shake the man’s hand but felt a violent resistance against them. He looked down to find his left hand handcuffed to the bed and in place of his right arm was a shiny metal prosthesis. His tried his best to recall what had happened to his arm but found his memories lacking and instead moved to shake Fury's hand. The arm moved as naturally and fluidly as a normal one to Bucky's surprise.

“How long?” Barnes spluttered in a weak, gravelly voice that barely resembled the one he remembered having. He sounded and felt older than before. “How long have I been out?”

Fury shuffled uncomfortably in his seat at the question, taking a glance out of the window beside him, before looking back at Bucky. “It’s been sixty years.”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer and suddenly Barnes could feel the air escaping from his chest as the implications of all that lost time began to dawn on him. Bucky thought of all the people he’d ever known, all the girls he’d ever kissed, even the enemies he’d made. They were all gone. Time had taken from Bucky everything that made him who he was. Steve’s face flashed through Bucky’s mind as he wondered whether it was possible that he was still alive. That super soldier serum coursing through his veins had made Steve impossible strong and faster than any man Bucky had ever seen. There was no way Steve was gone with Erskine’s formula running through his veins.

“Steve,” Bucky as he stared towards Fury hopefully. “Where’s Steve? I want to speak with Steve.”

Again Fury shuffled uncomfortably and Bucky shook his head in anticipation of the worlds that were about to come tumbling out of Nick Fury’s mouth.

“Steven Rogers is dead.”

Another sledgehammer blow to the chest though this time Bucky slumped down in his bed in anguish. Steve Rogers was the closest thing Bucky had ever had to a brother and he was gone. They’d fought together against impossible odds and come out the other side more times than Bucky could count. Barnes knew Fury was telling the truth but there was no part of him that was willing to accept it. Steve was the greatest man Barnes knew, he was Captain America long before that serum touched him, and to live in a world without him made Bucky feel sick to his stomach.

“Zemo’s plane,” Fury started up again, sensing Bucky’s turmoil. “Rogers detonated it manually before it made its way over mainland Europe and saved millions of lives in doing so.”

The memories came back to Bucky in a flood. They had clung to the side of Heinrich Zemo’s drone as it rose through the skies and took them far out over icy waters. Try as they might there was no diffusing the thing and it became clear the only way they were going to take it out of the sky was by detonating it. Bucky had offered to do it but Steve wasn’t having a word of it and kicked him free from the plane. Barnes remembered tumbling through the air, the explosion bursting his eardrums, and the coldness of the water as he began to sink beneath the surface with only the faintest light from the explosion to guide him as he plunged deeper and deeper.

“He saved me,” Bucky muttered under his breath in a defeated voice. “He kicked me free from the plane.”

Fury stood up from his chair and walked towards Bucky slowly and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder with a sigh. “Then we can add your name to the long list of lives Steve Rogers saved that afternoon.”

Bucky shook his head as he tried to imagine what life would be like outside of these infirmary walls. The machine he was hooked up to looked like something out of a science fiction comic and something told him the rest of the world be equally as daunting. For as long as Bucky remembered he’d been a soldier and now he had lost an arm, the war was over, and the thought of living his life out a useless cripple that “died” sixty years ago was not one that appealed to him. He thought back to that day over the Atlantic and silently damned Steve for kicking him free instead of leaving Bucky there to die. Bucky, not Steve, should have died that day.

Barnes looked round at Fury and shook his head, welling up ever so slightly. “You should have never woken me up.”

There was movement out of the corner of Bucky’s eye he spotted a young blonde woman looking through the window of his room at him. She was young, pretty too, but there was something familiar about the piercing blue eyes with which she stared at him. They were tinged with a hostility that Bucky did not understand but recognised in an instance. After a few moments of staring at him the young woman walked away and Bucky looked back at Fury whose eyes were locked on him intensely.


“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling and I won’t pretend to,” Fury said as he pulled his cigar back out from the pouch he’d tucked it in a few minutes earlier. “But the world does not have time for you to sit around wallowing. Times are tough out there, Barnes, we’re fighting more wars on more fronts than ever before, we don’t know who our friends are and who our enemies are at the best of times, and things are getting worse by the second. You want to go back to sleep? You do that. But do it knowing there’s still work to be done in the real world.”

Instantly Bucky’s ears pricked up at the last sentence. “What are you saying?”

Fury placed the cigar between his lips and lit it as walked slowly over to a television that rested on the wall in front of Bucky’s bed.

“Take a look,” Fury said as he pressed a small button. A crimson logo appeared on a television above his head. “Steve Rogers may be gone but the world needs a Captain America now more than ever before.”

Center City, WA
6:45 AM

Tracy's charger cruised slowly through the posh suburbs. Hunter's Creek was just a scant thirty blocks away from downtown Center City, but it may as well have been on another planet. There was no trace of the old junkies on the corner, doing the dope fiend lean as they shot up and fried what little brains they had left. No sign of the hookers who walked the streets, selling their bodies to feed themselves and their children. No dilapidated buildings with its copper piping and electrical wiring ripped out by money hungry fiends looking for a quick payday.

He felt uneasy surrounded by these big lawns and big houses shining in the early morning light. Tracy was just white trash from the city, something that would never change. The people out here were tantamount to American royalty with their fleets of cars, jets, and boats. His destination, the Flynn mansion, loomed on the hill above it all. Guys like Tracy and Hyde were called criminals for no other reason than the types of crime they committed. Hyde peddled drugs, the guys who owned the houses out here peddled Democracy to any third world country with finite natural resources to exploit. They robbed pension plans and left retiring employees penniless. Society condemned guys like Tracy, saying they were the problem with America, all while the people out here overthrew governments to avoid paying fifty cents on the dollar for exports. The only difference between Hyde's empire and the empires of business were that those criminal enterprises were deemed too big to fail by the government.

Tracy was stopped outside the big manor by an armed guard. His car idled outside a big iron gate while the man gave him the stinkeye and double checked Tracy's identification. Tracy had to hand over his gun before parking his car and being led into the big house by another guard. He wasn't too impressed by the large courtyard and expansive corridors. The place was small by House of Windsor standards. The guard showed Tracy into an office somewhere on the third floor and left him alone. He walked up to a wall that looked like a shrine to the home's owner. Three different photos of Thomas Flynn shaking hands with the last three US Presidents, one of him in New York ringing the stock exchange bell, a cover of a financial magazine with a younger looking Flynn on the cover. Photos of family accompanied the ones of achievement, but Flynn was always in the middle of whatever was going on. That didn't surprise Tracy. A man like that had to be center of attention in everything he did. For guys like Thomas Flynn, if you weren't first you might as well have been last.

"Are you the man Mr. Hyde sent?"

Tracy turned and saw Thomas Flynn enter the room. He was just a few inches shorter than Tracy, but lean and trim in a bathrobe and pajama pants, slippers covering his feet. If not for his white hair, Tracy would assume the man was closer to his age than the sixty some odd years he was supposed to be. He strode forward and shook Tracy's hand.

"Thank you so much for coming, Mr..."

"Tracy, just Tracy."

"Right," Flynn said with a nod. "Have a seat, Tracy."

Flynn took a seat behind the large mahogany office desk while Tracy took a chair from across the desk. He watched Flynn as he settled into the chair and leaned forward, both palms flat on the desk. He had a stern look on his face that read too stern for Tracy. It seemed more like a put on than anything.

"They said they would call again at noon to confirm I have the five million dollars they're asking for. Details for the hand off will follow."

"Will you be able to get the money that fast?" Tracy asked. "I know that a lot of rich people don't have that kind of cash on standby."

"I have enough bonds and stocks I can liquidate quickly once trading opens up on the Asian markets. I'll have to be quick about it since it's Friday and there won't be a chance to do it for the weekend."

"Hyde wants me to also look into who may have kidnapped your daughter. Mr. Flynn, can you think of anyone who might want to do this?"

"Take your fucking pick," Flynn said with a wave of an arm. "You don't get where I am in life without pissing people off. Rival capitalist, politicians, labor unions, even my own employees, you name it and I have stepped on their backs to get ahead. You don't make an omelet without breaking eggs."

"Right," said Tracy. "Anything recently?"

"Not at the moment, no. At least nothing obvious."

"Did you daughter live here? Would it be possible to look into her room?"

"As you wish," Flynn said with a nod. "I'll have a guard escort you."

--

Linda Flynn's room screamed trust fund brat. Expensive furniture in the big room with an ornate four-poster bed in the center. A walk-in closet held a wardrobe that cost as much as many people's homes. What Tracy thought was another closet turned out to be a whole room just to house Linda's jewelry. The guard shadowed Tracy while he searched the room. He found drugs in the dresser, a little bit of pot with a fair amount of coke and X. The CDs in her room were all electro club bullshit. Tracy pegged her as a club kid. All the rich kids with nothing to do but sponge off mommy and daddy all hit the clubs.

A pink laptop on a desk was password protected. Tracy tried the usual common passwords, 1234 ABCD, but couldn't crack it. He settled for the consolation prize beside the computer. A post-it note had a phone number scribbled on it with just a single letter above it: X. It Linda Flynn was indeed a party-hard club girl, she would need her X if she wanted to party right. Tracy pocketed the number and headed out the room with his guard in tow.

SARASOTA, FLORIDA
MARCH 21ST 13:06 PM

“I’d like a ticket to Grand Junction, Colorado, please.”
“Sure, thing, sir,” the Greyhound ticket vendor replied as he sat up a little to look at Greg Saunders more closely. “You’re not bringing any luggage, sir? It’s a long ride.”
“Won’t need it.”
“Alright. Well, bus leaves in about an hour, sir.”
Greg Saunders nodded, taking the ticket. As he turned to walk away, the ticket vendor spoke up again.
“I’m sorry, sir, but do you mind if I ask why you want to go to Colorado?”
Greg arched an eyebrow.
“Well, I mean,” the vendor hesitated at first, but then pushed through. “Sir, I imagine you’re as old as my grandpa and he’d hate to sit in a bus for three days, almost four. Honestly, I don’t think he could take it.”
“I’ll be fine, son. Thanks for the concern. I’ll just be visiting some old friends. They’ll take care of me.”
“Well, alright, sir, I hope you have a good trip.”
Greg tipped his hat. “Thanks.”

‘Old friends’, well, that was one way of putting it, Greg thought. He pulled out the letter from his shirt pocket and read it over again. Jimmy Leong, that son of a bitch, sending a letter all the way from China. Greg chuckled at that. He didn’t so much laugh at the contents though. Turned out Jimmy had a granddaughter still living in the States – the only part of the family left that hadn’t emigrated back to China with the rest of Leong’s – and now she looked to be in trouble. She hadn’t contacted any of her family in days. No calls, no e-mails, not a single Facebook update. A call to the police had just gotten Jimmy laughs. Sworn in officers of the law imitating Mickey Rooney, calling him a ‘fucking chink’ before hanging up. It was a disgrace.

Greg Saunders sighed, folded the letter again and walked into the small store in the bus stop’s hall. He picked up a few Cokes, some sandwiches and a few magazines. At the register, the elder cowboy got a strange look from the woman behind the counter, but she was too busy with her smartphone to engage in conversation. Just another weird old guy, she posted to her Twitterfeed while ringing him up. Look who lost his way to the rodeo.

Just as he was about to pay, Greg said: “Can you give me a pack of Chesterfields with that?”
“We don’t carry those, sir.”
Greg looked surprised. “You don’t have Chesterfields?”
“Never even seen ‘m. I’ve got Newports, if you want.”
Greg nodded. “And a lighter too.” He picked out a silver Zippo. “Thanks.”

As he left the store, Greg Saunders took out a cigarette and lit it. The first drag sent him into a cough. The second felt like coming home.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t smoke in here.” It was the salesgirl.
“Why not?”
“It’s the law, sir.”
“Since when?”
She rolled her eyes. “Only like the last ten years or so.”
“I haven’t smoked in thirty.”
“Then why start up again?”

He shrugged.

March 20th, 2005
03:49am

It had taken Carol a few times to get her head around it but finally she understood how they were going to get to the Negative Zone. The Guardians would pool their power and open a slipstream through time and space for the pair of them to enter through. He’d stressed that it was a two-time deal only and that if they requested the Guardians open it for them on their way back and missed it they would be trapped in the Negative Zone for good. It was all a little daunting but Carol did her best to appear as if she wasn’t slightly intimidated by the prospect of being trapped in the Negative Zone for the rest of her life. She thought of home, of her mother sat waiting for word from her that might never come, and she felt doubly encumbered by the risk she was about to face. Kilowog seemed to sense her unease and paced towards her, placing his large hands on her shoulder as he leaned into her like a football coach giving a pep talk.

It was the first time since Carol had known Kilowog she’d heard him sound so visibly concerned. “You sure about this?”

“What’s wrong?” Carol smiled playfully. “Are you actually worried about me, Kilowog? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Kilowog grumbled. “Shut it, poozer, I couldn’t care less whether you came back in one pierce or not. It’s an inter-dimensional war with whatever’s dragging Lanterns off to the Negative Zone that I’m worried about.”

That thought had been playing on Carol’s mind too. If the Guardians only had enough power to venture to the Negative Zone by pooling their power it meant whatever had taken those Lanterns there against their will was very powerful. The four that had gone missing had all been new recruits but they had to be proficient ones to be granted sectors in the outer rim. If whatever had taken them found Carol and Sinestro and they couldn’t stop it there would be hell to pay. She shook her head, attempting to condemn her doubts from her mind, and chose to smile at Kilowog instead.

“You don’t have to worry,” Carol muttered with a practiced confidence. “About me or any kind of war breaking out. I’ve done this more times than I can count. Trust me on this one.”

Kilowog nodded and let go of Carol’s shoulders. She made her way towards Sinestro who was stood, one leg lifted against the steps of the Central Meeting Hall, looking as distant and as nonplussed as usual. As Carol approached him he looked up from inspecting his fingernails and shot her a glance that froze her to the spot.

She smiled at Sinestro and gestured towards the exit of the Central Meeting Hall. “Are you ready to go?”

Sinestro shook his head dismissively, took a glance down at his fingernails one last time, and then began to stride towards the exit. “I was ready to go long before you arrived, Terran.”

Terran. It was what almost all of the Lanterns referred to humans as and it had taken some getting used to. Carol remembered the first time she’d met Kilowog when he’d screamed at her for being a “lazy Terran” and she’d unknowingly ignored him. The assault course he’d made her for that act of unwitting defiance left enough of a mark on her body that she’d never forgotten to answer to it again. The way Sinestro said it was different though. His thinly veiled contempt for the people of Earth was never clearer than when he referred to Carol as a Terran. Still, there were worse creatures waiting for them in the Negative Zone and Carol could deal with his pointed references to her species until they had returned.

“I hope you’re not going to be like this the whole time,” Carol said with a wry smile as she followed after Sinestro. “I’ll have half a mind to leave you in the Negative Zone.”

Sinestro ignored Carol’s attempt at humour and continued to make his way through Oa towards the Sciencells where the Lanterns kept their most dangerous prisoners. It was here the Guardians had specified that Sinestro and Carol wait for them to create the stream. They couldn’t risk opening it near to the Central Power Battery because of the risk the singularity in the Negative Zone might drag Oa in with it. The Sciencells was caused the most expendable location for Sinestro and Carol to leave from. As unpleasant as the implications of that were, it broke none of the rules of the Book of Oa as far as the Guardians were concerned.

Standing there, waiting to hail down the Guardians to open the slipstream, Sinestro looked at Carol and said impassively. “Tell me what you know of the Negative Zone.”

“Not much,” Carol said with an absent shrug. “Energy is inverted there, it’s made out of antimatter, and it’s pretty much uninhabited. That’s about it. What more is there to know? The place is a wasteland.”

“You Terrans are as simple as you look,” Sinestro said, an annoyed sigh escaping from between his thin pink lips. “The Negative Zone is not uninhabited. Were it not for the singularity at its center its atmosphere would be more hospitable than our own for nurturing life. As it stands, there is a smattering of life on what few planets can resist the singularity’s pull and all but two of them answer to Supreme Commander Blastaar. If the Lanterns are somewhere in the Negative Zone, Blastaar will know about it.”

A single blonde eyebrow crept slightly into view from beneath Carol's domino mask as she was taken aback by the extent of Sinestro's knowledge. “How do you know all of this?”

“Mar-Vell’s people, the Kree, had knowledge of corners of the universe that the Oans dared not venture into.”

For a second Sinestro appeared reflective. Carol liked to think he was calling back to a conversation he'd had with Mar-Vell once and wondered whether Sinestro had been as hauty with him as he insisted on being with her all of the time. His expression shifted back into one of cool indifference within a few seconds and he stared at Danvers.

"Do not think I was impressed by that display in the Central Meeting Hall," Sinestro sneered. "I would much sooner be venturing into the Negative Zone on my own than forced into the company of a simpleton that knows nothing of the power they bear or the universe around them."

Before Carol could respond, Sinestro was calling out to the Guardians. "Open the slipstream."

There was a loud crackle of blue energy and a portal appeared before Carol and Sinestro. The crackle had caught Carol off guard and she had stepped back, slightly started, but Sinestro remained unmoved. He shook his head, unimpressed at Carol flinching, and strode into the slipstream without an ounce of hesitation. Carol stood there for a few seconds, thought of home one last time, and followed after him.

---

I never fancied myself a writer. That, I left to my wife. The way she could put words together with such ease never ceased to amaze me; how she could make a single sentence sound like Mozart’s forgotten masterpiece. But the last few months (Months? Years, maybe? I don't know. It feels like an eternity) have been hard on me, on everyone, and Iris insisted that I write everything down, a memoir of sorts, if not to tell my story then to get this heaviness off my chest.

I never fancied myself a writer. But as I sit here now, pen in hand, I can only hope that I find some closure through these words. Some small comfort to make it easier to live with myself.

---

God, she looked beautiful. Her brows furrowed in concentration, auburn hair carelessly billowing over her shoulders. She bit her bottom lip, the way she always does when she gets lost in thought, her eyes never leaving the television screen as she replayed HYDRA's message for the umpteenth time. A mug of coffee steamed in her hands, yet to be drunk. Beside her, nestled in the corner of our living room sofa, was her notepad and pen, notes scaling down the page in her graceful handwriting, the bottom sentence underlined with two purposeful strokes:



I didn't know how journalism worked, but if I had anything to go by, I'd have said that Iris West-Allen was the cream of the crop. I still would.

I was making breakfast: scrambled eggs and toast, nice and simple. Her favorite. It was slow work, the eggs cooking at the pace of a snail, the toaster taking its time to defrost the bread. I stood over the pan, watching as bubbles formed and grew, inching upwards and outwards before popping, disappearing into the yellow mix of yolk and egg white. A light droning met my ears, almost sing-song in its character, slow and drawn out. I barely noticed it, its sound registering, but not acknowledged.

After what felt like ages, the eggs began to harden, and I sighed in relief, scraping them from the pan’s bottom with a spatula.

“Barry?” asked Iris, turning from the TV to look at me. “Did you hear me?”

“Hmm?” In the back of my mind, I realised something, almost nonchalant in my thoughts. Oh. That was her.

“Do you think this is the real thing?” She raised her hand, pointing at the HYDRA symbol that so boldly imposed itself on the screen.

I stopped to think. To me, it felt like a good few seconds. To Iris, I answered in an instant.

“Yes. Yeah, it’s the real thing.”

She eyed me with faux suspicion. “And how can you be so sure, Mr. Allen?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” I replied, cracking a smile. “You tell me. Aren’t you the investigative reporter around here?”

She laughed. I love it when she does that. “Oh, just hurry up and cook my breakfast. A lady’s gotta eat.”

I lifted my hand in mock salute, fixing my attention onto the ever-slow eggs once more.

I was saved by my phone, kicking to life on the kitchen benchtop. I answered it within the first ring.

“Hello, Barry Allen speaking.”

“Barry, hey,” said Captain Darryl Frye, head of my precinct and, as the years went by, friend. “Sorry to interrupt your morning. You’re not at church, are you?”

“No, Darryl, I’m not. What’s up?”

“There’s been a murder down at 20th and Kanigher. Singh wants you there. You’d better hurry up, Barry, he’s not in the best of moods. I just saved your ears by taking this call.”

“Thanks, Darryl. I’ll be right there.” At that, I hung up.

“Police work?” asked Iris. She’d gotten up from the sofa, somehow managing to sneak up behind me. I don’t know how she does it. When it comes to her, I guess I’m just not as alert.

“Yeah,” I said, “Sorry. Looks like breakfast will have to cook itself.” I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And just like that, I was gone, the familiar crackle of electricity carrying me to the scene of the crime.

---

March 21^st, 2005
Amsterdam, 4:44 PM

It was a dark and stormy night.

It was a rather pleasant Monday afternoon in the Netherlands.The city of Amsterdam was showing the first signs of the retreat of Father Winter as the canals after being frozen for some time had finally begun to thaw letting the water run once more. Children flocked to the streets as School had let out hours ago while men and women dressed in business attire retreated from their cubicles to smell the fresh air and live a little. Everyone in the city seemed to be happy.... well almost everybody in the city seemed to be happy. A dark spot, an irregularity had drifted into the city not over a week ago. This irregularity went by many names but most knew him by one. Constantine.

John woke up in a very familiar state; hungover and smelling of a brilliantly noxious combination of smoke, vomit, piss and a large handful of regret. He had come to in a damp alleyway behind the bar he had drowned his troubles in the night before. The alcohol did not get rid of the ghosts but it dampened them for a spell. He let out something akin to a grumble as he unsteadily pushed himself to his feet, hands still slick in substances he would not like to think about. The world around him felt like it had started spinning the wrong way, the sunlight above a harsh glow that haunted him. One unsteady step and then another. Legs were wobbly but serviceable. The smell was rancid... before he did anything else he had to wash up.

To the people of the city John Constantine must have been quite the sight. A grumpy, half coherent englishmen past the far side of thirty dressed like he belonged in some Noir film with his grime stained trenchcoat and greasy blonde hair. Mothers crossed the street with their children to avoid walking past him, fine dressed businessmen looked upon him with curiosity and disdain, and even the tourists new their was something wrong about the man. The mage paid no attention to any of their looks of disdain or apprehension. John was never the type of man to care about others opinions of him. In a dog eat dog world, it's the mangy mutts that know how to survive.

He found his way to some fast food restaurant. Another chain store in a world that was slowly becoming exclusively populated by chains. Turned out though the bathroom was only for paying customers and so John had to cough up a few euros to buy some fries in exchange for a key. Once the key was in his possession he dropped the fries with a purpose upon the ground grinding their yellowish brown chunks of starch underneath his boot and then walked over to the bathroom. It was covered in graffiti and the floor was slick with a mixture of spilt water and whatever other mysterious liquids, but it had a sink and a serviceable soap dispenser. It was enough.

After spending as much time as John did as a vagabond you learned a few thing. One of those things was the pristine ability to fully wash one’s self using only a public bathroom sink and some soap. It took him some time but eventually he covered most of the major areas and was semi-presentable again. He checked himself over in the mirror his own tired eyes looking into their reflection, the dark circles underneath a sign of less than excellent sleep habits. All in all though John was still in reasonably good shape especially for a man pushing fifty, demon blood did that for you. He slipped his clothes back on, nothing he could really do about the stains on them right now and donned his signature jacket. He pushed the door to the bathroom open and strode out with a new swagger in his step throwing the key over his shoulder and back onto the checkout counter before he waltzed out the door.

Next he was to address the contracting feeling in his stomach that was the usual accompaniment of having had a diet of alcohol and more alcohol for the last three days. He found a small mom and pop restaurant down the street and stepped inside. A small number of individuals were at tables eating or drinking and talking in Dutch but in this middle period between the lunch rush and dinner the place was fairly empty. John sat down at the counter by the kitchen.On the other side of this counter was a heavyset woman probably in similar age to John with brown hair that stopped at the shoulders and with heavily applied makeup. At the sight of a new customer she smiled as she began to speak handing him a menu. “"Weet u misschien al wat u wil?”

“Uhhh whatever this place makes fucking good lady. And some water would be just great.” The woman scribbled down something on her notepad and nodded seemingly understanding John if not being a tad offended by his language. As she stepped into the kitchen, John fished in his coat for a cigarette pulling a misshapen white stick out of his coat pocket he popped it in his mouth and lit it moments later. The sound of the television above him drew his attention. It seemed to be a news broadcast of some sort. John’s Dutch wasn't the greatest in the world but he was able to pick up on most of it. They were talking about something happening in America he was able to pick up a few words like HYDRA, SHIELD and wait was that Nazis?

Constantine would not be able to continue his meditations of geopolitics as the woman returned dropping a tall glass of water in front of him. As he reached for his glass he noticed that she was still looking at him with the all too familiar expression of anger upon her face, hands planted steadily on her hips. He cocked his head at her to no response until finally he just asked. “What’s your problem lady?”

She did not speak but only with old and worn hands pointed towards a sign hanging on the wall. John couldn't make out the words exactly but he knew well enough by the picture. It was a cigarette crossed out with some bold text underneath it. A no smoking sign of course. John looked to her and back to the sign and sighed taking the cigarette out of his mouth and dunking it into his glass of water extinguishing the flame. He then proceeded to take a big swig from the glass “You happy lady.... lady you having a stroke or something?”

The woman was frozen in front of him unmoving her eyes rolled back in her head. John had not noticed it until now but a cold chill had fallen over the establishment. Before our hero even had a chance to curse a liquid as black as pitch filled the woman's eyes as her body spasmed as something otherworldly grasped it firmly into its control. Constantine tensed ready to act at a moment’s notice but he let his curiosity get the better of him and did not silence whatever had come to address him just yet. The woman’s body stop spasming and out of a dark ooze filled mouth words began to spill out.

T̶̨́͟É̶̛͟͡I̡͢͢A̷̛T̴́͝G̨͏̷̧J̢͟͠Á͞A͘͡O̸̕J̷̸͢͠F͘͘

“I can’t understand your fucking gibberish. Speak the God damn Queen’s English!” The women only made a choking noise as a hand flopped against the countertop. The hand jerked left and right as the spirit possessing the women tried to access its hosts fine motor control. Finally it was able to move as it pressed a finger against the countertop and began to write a similar black ooze being left in its wake spelling something out to John.

H...E....L...P U...S P....A...S...S

“Help you pass? I don’t know if you heard about it bloke but I’m retired now! I don’t deal with this shit anymore! So why don’t you go and find somebody else to deal with your bullshit!” John explained as he began to get up to leave. Though before he could the hand jerked with a surprising amount of speed latching onto the mage’s face and squeezing hard. Soon Constantine’s head felt like it was being split upon as memoires were getting forced into it. Flashes of decay and death coming by at a breakneck pace, bloodcurdling screams swarming around his head and finally one last image of a medallion of sorts of a tree being encircled by a large serpent. Then it was all over.

John’s eyes opened with a start as he stumbled backward falling to the ground with a thud. The sudden chill left the room and the woman dropped to the ground unconscious. John got up to his feet shakily looking about as his heart felt like it was about to break through his chest, every hair on his body standing at attention. John looked around and all the other patrons in the restaurant were also slumped down unconscious, their untrained brains unable to deal with such a desperate and angry presence forcing its way into our world. He calmed his breathing down and made his way to the exit. As he did he realized that he had never gotten his food.

Well that was okay... he really wasn't that hungry anymore anyway.

---

---

“ORACLE has got something. Seems like there’s a disturbance at the University, as you predicted, Bruce.” The voice of Alfred Pennyworth chimed through the communication channels, a voice of concern blatant as he informed the dynamic duo of local broadcasting from the Batcave.

“Purifiers? Noted.” Bruce’s scowl was practically audible when he responded with the last of their current quarry of criminals still in his arms. Before long he had tied up the last of them and broadcasted their location to the Gotham City Police Department before looking back at his young partner.

If he hadn’t become accustomed to spending several hours a night either riding around in the Batwing or punching car thieves and the occasional costumed mad man in the face, Robin might’ve been yawning into his gloves. The dynamic duo had just subdued a group of “professional heist men” who’d almost immediately started shaking in their boots when the masked crimefighters had come diving in through the roof top window of the jeweler.

“Y’know, most people would want their kid in bed around this time on a school night. Or am I not going because of you-know-what?” Robin gave the Caped Crusader his signature smile while the duo was tying the group of criminals to the store’s counter. He could only hope the disturbance at the University of Gotham would be the last they’d have to deal with that evening.

“If you’re tired, take the Batwing and go back to the cave.”

“It takes more than that to get rid of me. You should know that by now.”

The Caped Crusader gave no response as he looked over the group of criminals that they had just finished dealing with. It seemed like a satisfactory response, but it was hard to tell with Batman— especially when they were in the middle of patrol.

“We’re done here.” With that, the mentor and sidekick grapple-gunned their way back to the rooftops of Gotham City, mentally preparing themselves for whatever awaited them at the archaic University of Gotham. The two boarded the Batwing, the variable superjet they called a vehicle as they prepared to take flight to the incident that was going on at the school formerly known as Kane College.

“The University isn’t far from here— next burrough over.”

“You think Alfred baked a cake?” Robin, entering full naggy child mode.

The Caped Crusader narrowed his eyes, as if in silent reply. Or rather, Robin assumed that’s what Batman was doing. It was his usual response to, well, anything. Before Dick had the chance to think up a snappy response, the Batwing had lifted off and they were well on their way to the University, which Dick could already see through his (window? Whatever the Batwing has).





Just as the Batwing set down on top of the University’s library building, Dick undid his seatbelt, or whatever it was you were supposed to call the things that keep you attached to your seat in a jet, and threw himself out of the vehicle, allowing himself to flip once in the air before landing on the stone. Batman looked decidedly unimpressed.

“So, what’s the plan?”

As Batman also left the Batwing his eyes immediately went to scan the environment. The Caped Crusader’s analysis paused as he noticed a group of Purifiers armed with semi-automatic weapons dragging a group of students out of the nearby dormitory. That’s when both of the vigilantes noticed one of the armed assailants grabbed a megaphone from one of the back of the two automobiles. Seems he had something he wanted to say.

“Listen up! We’re doing a little ‘check and see’ tonight, and if you kids don’t want to end up with a hole in the head then you better shape up! Doctor Jason Woodrue has a little present for you lot. But don’t worry, if you pass we won’t kill ya.”

“Eight purifiers, including the one with the megaphone.” Batman commented quietly as he looked at the students. “Over a dozen kids.”

“Someone likes the sound of their own voice.” Dick, and most certainly Bruce, had already begun mapping out a plan of attack, taking careful care to make sure they weren’t seen while they looked for an efficient way to rescue what appeared to Dick to be the Purifiers’ rather unwilling hostages.

That was when a man in a lab coat with a metal briefcase in hand came out from the same van that the ‘leader’ had retrieved his megaphone from.

“Alfred, what do we have on a Doctor Jason Woodrue?” Batman asked quietly.

“One moment. Ah, right here he is. From what I’m reading in these reports I can tell he’s a biochemist who studied at Empire State University. Joined the Purifiers movement in 2002. Only a few articles and a few of them are rather old, but there’s one here dated in November of last year.”

“What’s it say?”

“Claims to be on the verge of ‘curing’ the mutant disease, a way to know if a person is carrying the x-gene. I imagine whatever development he has achieved is underdeveloped and dangerous.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Batman paused as he looked on as the labcoat-bearing Purifier opened the briefcase to reveal an assortment of contained liquid with a milky pink liquid inside and syringes. The Caped Crusader’s eyes narrowed as he retrieved a batarang from his belt.

“The Crimson Avenger.” Batman muttered as he didn’t bother to give Robin a fleeting glance. But he knew what the codename meant.

“I was really hoping for the Gray Ghost or the Lone Ranger.” Robin quipped as his hand dug into his utility belt for the high impact smoke bombs contained within.

“None of them gets away.”

Just another night in Gotham City.

NEAR PERRY, FLORIDA
MARCH 21ST 21:44 PM

It had been seven hours on the Greyhound bus and Greg Saunders, sitting in the back, had finished his sandwiches, his Cokes and his magazines. He’d also smoked most of his cigarettes during the two hour layover in Tampa. He was bored, in short, but he didn’t want to fall asleep. He hated sleeping in buses, or any other kind of transportation really. Greg preferred to be alert.

He rubbed his face, sighing.

“Come on, mamacita, I know a good place in Tallahassee. Real nice beds. We can get to know each other a little.”
“No, thank you.”

A man and a woman, a few rows to the front of the bus.

“Ah, come on. What’d you gonna do, huh? Wait around for the bus?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s no fun. C’mon,” he said as he pawed at her from across the aisle.
“Stop it.”

Greg’s ears perked up and he sat forward to observe the scene.

“C’mon! You’re pretty, you know that?”
She was. Greg guessed she was early thirties, Hispanic. She wasn’t a knockout, but she was pretty.
“They got a great thing for kids, too,” the man looked to the woman’s son. Eight years old, sleeping with his head in his mother’s lap. “He has some fun, we have some fun, huh?”
Her face wrinkled in disgust. But the man didn’t give up. He ran his hand through his slicked up, greasy hair and gave her a smile that was supposed to be charming. It didn’t work.
“Hey, I said, c’mon.” He grabbed her arm.
“Stop it.” Her son was beginning to wake up.
“We’ll just have a little fun, that’s all.” He pulled on her arm, trying to force her into a kiss. She resisted. “Just a little party, just the two of us. Or he can watch, if you want.”
He kept tugging her arm. “Is that what you want, huh? Dirty little girl.”
“Stop it.”

With his other hand, he reached in his pocket and took out a knife, holding it close to his face. It glinted in the dark. “Listen, bitch.”
She tried to pull her arm away. The other passengers were asleep – or pretended to be.
“Do you want me to cut you? Or are we gonna have a little party?”

“You can party with me.” Greg Saunders took the punk’s head and smashed it into the seat in front of him. The knife fell to the floor. The other passengers, ‘suddenly’ awake, gasped. The driver wondered whether he should stop the bus.
“Listen, kid,” Greg said. The man’s arms flailed about in defense, but Greg grabbed one and snapped it to the man’s back.
“Imma cut you, you fucking grandpa bitch.”
“Anyone want to grab the knife?” Greg looked to the passengers. One followed instructions.
“Good. Now, listen, kid. I can either put you face first through the window, or the driver is going to stop the bus and you can leave nicely.” He twisted the man’s face to look at the woman. “After apologising of course.”
“Fuck you, bitch.”
Greg slammed the punk’s head into the seat again. “I’m sorry?”
“I said fuck you, you wrinkled ass cunt.”
“Now, that’s not a very nice word.” The head went against the seat again. “Want to try again? I can go all night.”
The man struggled against the hold, but it was useless.
“Alright.”
“What’s that?”
“Alright. Sorry.”
“Good, driver?”

The driver took the bus out to the outer lane and then stopped.

“You ready?” Greg relaxed his hold. The punk nodded. “Let’s go.”
He dragged the man through the aisle, letting him go just before they reached the door. Free, the man’s first act was to turn and try to sock Greg. But the old cowboy knew that was coming. He caught the punch, threw it to the side and then kicked the thug straight in the stomach. He fell ass backwards onto the highway.

“Nice try, kid.”

The door closed, the passengers erupted in cheers. The bus drove away.

Greg Saunders smiled, nodded, accepted a few of the handshakes and walked back to his seat at the rear.

Tipping the hat over his face, he closed his eyes.

Now he could sleep.

March 20th, 2005
00:00

Wisps of smoke bellowed off the cigar that hung from the red beast's lip as he bounced around in the back of an enclosed truck towards his destination. He had always hated this part. The truck that is, of course. The transport truck has always been too cramped for him. He was big. Whoever designed this thing must have had something against him. His tail was at the most awkward angle, and with every bump his filed down horns banged against the roof of the container. At least they let him smoke in here. There weren't many places he could say that anymore. Humans had seen to that. He liked humans. He even claimed to love one or two in his life. But their war against a good stogie was something he considered a personal slight.

"Red," Liz Sherman said from the cab up front, "we're pulling up to the house now. We're going to pull into the garage to keep you out of sight."

"Copy," Hellboy responded into the commlink. One of the...benefits of being a secret government asset was that he had to stay, well, secret. That meant no unauthorized contact with the outside world, no witnesses at the scene, and no trips to Disneyland. He was still incredibly bitter about that one. He was lucky he had people like Liz in SHADE with him or he might have gone crazy by this point. She was like the little sister he never knew he wanted. But now he couldn't live without her.

He felt the truck lurch to a stop an heard the garage door close behind them. He opened the hatch of the truck and stepped into the cramped, suburban garage, his trenchcoat flowing behind him. Hellboy sighed at the site of the home he was in. He didn't understand why humans wanted to live separated from one another like this. If he was human, he'd live in the city, where there was so much life, not in his own little castle that looked like all the others on the block.

"Thinkin' about how much you dislike the suburbs again?" Liz gave him a sideways look as she got out of the truck. Her brown hair fell down to her chin, and around her neck was the crusafix she always wore, given to her by her parents years ago.

"It's creepy," he shrugged. "Let's go, we have work to do."

They passed into the main part of the house, which was crawling with SHADE agents. One thing Red had to admit about the change from the BPRD to SHADE was that they had way more manpower. The bureaucracy was hell, but they had the men to make a difference now.

The ceiling in the main room dripped of blood. The entire thing had been soaked in it from above. The thick, sweet smelling liquid dripped into buckets below. The entire family was dead, along with three others in this sleepy little town. All in suspect ways. The first victim, Tina Grey, was apparently dragged to her ceiling by an unseen force before being ripped to shreds. Of course no one believed her juvy boyfriend when he told anyone. Not until tonight at least. Once these poor souls lost their life, SHADE was given the assignment.

"You ever see anything like this?" one of the agents asked as he wiped his mouth. He had been adding some of his own fluids to a spare bucket.

"I've seen worse, surprisingly," Hellboy grunted as he smelled some of the blood. It was normal, mostly. Mix of three people. But more of it than there should be. It was tinged slightly with something foul, however. Red couldn't put his finger on it, but he would, in time.

"No witnesses, right?" Liz asked hopefully.

"Nothing," the queasy agent shook his head. "Security footage shows everyone was asleep. Then this."

He motioned to the blood. Red took a drag of his cigar before opening a comm to SHADE headquarters, "Abe, you up?"

"Of course," the voice of Hellboy's best friend Abe Sapien replied. "You didn't think I'd want to miss out hearing about all the fun, did you?"

"Yea, it's a regular carnival down here," Hellboy mumbled as he crossed over into the boy's room where everything went down. The everything was red with caked on blood. It rand down the walls, revealing some of the white paint below, like a bone fractured through the skin. He could smell the foul taint in the blood even better here. It was hatred. Pure, unfiltered hatred filled the room. It was overpowering. Whatever the thing was that was killing people in this town, it had a grudge for doing so. "I need some info. Demon or a spirit. Killing people in their sleep. From the looks of things, it enjoys it. Real flair for the dramatic. Has the feel of a grudge."

"Hm, sounds like it could be a Dream Demon." Hellboy could hear Abe begin ruffling through the multitude of books he kept in his library. While Hellboy had a natural affinity for paranormal knowledge, Abe was far more interested in it. All Red wanted to know was where to stick the pointy end of his weapons. Abe wanted to know everything he could about their world. Hellboy had to consider that noble, or something. "Though I've never heard of them taking an interest in some place so mundane. What did you say the town's name was?"

"Springwood. Ohio," Hellboy replied, walking back out of the room and sitting down on the top step. Outside he saw the people of the community crowded behind the police line. Some were crying. Some were angry. All of them were scared. As Hellboy's father used to say, "There are things that go bump in the night. We're the ones that bump back." It was a creative way to say the BPRD, and now SHADE, was here to make sure people didn't have to fear these kinds of creeps. The superheroes could take care of HYDRA and the new Red Skull, even if Hellboy himself wanted a piece of them. He hated Nazis.

"Red," Liz emerged from the room and handed him a blood-soaked book. She had smeared the front away, revealing the words "Dream Journal". She nodded towards it as she handed it over, "Read the last few pages. They all say the same thing."

Hellboy flipped through the sticky, saturated pages until he came to the end. There, he read the boy's scribbled, frantic handwriting.

One, two
Freddy's comin' for you.
Three, four
Better lock your door.
Five, six
Grab a crucifix.
Seven, eight
Gonna stay up late.
Nine, ten
Never sleep again.

---

---

“Why won’t they consider me, Arisia?— Why won’t they consider his own daughter to be good enough?”

Jade Scott rose her hands to her forehead as she felt every bit of the nerves in her body twinge as she sat down on a metal bench planted in front of the barracks facility, the barracks where Kilowog and Katma Tui drilled her for several galactic standard weeks before she ultimately become a real green lantern— it felt so long ago even though it was only one galactic standard year ago. At least she thought she had made strides to prove herself but after how the meeting went with Ganthet and the rest of the High Council of Oa— the Guardians of the Universe. Did that mean she had failed the universe?

She had done everything. She had memorized the history of the Lantern Corps Initiative, she had recited entire reports made by Appa Ali Apsa, she had learned the programming manuals designed by Krona, and listened to their wisdom at every turn despite her over-eagerness to prove herself to them and most of all her father. How could they think she was incapable of having the will to investigate her own father? Why would they decline her request to seek out Alan Scott’s last whereabouts and investigate his Starheart?

“It’s not fair, Arisia.”

The blonde-haired Graxonite muttered a half-chuckle as she put a hand on Jade’s left shoulder. “You have to be the best of us to even be worth their time. It’s not you.”

The green-skinned Thornian lowered her hands as she looked at her senior officer. “What am I supposed to do?”

Removing her hand from her shoulder Arisia looked up as she considered a thought. “Your father’s investigation is going to be in galactic litigation for a while, probably until Sinestro finishes his current mission.”

“The missing lanterns, right.” She almost cursed under her breath, what was happening to their comrades? Was the universe trying to tell them something or had they gotten lazy in their patrols?

“How are we on that?”

Arisia put her hands on her hips, “I think Danvers is working with Sinestro.”

Danvers. She knew the name and the face, but not the person. They hadn’t exchanged conversation or worked together before. She had been meaning to considering her homeworld was the same as her father’s and there had been so little information in the databanks of the Archive about it. She had asked her father about it when she was younger but he had responded in vague mentions like he was running away from it.

“Hope she takes to him better than all of his former partners did.” Jade commented with a fit of annoyance regarding Sinestro. Her father had told her what had happened against The Blight— and that was just one side of an asteroid when it came to Sinestro’s reputation. Why did the Guardians adore him so much? Was it because of his pragmatic approach to things? She didn’t quite understand it, though maybe she never would. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head; thinking about Sinestro wasn’t going to do anyone any favors, especially herself. She had to focus on her father and what she was going to do about it.

“I agree, Sinestro is difficult.”

“I should look for myself. If I can do an investigation and solve it before Sinestro returns they’ll have to admit that I’m not just a vanity member based on who my father is.”

“That sounds kind of sketchy, wish I could help you officially.”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to cradle me this time. I got this.”

Arisia laughed as she took a slight pause as she looked over the younger Green Lantern. “You sure? It’ll be dangerous.”

“Yeah. I have a few ideas to help me on that. I’m a big girl, Arisia.” Jade stated as she stood up as she moved a strand of her dark green hair from her face while a smirk grew from her lips.

“Right.”

“Don’t worry too hard about me.”

“Heh.”