March 21^st, 2005
Amsterdam, 8:35 PM

---

It was a cliché upon itself but it wasn't supposed to happen. After the events with Rosacarnis he was done. He was done with the bullshit, he was done with watching people he cared about die, and he was done playing the puppet in other bastards games. So he left, he left behind London and more importantly he left behind the world of the occult. He turned away from magic and demons drowning any sense of magical connection with large sums of alcohol mixed with a furious combination of uppers and downers. Part of him wanted to die, but John Constantine can’t die. Not yet at least. Yet here he was again dealing with the same old bullshit as last time in a new coat of paint. Seemed like the lost souls of the damned did not take resignation letters, once you were in your were part of their special little club for life; lock, stock and barrel.

Part of him just wanted to ignore it all. It certainly wasn't his problem and he had no obligations to help whoever or whatever came his way asking for a favor. He could run away again like some kid fleeing from his bullies., find another city to hide away in and drink his troubles away. No... that wouldn't work either. That was just prolonging the problem and beside the bastards would just find him again. Or maybe that was just the excuse he was telling himself. Maybe he was actually missing it all, missing the adrenaline rush and missing the feeling of actually being alive. Whatever the reason he couldn't stop playing the images that had been forced into his head over and over again. Horrid pictures of carnage beyond that capacity of man, bodies contoured in eldritch geometries and the cry of a thousand souls caught in some dark limbo unable to pass on from our world, all crying out to him. All telling him to save them for their torment.

He was a stranger though in a strange city and he did not have access to the information that he would of wanted. So he had to peek into outside sources, strange sources. That was why John Constantine was talking to a puddle. Well to be more specific he was talking to the man inside the puddle. The Phantom Stranger lived up to his namesake, an enigma trapped inside a puzzle box or a cryptic son of a bitch who enjoys playing with people's emotion, well that was for you to decide. John fell somewhere in the middle of this lane of thought but what he did know was that the Stranger knew his stuff. Ever since the two started working with one another during the short lived years that the Trenchcoat Brigade was functional they occasionally would come to one another for advice or help. Despite John’s disappearance from the face of the earth, the Stranger seemed almost like he was expecting him when John casted the divination spell in a grimey puddle in some Amsterdam back alley.

“Hello John, haven’t seen you in awhile.” The Stranger spoke in a smooth baritone that seemed to fill the air around John no matter how many thousands of miles they were from one another. John had first met the Stranger in the 80s and the mysterious pale faced man had not aged a day since they met all those years ago. Still a youthful aura perceived it in a strange sense of beauty that sent shivers down the spine as of how unnaturally perfect his face seemed to be even with his eyes hidden behind the same mask he always wore. John never asked what the Stranger actually was but whatever he was it certainly wasn't human but something transcendent of their own mortal plights and pleas.

“Yeah, yeah you cryptic bastard. Stop playing dumb. Knowing your omniscient pompous ass you already know about my little problem don’t you.” John was definitely not in the mood to deal with his old acquaintance. The man always had to go on about every little detail before divulging the truth of the matter. It was like he was trying to prove something that he knew everything about the world and so he knew everything about you. Sure it was a nice gimmick but when you're just asking for some information it got tired real fast.

“Ah yes, the vision you received from the lost spirit. How read up are you on your history John?” Even though John suspected it, the fact that the Stranger knew about the images thrusted upon his head sent a chill down John's spine. He mentioned it so casually like peering into the depths of a man's mind was just child's play for him.

“Well I didn't get grades that would of made my mum proud if that is what you are asking.”

“That is something I could have inferred John. To be more specific I’m asking if you have ever heard of something called the Völkisch movement.” The Stranger asked as with a snap of his fingers a book appeared in his hands. Well appeared was not the right word it was more like materialized as John could see each and every atom glow brightly as they were fused together into shape and form.

“Some sort of esoteric occult movement right? Some of the Krauts wanted some sort of neopagan revival so they went back to the old texts.” There were a lot of those movements appearing back then that John could recall. Most of them had fused together by that point into one congealed mess in John's head. But from what he could recall they all came around the time of the industrial age in a time where technology seemed to progressing at a rate which would propel humans to godhood. Some started looking back to the old ways and found their way to the Occult.

“Indeed. Though what most people don’t know is that the movement stayed its course long after it supposed decline. Hitler’s Third Reich believed that the power of the occult could help them win a war slowly falling out of their favor. It was the standard flavor: human sacrifices to bring forth powerful demons, mages infiltrating allied bases to wreak havoc and the rest. But the allies soon put a stop to all that nonsense. Keeping it all hush hush of course.” The stranger explained as he held up the book he had materialized and showed its contents to John. It was a scrapbook of sorts showing pictures taking of Nazi cultists doing things from summoning demons from the pits of hell to casting fireballs at Shermans.

“Yeah? And what do Nazis have to do with little old me?” John asked though as his own brain was already making its own conclusions he really didn't like the answer.

“In your vision, you saw an amulet of sorts did you not? A circle pendant with a large tree being encircled by a great serpent. Yggdrasil and Níðhöggr. The World tree and the serpent that threatens to consume it. Key components in many areas around the world most norse or germanic in nature. And one of the old symbols that Hitler's occult forces used to carry about.“ The Stranger explained almost smiling as the moment of revelation appeared across Constantine's face. The Stranger loved playing his games, he loved to watch their small brains try and work out the bigger picture that he himself could put together in a moment like all the puzzle pieces arranged himself for him

“Wait one goddamn minute. Are you telling me that a bunch of lost souls are being used by an old group of Nazi occultists? What the hell! You just bloody well said they all fucked off to somewhere!” John exclaimed angrily to the man in the puddle. John had built up a capacity to deal with the Strangers round about way of getting to answers but even he had his limits. The longer he sat talking to him, the longer it meant that he couldn't deal with the problem and go back to drinking the time away.

“No I said that Allies thought they killed all of them. They never really checked. Have you not you been paying attention to the news lately? Groups such as HYDRA are coming out of the woodwork in bunches. Hitler's shadow stretches farther than one thinks.” He spoke the truth. John remembered the newscast from earlier. It seemed more and more of these Nazi splinter groups had survived the war and after having spent all those years in the shadows were finally stepping back into the light.

“Well fuck it then. Guess I'm going to have to go find myself some Nazis.” John explained as he rose to his feet and straightened out his jacket preparing to leave. Nazis what had his life become at this point? Some kind of twisted joke where the punchline is that he had to deal with all the crap that everybody else left over. Beside what did an old Nazi occult group doing that would send the souls of the dead into limbo. What were they planning? Whatever it was it definitely wasn't some sort of picnic.

“John before you go. We should really talk about Gemma you left the girl alone in London after both her parents were condemned to hell. You should really ta--” Before the Stranger could continue, John cut off the divention link with a strong kick to the puddle disrupting the image. He wasn't about to be lectured about the past. The past was the past for a reason and right now he had to deal with the present and all that it entitled. He didn't care if the Stranger was some god or something. How he dealt with his problems with his own business not somebody else.

“Mature as always John....” The Phantom Stranger muttered to himself as he was abruptly cut off. Sighing as he closed his book, part of him felt bad for setting his old friend down his current path. He knew what lay ahead for the reluctant mage a tale only composed of sorrow and torment. Though he supposed he could just check it off as fate and nothing more. He needed to go through this, he needed something to reawaken his fighting spirit before they came back. He only wished there was an easier way. No matter though... John was a strong man for a mortal and had a good head on his shoulders he would either come out the other side stronger or the world would be consumed by shadow. It was as simple as that.

GRAND JUNCTION, COLORADO
MARCH 26TH 08:03 AM

Bonnie’s directions had been scribbled so hastily and so nervously that they were barely legible, but fortunately for Greg, Tina’s place was easy to find. It was a brisk half hour walk to the homely looking, one bedroom house, not far from the Colorado Mesa University, where The Chinatown Kid’s letter told him Tina was studying film and animation. Top of her class, Jim had written proudly.

Taking a look through the windows, the elder cowboy saw nothing out of the ordinary. Everything seemed clean and tidy – or as clean and tidy as you could expect from a young, single college student. A few pizza boxes were strewn about, there was a ruffled blanket on the couch and a glass full of dried up tea leaves sat next to it. On the living room table dishes stood unattended and laundry littered chairs.

Greg turned and scanned the neighbourhood. Children were skateboarding off a ramp up the street, a woman was walking by with her dog and a man two houses over was lazily picking up his newspaper. Suburban paradise.

The urban cowboy knew what that meant, even if it had taken him a long time to get used to it. He walked around to the other side of the house, where there was a small garden and patio. By the backdoor there were a couple of empty wine bottles, one filled with about a dozen cigarette stubs. Standing against the wall was a locked up mountain bike. That seemed to cancel out Bonnie’s boyfriend’s theory.

Greg tried the door. Unlocked. Just like his wife had told him a thousand times after they had retired to Florida. “Leave it. This isn’t New York, this is a good neighbourhood.” The way she’d say ‘good neighbourhood’ always made him laugh. “What’s wrong with New York?” he’d ask and she’d shoot him a look.

He missed her.

Inside, Greg searched for signs of a struggle – and signs of something worse – but there was nothing to find except dust and dirty dishes. Then, the cowboy noticed something, lying in a chair under a mess of clothes. He pulled out a small, cardboard canvas covered in canvas. Drawn on it were little panels, a storyboard of sorts for an animation she must have been working on. In the sketches, Greg could make out two masked figures, brandishing guns. In the top right, it read: ‘The Vigilante and the Chinatown Kid’.

Greg smiled, proud, flattered. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

If the cowboy had been paying more attention, he’d he have noticed the man clad coming up behind him. He’d have noticed the cord held in the man’s hand, slowly reaching up and now violently across Greg’s neck.

“Hhuurgh!”

If he had noticed, it might not have been too late.

Hellboy drummed the large fingers of his right hand on the kitchen table as he waited for the local sheriff. He hated having to deal with the local authorities. Most of them were dumber than a cave troll and slower than a zombie with no legs. Plus they stared at his horns the entire time they talked to him. He hated when people stared at his horns. He filed them down for a reason, damn it. It’s not his fault he was born with the damn things.

After discovering the boy’s journal, Hellboy had sent Liz and some of the other human agents out to survey the police about who this “Freddy” could be. So far, none of them were willing to give up any information, but one thing was certain, the mere question about his name brought a look of fear over the lot of them.That was enough to tell Red he needed to get involved. If they weren’t going to talk to his men, someone was certainly going to talk to him.

He could hear shuffling and a person pushed into the room. The sheriff, Hellboy figured, froze at the sight of the demon, “Y-y-y-y-you…”

“I’m a demon,” Red rolled his eyes as exaggeratedly as he could. “I know. Now, sit. We need to talk.”

The officer drew his gun and pointed it at Red, “You’re the one doing all this, aren’t you!?”

Hellboy sighed deeply, “Yes. It was me, which is why I’m sitting around at the family I just murdered’s kitchen table. I also control the government agency who was asking you and your men about Freddy just to absorb some local color. Sit down ya moron. We’ve gotta talk.”

The cop holstered his weapon and sat down across from Hellboy nervously. He, of course, looked up at the big red demon’s horns as he spoke, “You wanted to know about Fred Kruger?”

“Fred Kruger?” Hellboy nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“Kruger was a sick bastard,” the cop shook his head, remembering some horrible crime from long ago. “Like to kill kids. At least, that’s what all the stories said. Eventually it was too much and we had to bring him in. I was still a young cop back then, ya see. Problem was, the evidence never really lined up well. An ambitious young DA took the case to trial before all that could be got, ya know? Well, you can imagine the rest.”

Hellboy started to understand where this was going. Kruger probably killed those kids. Whoever held this kind of power had to have evil in his heart. It’s the only way he could even come close to this. But even then, that’d only give him enough to become a spirit, maybe a poltergeist. Still, those were bound to one location, and this bastard had killed people in at least five different locations.

“So Kruger walked,” Hellboy led the officer on. “I’m willing to bet that didn’t sit well with a lot of people in the town.”
“To say the least,” the officer rubbed his neck. “One night, Kruger’s shack goes up in flames, the door locked from the outside. That part was held from the public. People were happy he was gone, and to be honest, most of the cops were too. No real investigation was ever launched. Since then the town’s been quiet, well, at least until recently.”

“So they killed Kruger and no one bothered to get justice,” Hellboy sighed again. “I can’t blame them for what they did. But at the same time, murdering an evil man in such a way empowers the soul. He could have came back as an evil spirit.”

“So you’re saying Kruger really is the one killing us?”

“Sounds like it,” Hellboy nodded. “Probably started with the families who did the deed on him. Probably killed the kids first to make them suffer before killing them as well. The question is how to stop ‘em.”

“You can stop him, though?”

“Huh? Oh yea, sure,” Hellboy gave the man a half-hearted smile. “That’s what we do.”

“I-if it’ll help,” the officer sputtered, “one of my men, Thompson, lives across the street. He...well he was one of em.”

“And he has a kid?”

“Yea, a daughter. Nice girl. Glen,” he he looked up at the red-stained ceiling. “He and her were together, ya know.”

Hellboy nodded to dismiss the officer. Most of this made sense now. At least he had a motive for the killer’s actions. What he still didn’t know was how this creep got so much power. The Dream Demons were a prime suspect for that, but they had been under control for years. Unless…

“Abe,” he opened the commlink back to SHADE Headquarters, “we got our man. Freddy Kruger. Child killer the townspeople burned alive. Looks like he’s back for revenge.”

“But this level of power isn’t normal for a revenge spirit,” Abe shook his head, agreeing with Red.

“I agree. Something is fishy here,” Red nodded. “But first I want to take care of Kruger. Do me a favor and send me the Potion of Shared Dreaming recipe. And then get a message out to Doctor Fate. Tell him I want to talk when I get back to Arkham.”

“Copy. I’ll get right on it.”

Hellboy closed the comm connection and prepared himself. He’d go into the dreamscape with this girl, and he’d bring Kruger back. Then he’d have Liz burn the bastard into oblivion.

---

---

"Show me what that suit of yours is really capable of."

Tony Stark couldn’t exactly be mad at the results thus far and with both men just now getting warmed up in this unofficial-field-testing-turned-sparring-match things were bound to get interesting. But then came more goading from America’s favorite patriot and Tony wasn’t too happy about getting the same type of bits that he had given others in the past. Tony’s smirk dropped underneath the faceplate and warped into an annoyed scowl.

“Oh, I’ll show you.”

As the two kept fighting the ten minutes of testing had turned nearly into a half-hour of going back and forth with one another. But Tony was too distracted (and didn’t really care considering he had nowhere to be at the moment) to look at his internal clock that blared 9:58 in bold numbers. As Tony was finally ready to get ‘serious’ and stop ‘playing around’ the simulator lights dimmed as the doors they had entered swung open.

“IRON MAN. CAPTAIN AMERICA.”

Tony recognized the voice— Maria Hill.

“Uh oh.”

“This nonsense is over!”

Tony wasn’t a fan of lectures and he knew getting one from the acting agent-in-charge that answered directly to Nick Fury was probably a bad thing. A sense of comical nervousness came over Tony as Captain America responded directly to Agent Hill first. At least Tony would get yelled at second instead of first. Thank god for Captain America and his habit of taking bullets. And Maria Hill looked like she was good at shooting bullets.

Maria Hill glowered in Tony and Bucky's direction from the doorway of the simulation room. Where this morning she had been a picture of serenity, now Hill had a ferocious look on her face that had Stark quaking in his metal boots. Bucky had been around men like Maria Hill his entire life, though he'd never met a woman like her, and as such the intensity that bled out of her had less of an effect on him than it had Stark. He took a few steps towards her and raised the arc shield in her direction with a smile.

"Relax, Agent Hill, I was just making sure Stark's shield was ready for the field."

"You can call this little dick measuring contest whatever you want," Maria Hill said with a derisive head shake. Bucky could tell by the way she looked at Stark that she had a low opinion of him. "Smiley has been waiting for you in his office for twenty minutes. There's been a situation."

Bucky sighed. "Another one?"

Maria Hill's eyes narrowed a little at the comment but otherwise she was statue still with her hands stuck to her hips. They had filled Bucky in this morning on George Smiley's de facto promotion to Deputy Director of SHIELD. He was a Brit, former MI6, and the word around town was that he was the complete antithesis of Nick Fury. A softly-spoken, old fashioned spymaster that relied on the pen rather than the sword.

"Looks like duty calls," Bucky said to Stark as he gestured towards the exit. "It was nice meeting you, Tony, and I have to say that suit of yours is every bit as impressive as they say."

He extended his hand towards Stark and smiled warmly. "We should do this again sometime."

A lot of things could change over the course of a week. After his rather eventful Monday evening, Peter had began the 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man' to the next level. If Gotham had a Batman, then Queens could have a Spider-Man couldn't they? Designed a costume had taken the top of Peter's priority list as he had absent mindedly stumbled through his classes, spending every spare moment sketching out designs through his note books. Splashes of red and blue ink made the design come to life on the pages and the colour combination stuck with Peter, there was just something about the semi-patriotic colour scheme that made Peter smile inside. Unlike Gotham's Batman who was feared, Peter could be an icon to look up, bright primary colours, the kind of role model your kid would grow up to be.

Unfortunately for Peter as he looked in the mirror, the suit ended up using a lot more black than he had originally intended. Posing in front of the mirror, Peter pulled the googles down over his eyes as he stared at himself, eyeing the costume from head to toe before turning around and admiring his other angles, Peter heard footsteps on the stairs as he jumped from the mirror and into his bed. Scrambling to pull the covers over his costume, Peter ripped the googles off his face and tucked them under the pillow before folding the hood underneath himself.

"Peter." Came a soft knock at the door. "Peter I brought home a pizza." Scrambling to pull the gloves off, Peter looked at the door as he panicked that it would open any minute.

"Peter are you in there?" Came Aunt May's voice again.

"Yeah Aunt May, I'm just changing." Peter called as he pulled the hoodie off and tossed it under his bed. Looking down at the boots, Peter shook his head as he muttered angrily to himself pulling his pants off and pulling on a pair of jeans over top of the boots. Popping the door open, Peter looked at Aunt May in his t-shirt and jeans.

"You weren't dressed at this hour? Honestly Peter, it's one thing to sleep in but it's six in the evening." Aunt May chided the teenager as he smiled meekly towards her.

"Oh no Aunt May, I was down in the lab. I had another accident." Peter explained as he opened the door and walked out.

"Honestly Peter, I don't know what it is that you're working with down there but it sticks to everything. Please don't throw those clothes in the washing machine again. I'll hand wash them if I have to." Aunt May replied before ruffling Peter's hair. "You're looking more and more like your father every day."

"Thanks Aunt May." Peter said with a nod as he pulled a chair out at the dinner table without paying attention. Sitting down, he suddenly realized where he was sitting as he looked around. Without a sound, Peter scouted to his usual chair a silent but knowing look was exchanged between Aunt May and himself before she served the pizza.

"I miss him everyday Peter." Aunt May said after the first few bites.

"I do too." Peter added as he reached for a second pizza.

"Slow down boy, I'm certainly not going to eat all of it." Aunt May chided laughing slightly.

"Aunt May, what do you think of the costumed vigilantes that have been springing up over the world over the last couple years." Peter asked swallowing the last of the second piece's crust.

"I think they're people who mean well but have too much money to do things properly." Aunt May replied after thinking for a few moments. "I think if they used the time to give back to society and show the world that making it better didn't need to involve bruising their knuckles the world could truly become a better place."

"But what about the men who can't be bought?" Peter asked. "Some men can't be bullied or reasoned with, look at HYDRA. For years they were thought to be gone and yet last weekend they came back."

"Then we'll just have to hope Captain America comes back." Aunt May smiled slightly. "Until then you need to focus on doing your homework and getting good grades. I have high hopes for you nephew, maybe if you put that brain of yours to good work you'll be the one to cure cancer someday."

"Maybe Aunt May, maybe." Peter smiled back slightly.

"At least then all my ruined laundry will be worth it." Aunt May called back to Peter as she left the table with a chuckle.

---

---

"We should do this again sometime."

Tony Stark took the hand of Captain America easily. Despite them not really reaching a definite winner he had to admit it was the most fun he had in months. “I’ll still win.” Tony taunted with a wide smirk as the two heroes shook hands as Maria Hill tapped her foot in an irritated huff.

“Are we done?”

Tony nodded, “For now. By the way, Hill, we ended up figuring out the whole location decryption thing. You guys want to be looking at Austanburg, in case you don’t already know.”

“Good.” She looked at Barnes, “Don’t waste any more of my time.”

Tony Stark chuckled as he withdrew his suit back into the briefcase he carried it in before taking a long extended yawn. “Well, I’m beat. Toodles.”

Center City, WA
11:52 PM

Tracy stood out in the chilly night air and smoked a cigarette. Center City's harbor area was one of the few safe parts of the city. Tourists flocked to the water during daylight hours and filled the piers with activity. Tonight, it was nearly deserted. Tracy counted himself as just one of four people on the expansive pier that jutted out into the Pacific Ocean. The other three people on the boardwalk were all Belyakov's men. The Russian crime lord's men started filtering into the area a half hour earlier. He made them all thanks to their Slavic looking faces, thick beards, and tracksuits. Tracy got there two hours earlier and watched the comings and goings ever since. His military training taught him the value of patience. When it came to work like this, be it assassinations or covert meetings, patience is what separated the pros from the amateurs. A serious operator would stake out the place sometimes twelve hours in advance. Tracy once spent two days in a wadi in Iraq, watching a road until a specific vehicle showed up at a certain time. When they showed up, Tracy killed the driver and the four passengers in the car with a sniper rifle before quietly disappearing into the desert.

He finished his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, stomping it out. Thomas Flynn and his group of armed thugs were two blocks away, waiting Tracy's confirmation that the coast was clear before moving into the area. The fact that Belyakov's men hadn't showed up until a half hour before the meet spoke volumes to Tracy. The chances of a wrinkle happening in the hostage exchange was very slim. If a double-cross did take place, Belyakov's men would have beaten Tracy here... or so he imagined. Tracy pulled his flip phone out and texted the number Flynn gave him to contact when he was ready.

Right at midnight, the black SUV carrying Flynn, his men, and Anton Belyakov rolled down the street and parked by the harbor entrance. Tracy stayed where he was and watched the party of five climb out of the car. Flynn walked by himself with two guards flanking him while one carried Anton. The boy seemed spooked and unsure of what was going on. Tracy felt for the kid. Hopefully this would all be over.

Tracy went still when he saw one of the men he marked as Belyakov approach Flynn's party. Words were exchanged between the man and Flynn that lasted for nearly twenty seconds. Tracy read the displeasure in Flynn's face at once. The party started stalking back to the SUV. Tracy gave them a long leash before walking towards his car. The Russians were sending them somewhere else. That made sense to Tracy. Flynn's choice of the harbor would upset a lot of criminals because of its openness meant plenty of room for a double cross or police interference. Belyakov was trying to get the upper hand by moving the venue on them.

He followed the SUV distantly in his Charger, never losing sight of the car's taillights. His phone rang just as he followed the big car onto the freeway.

"These cocksuckers are fucking with us," Flynn said loudly into his phone. "They moved the meet to Rucka Park!"

"I'm right behind you," Tracy said. "I'll be there when you do the exchange."

"You better be."

The phone went click and Tracy tossed it into the passenger seat as he accelerated to catch up the SUV.

--

Tracy led the procession to the middle of the empty soccer field. Flynn, Anton, and the goons walked close behind him. At midfield was another small group of people. The faces Tracy recognized well, Konstantin Belyakov and his goons with Linda Flynn. Her tight club outfit with torn in spots and she was barefoot. The thick mascara from the night before was all runny and made her eyes look like the rings around a raccoon's eyes. Konstantin Belyakov carried a thick briefcase in one hand.

"Boris I presume," Flynn said once the two parties had met.

"Here is money," Belyakov snarled, holding up the briefcase. One of his men pushed Linda Flynn forward. "Here is whore daughter. Now, give me son."

One of Flynn's guards walked Linda over to the other side of the meeting while Tracy took the briefcase. He began to start Anton back over towards his father when Flynn held out a hand.

"Not yet," he said with a finger wave. "I want to count the money."

He took the case from Tracy and opened it up. Tracy saw the nervous look on Belaykov's face and knew trouble was coming. The Russian mob was successful, but not successful enough to round up a million dollars in cold, hard cash in under twelve hours. Flynn laid the case down and started to sort through the money. Tracy saw about half a million dollars on top... followed by shredded newspaper below.

"You motherfuckers," Flynn said as he looked up. "You lying motherfuckers!"

"I could not get that much money in so little time," Belyakov shouted back.

"But you expect me to get fucking five million dollars in the same about of time?!"

Tracy pushed Anton Belyakov behind his back as both sides started to reach for their weapons.

"You bit off more than you could chew, Boris! Somebody kill this asshole."

Tracy pushed little Anton down and fell on top of him as the shooting started.

Bucky lost count of the number of heads that turned as he walked through the Triskelion to George Smiley's office. Hill explained that he hadn't been officially sworn in as Deputy Director yet but that it was as good as done given the government had all but handed Fury carte blanche at the moment. Defeating HYDRA was priority number one for every law enforcement on Earth, national or transnational, and once Fury had put it out there that Smiley would be integral in that Congress would line up to swear him in. Barnes nodded his way through Hill's explanation, completely oblivious to the politics of the day, but finally it occurred to him he was none of the wiser as to the "situation" Hill had mentioned.

"So are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Hill stopped and thought for a second, before shaking her head. "I'll let Smiley explain."

Barnes shrugged his shoulders and followed after Hill a short while longer until they came to a stop outside of an office. The nameplate that had once adorned the door to the office had been pushed out and had yet to be replaced. Inside there was the sound of faint shuffling, like boxes being moved around, and Hill indicated to Bucky to wait for a second as she knocked on it.

"Deputy Director Smiley? It's Maria Hill," She said, leaning towards the door in an attempt to speak through it. "I've brought... Captain America is with me. Should I send him in?"

A voice from inside indicated to her to send Barnes in and she opened the door and ushered Bucky inside. There in the office stood a middle-aged man whose face was adorned with wrinkles, atop his head was once dark hair that had faded almost completely grey, and his soft eyes sat behind thick glasses that looked made him look more accountant than spy. At once Smiley managed to look exactly as Bucky had imagined him and nothing like he had imagined. He was completely and entirely forgettable. For most men that was a weakness, for George Smiley it seemed a strength. He smiled modestly at Bucky as the two made eye contact and the door to his office shut with a quiet click.

"Have a seat, please," George said as he shook hands with the young man.

Young being relative in this case. The truth was, Barnes was old enough to be George's father. He did some research on the new Captain America as he waited for his arrival. SHIELD's files were incomplete, but there was enough to paint a picture for George. The original Captain America's protege being found cryogenically frozen just as HYDRA made its reemergence was fortuitous. The coincidence gnawed at George ever since he read Barnes' file. When it came to Smiley's world, coincidence did not exist.

George logged that little tweak of intuition deep inside his mind for later use. For now, there were more pressing matters. He sat down behind his desk and adjusted his glasses as he spoke.

"James, if I may call you that, I would like to welcome you to SHIELD. I admit I am not the most qualified greeter, but you have my welcome none the less. Thank you for your service in the war as well. My own father was part of an RAF bomber crew, but he never had the pleasure of meeting you or Steve Rogers, but he would be thrilled to know I got to meet you."

Bucky couldn't remember the last time someone had called him James. He'd been Bucky for so long that sometimes even he forgotten it wasn't his real name. His middle name was Buchanan, after James Buchanan, and his family had taken to calling him "Bucky" since before he could walk. He liked the name as a kid, he thought it made him sound much tougher than James, and figured himself for a real Huck Finn at the time so a name like "Bucky" fit him like a glove. It stuck with him though Camp Lehigh, with Steve, and even the Howling Commandos. Hearing his actual name was a surprise. An unexpectedly pleasant one.

Smiley was well-spoken and carried himself with a grace that often accompanied Englishmen. Bucky had met his fair share during the war and had always been struck by their ability to keep a "stiff upper lip" in even the most dire of times. Smiley seemed cut from the same cloth.

Bucky slid a hand over his head, pulling his cowl back, as he considered Smiley's thanks. "That's... very kind of you."

It had never occurred to him that someone might thank him for his service. His country had called on him to protect her and those that couldn't protect themselves. To not heed that call would have been anathema to Bucky, Steve, and all the other men that had run towards peril instead of away from it. From the sound of it Smiley's father felt likewise.

"I'm not proud of the things I did back then but they were necessary," Bucky muttered. "We made sacrifices and did things we sometimes didn't want to do so that there might come a time when other people weren't forced to do the same. I've not been awake long but from the looks of things there's still a lot of work to be done."

"You're right," said George. "On both accounts. The world you've awoken to is vastly different than the one you left. The enemy no longer goosesteps in jackboots. They move in the shadows, entire nation states worth of people, arms, and influence out there in the ether. To do this work, you enter into what a poet once called the wilderness of mirrors. Appearances, intent, and even truth are all distorted when you gaze out. Words can have three meanings, people can have many faces, and the right thing to do is not always the thing that is called for."

George paused and put his hands together. His thoughts strayed to the past. And when he spoke again, he was talking to himself as much as he was talking to Barnes.

"The things you'll be asked to do will not be pretty. You mention sacrifice and hardship? They are all part of this job as well. You will be asked to sacrifice many things -- your personal life, your time and energy, and maybe even your moral compass -- in the name of world safety. There's still a war on, James. Just the enemy and his methods have changed. The stakes are as high as they've ever been. Having said that, are you ready for your assignment?"

As George spoke Bucky thought back to that day over the Atlantic when Steve and he had clung so desperately to the side of Zemo's plane. He remembered their futile attempts to disarm the bomb aboard it failing time and time again and the look that had appeared on Steve's face as he realised what he had to do. The rotors of the plane roared so loudly that Bucky could barely hear himself cry out as Steve had kicked him free from the plane. He'd seen Steve look down at him for but a second as he tumbled towards the icy water beneath him. The force the explosion had sent him crashing beneath the surface and the cold felt like it seeped through his skin and into his bones as Bucky was lost to the darkness. Steve's face was etched into his memory as he sank deeper by the second.

Barnes took a glance down at the star on his chest as the scale of what he was about to commit himself to dawned on him. The pain, the torment, and the sacrifice he'd be forced to subject himself to for as long as he lived. Stephanie Carter had wanted it, at least she thought she did, but she hadn't seen Steve's face that day as he accepted his fate. That was the life he'd be choosing if he agreed. That would be the end he'd likely be accepting.

With a solemn nod, Bucky looked towards Smiley. "I'm ready."

George stood and walked over towards his map of the world. Barnes stayed seated, but kept his eyes on him as he crossed the room. George placed a thumb on the southern tip of the Arabian Peninsula.

"This is Yemen and late last night, HYDRA attacked Yemen with SHIELD resources."

He explained the details of the operation that went bad. The drone strike -- he spent a few minutes explaining drones to Barnes, but he grasped concept well enough since it was an unmanned plane that he and Rogers blew up all those years ago -- that was intended for members of a radical terrorist organization instead killed high-ranking members of the Yemeni military.

"The dossier I read this afternoon indicates that Yemen is in a very delicate political situation. The president is fast losing allies, the ones that were killed were among the few he had left. With them gone, anti-establishment forces in the military may be able to stage a coup. All drone flights have been cancelled, and the Yemeni government is working with us to keep a lid on the whole fiasco. We believe HYDRA to be behind this because of the message that was sent to SHIELD headquarters just moments after the attack."

George let Barnes watch the video footage and the message that followed. From behind his desk, George pressed on with the briefing.

"The source of the digital takeover of the drone, what they call hacking now, was traced to the Indian Ocean, a few hundred miles off the coast of Indonesia. Satellite tracking has linked the hacking to this man."

George slid a photo across the desk to Barnes. The grainy surveillance photo showed a man in an expensive sharkskin suit with a red bandana covering the top half of his face.

"He goes by the name Tiger Shark. He is a pirate and smuggler responsible for nearly all the black market trade that goes through the Indian Ocean. He has no visible ties to HYDRA, but it's not too much of a stretch to imagine him as being in bed with that lot. This photo is the only one we have of him, and it comes to us from Vauxhall Cross, my old stomping grounds. The photo is at least five years old. Tiger Shark is highly dangerous and wanted for a laundry list of international crimes. Your mission is a very simple one: fly to Jakarta and find Tiger Shark and bring him in."

There was a second, unseen objective that George needed to accomplish. But that was his own mission, something he could only do alone. But his mission dove-tailed into Barnes. While he was in Asia, fighting pirates, George would be back here working from his end.

"A SHIELD contact will meet you in Jakarta when you land and help you achieve your mission. Any questions, James?"

Bucky had listened from his seat in complete silence as Smiley ran through the details of the mission. Smiley was forensic, analytical, and calculating. Perhaps even more so than his position called for him to be. It was clear that he'd done this more times than he could count and that fact put Bucky at ease as he ran him through it. Yemen was a damn sight different from the Ardennes and HYDRA and the technology they had at their disposal made what Bucky used to go up against seem like children's toys. To hear Smiley talk though, Bucky was certain that there were still some unshakeable truths to espionage that had remained unchanged by the passage of time. He took one last glance at the picture of Tiger Shark before sliding it back along the table towards George.

"Just the one," Bucky muttered, fully aware that Smiley would know what Barnes was about to ask him. "If I can't bring him in...?"

"Ideally, Tiger Shark is to be taken alive. We need intelligence about HYDRA's current assets and movements, and he can provide that for us."

George didn't say it, but he wanted more than just intelligence. His current mandate was to turn the tide and bring the fight to them. As valuable as Tiger Shark would be as an intelligence source, he would be ten times more valuable if he could be turned into a double agent. But that depended on if he would cooperate, and if he could be brought in alive. Too many ifs to make the scenario feasible.

"If it seems as if there is no other alternative, Tiger Shark is to be eliminated. In that event, you are ordered to bring in any electronic devices recovered during your mission. We'll gather intelligence as best as possible from those devices. A plane is leaving Andrews Air Force Base in an hour, you're going to be on that flight. From there, you'll fy to a military base in Germany and fly straight to Jakarta after that."

George slid a manila dossier across the desk to Barnes. Stamped on the cover as the SHIELD logo, a red diagonal slash that indicated it was top secret, and the designation OPERATION FISH FRY.

"Some reading for you to do on your flight. It contains every detail about the mission. Burn it after reading, please."

Barnes thumbed through it, glancing at the pages while George took off his glasses. Without the lenses, his eyes seemed small and beady. He blinked a few times as he cleaned his glasses on the fat end of his tie. Satisfied they were clean, he placed them back on his face.

"One more thing, James. This is not contained in the folder because I cannot share it with anyone. I believe this attack happened because of a leak inside SHIELD. The way Tiger Shark got into our satellite feed indicates knowledge of out communications systems, if not access codes outright. While you are in Jakarta, I will be back here engaging on a hunt for the leaker. Our purposes may overlap or come at odds at times, but stay focused on your mission. Keep what I just said mind in the future, because after you walk out of that room I will not speak of it again, and I trust you will not either. I've told you this because it goes back to what I said earlier: Trust no one. Not even me."

Six Atlanteans and one half-breed travelled swiftly across the ocean bed, passing marine flora of all varieties, schools of fish and creatures oblivious to the building emotions of Namor. The amnesiac Prince led the patrolling guards at great speeds, and it was not long before the group began to be left behind.

"My Lord!" One of them called out after him, stopping to catch his breath. Namor did not stop nor even twitch at the despondent cry, focused too intently on the structures rising in the distance. They had just reached the outermost borders of the underwater city, and the prime location for the expansive shanty quarter that housed now thousands of famished and poor Atlanteans. The guards came to a halt at the first house as they realized Namor had swam too far and beyond sight behind the many hutches and shacks. They eyed each other, a growing worry mutual between them. It was obvious to see Namor's rage residing just below the surface as they had brought him up to date on important matters and Byrrah's actions.

One of them, a heavy set male with a long bristling beard, sighed. "I would not like to be Byrrah right now."
The grimace that settled onto his face mirrored onto his peers as they nodded and grunted.
The six stood silently for a moment, staring off towards the inner city where Namor has undoubtedly headed. A hag, shrivelled yet with fair and wise eyes, hobbled towards them. She raised a quivering finger that angled along their focused eyesight, inwards through the shanty quarter, and cracked open her lips with an inquisitive gaze.

"It cannot be! No! Forty-seven years, it has been - and with no sign! No word!" The hag began rambling audibly, until a man and what appeared to be a younger version of the woman approached. Her daughter reached out a hand to touch the wrinkled blue skin of the circumlocutory lady, yet at the impact she sprang up suddenly, eyes wide and gasping. The royal guards closest to her glanced at one another and moved slightly closer, but she flung her short hands out as wide as they would let her. "Now?! When I am frail and barren? And he returns as fresh and virile as he ever was! Oh... how I lusted..." The hag turned to her daughter and her furious outburst quietened. Her eyes took upon the collected gaze they had before, and she turned and bowed to the guards.

"My apologies, sirs," She began to walk away, aided by the arms of her daughter and the young man with them, and she hummed a short melodic tune before softly singing, "Namor has come to kill the King..."



The Lady Dorma slept soundly on a luxurious couch in a large conservatory connecting to her estate. Thin white pillars joined the glass ceiling to the tiled floor, yet the windows were open to the waters and fish of all sizes darted in between each other and the pillars in their fascinating rhythms. The Lady dreamt of New Atlantis, bathed in the glow of the Sun. The Atlanteans ran free with each other in equality - their were no shanty quarters, no poverty, and people had no reason to break the law. Families played together on the vast swaying plains and the elderly congregated and laughed over their memories. It was an idyllic realm, a peaceful place. A place governed fairly and justly by -

"Namor." Came a gruff and menacing voice. Dorma squinted open one eye, and then the other, as she sat up at the realisation of what had been said.

"Here?" She gasped. She gathered the trailing tussels of her gown and stood with grace. She began to hurry towards the arch connecting to the main floor room when an inhumanely large hand pushed her back. Black, unseemly arm hair protruded from it even where it shouldn't - on his knuckles and palm, as well as his wrist and lower arm. A bulwarking metal chest-plate obscured the rest, it's reinforced insignia displaying the sign of the King.

"And where do you think you are going?" Teeth embedded with the remains of a meal expanded in a twisted grin.

"He is our liege lord, I must -"

"Byrrah is our liege lord. Or did you forget who led us in the... how long has it been? Nearly fifty years?"

Dorma's eyes contracted and she twitched suddenly with a mix of bewilderment and anger. "We both know Byrrah boasts a pale imitation of the greatness Namor would have achieved."

"That kind of rebellious attitude would see a lesser woman killed!" Barked the royal militant. His eyes shone black like obsidian.

Dorma met his gaze but had to pull away quickly. The news had clearly delivered a negative response to him as opposed to her inside jubilation. Hope filled her as it hadn't for years, and more emotions besides. Respect, devotion, love... She twisted away from the hulking man blocking the arch and paced towards one of the couches. The man leered after her with a murderous glint in his eye.

"Namor can't do as he wants. I won't let him. Byrrah would not have appeared so weak before Destiny. Byrrah wouldn't have abandoned his supposedly beloved people-"

"That's not true!" Dorma shrieked. Silence settled between the two, until a hard chuckle possessed the brutish Atlantean. Dorma focused upon the watery expanses out the nearest window, yet she still felt the penetrating stare of the man on her long, flowing hair. Time passed with only the simple background noise of New Atlantis occupying the space. Then the warlord spoke.

"I'm going to kill him, Dorma. It will be my greatest victory. It will be Krang who disposes of your venerated Prince."



Huge men and children alike had to dive out of the way before him. Namor flew low through the avenues of New Atlantis, and he twisted through opulent archways and by towering halls on his quest towards the palace. Aided by his vestigial wings, the Prince acted with meticulous reflex, diving past pillars and the Atlanteans by the skin of his teeth. A boiling fury fuelled his barrage through the waters - a fury borne of tales told of a despicable and foolish monarch, uncontrollable in his stubbornness, and fleeting sights of a huge shanty area full of neglected citizens, and the decades of travesties Namor's half-brother would have assuredly perpetrated. All thoughts of the friendship himself and Byrrah had shared in their childhood had fled from Namor's mind, and only the imminent vengeance for his people and the King's mockery remained. The Sub-Mariner's face must have been fearsome to behold - lips pulled taut in a snarling frown, eyes almost diseased with anger.

A burly Atlantean positioned on a corner sprang to life at the site of the Prince, diving towards him with an outstretched grasp. Namor thought of pushing past him, but in truth he knew not his way around the enormous city and perhaps he could discern the location of Byrrah from this man. The Atlantean, adorned in a surfeit of glinting bronze armour, murmured quickly to himself as Namor stopped before him. It appeared that the presumable guardsman had not expected a docile response to his accosting. Well, at least I am surprising Byrrah. The news of his homecoming must have travelled briskly into the city and into the weak King's ears. This guardsman before him was wearing the accoutrements of one of the royal elite guard, suggesting that Byrrah desired to stop him before the two came into close proximity. Of course, he would have expected Namor to barge directly into the palace courtyard, so that would be wear the bulk of the royal force was. This guardsman was likely just an outrider - one less trusted to man the primary defence against the Prince. One more likely to divulge the information he needed. Namor was not a fool, and though the need to confront Byrrah raged around his mind, he was an expert of strategy and strategy was what he would employ.
The denizens of the street, which appeared to be mostly comprised of courthouses and business offices, departed the scene quickly. Namor knew one of the many would reveal his location to a more formidable foe soon enough, so force and brevity were required. Namor moved towards the large guard with unbelievable speed, grabbing the armour-clad man by the throat and slamming him against a marble wall. The point of impact dented, and slight lines of a shock wave spread with cracks along the wall.

"Na...Namo-"

"Silence. I need the location of a peasant. Divulge all the specific information you can." Namor spoke with a riled tone. To let him speak, Namor receded his excessive grip on the man's throat. The guard's bulging eyes returned to normal. He opened his mouth to speak but instead lay still, a look of panic frozen on his features. "He is an information gatherer."

"I - I don't-"

"The Whisperer. Vashti!"

New York
March, 20th, 2005
9AM

Ted dropped the junk-fiends quick, then left them lying in the streets, crying for their mamma's and groaning about the pain. He could have called the cops, got them carted away, but he felt getting the snot punched out of them by an old grey hair was probably punishment enough. If they came around again he might revise that position, but for now he was happy to leave them be. He didn't think they'd be bothering no one anytime soon anyway.

The old boxer was in much finer fettle after that little fracas, feeling twenty years younger than he had when he got outta bed. Funny how a wee morning jog had left him like death warmed over, but rearrange some meth-head's faces and it was like he was walking on air. He felt so good that he was almost tempted to dig that old locker outta the back of his closet, the one with the big, heavy lock, to open that lock and take out the contents held within, a dusty old costume that was as precious as gold or jewels to Ted, and get back into the vigilante business. After all, looked like he was still good at it.

But he was only 'almost tempted'.

That was a young mans game, and no one liked to see the old champion come outta retirement just to get humiliated by some young, hungry contender. Smashing some sense into half-skeletal junkies was one thing, taking on the very worst criminals that New York had to offer was a whole different ball game.

Whether he liked it or not Wildcat was staying in that locker, where he belonged.

Ted returned to the gym, where Sock brought himself to remark that Ted looked the happiest that he'd seen him in. . . ever, after which the two got down to work, taking promising young scrappers and molding them into future champions. Or at least that's how Ted described it, Sock was more inclined to describe it as trying to make a silk purse outta lousy pig's ears, but then Sock always had been a miserable sort. Regardless of Sock's bitching it was clear that most of boys showed real talent, while others had an insatiable drive that made them push themselves to the very limit of their abilities. Ted wouldn't accept anything less of his fighters, and they knew if they ever slacked then they'd be outta Grant's faster than a Texas ten count.

The best of the bunch was a young fella called Claudio Volpe, nicknamed Clawhammer on account of the ugly mess he made of anyone mad enough to step into the ring with him. He was strong, fast, skilled, and so damn dedicated to his training that Ted wasn't quite sure when he got the time to sleep. So it came as a surprise when Volpe was late for said training, without as much as a phone call as to why. It wasn't like him, and Ted, while initially annoyed with Claudio's laxness, grew more and more concerned as the minutes crawled into hours with still no word. Eight PM, closing time for the gym, came and went, and while locking up Ted decided he'd stroll across to Volpe's apartment and check up on the trainee, get some answers.

He better not be sleeping one off, Ted brooded, or there would be hell to pay.

Though by the time Ted arrived at Claudio's place it looked like hell had already been paid, and with interest on top. The door had been busted off it’s hinges, though someone had taken the time to lean it haphazardly back in place, a flimsy attempt at putting a sheen of normalcy on the scene. Ted pulled the useless hunk of wood outta the way and edged warily inside, hackles up and ready for anything. The trail of destruction only got worse inside the apartment, pictures pulled off the walls, the remains of an oak bookshelf that was little more than kindling now, books ripped and shredded. Ted couldn’t help thinking that was strange, as he’d never pinned Volpe as much of a reader. Someone had taken their time wrecking this place, putting a real shift in, being meticulous in their effort to destroy all of Claudio’s worldly possessions’. Dick-headedness of the highest degree.

Ted carried on down the hall and into a living area. A half-shattered lamp came flying towards him, only reactions honed by years of dodging-things-that-would-hurt-if-they-hit-you practice allowing him to sway outta the way.

“Come back for more, huh shit-birds!? Well I’m gonna kill you for what you did to Claudio!“ A tall, suited figure screeched, brandishing a dining chair like it was a battle-axe, and looking like he meant to use it to knock Ted’s brains out. The old fighter took a cautious step back, throwing his palms up skywards.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down there son. I’m Ted Grant, Claudio’s trainer. He never showed today, so I came to check on him, see what’s what, just to find this mess.” Ted made a real effort to look as non-threatening as possible, no small task for someone who looked as inherently rough around the edges as he did. For a half second it looked like the other guy was gonna swing with that chair regardless, but at the last second he calmed down and lowered his makeshift club, though didn’t drop it completely, Ted noted. Still, good thing for him because if he had swung Ted woulda been forced to hurt him.

“Yeah, yeah. Ted Grant, now I recognise you. Claudio’s always speaking about you. Doesn’t shut up, really.” The suit looked a bit sheepish, maybe embarrassed about the lamp-throwing now, though Ted forgave him for his frayed nerves, considering the circumstances.

“And you are. . . ?” Ted coaxed, seeing as the other guy didn’t introduce himself.

“I’m his big brother, Luciano.” Now that he mentioned it Ted could see a resemblance. Luciano shared his brothers swarthy coloring, blunt features, and big build, though he wasn't as weighty, lacking the sheer muscle mass that Claudio had built up through all his training. The kid had mentioned having brothers, though Ted didn't know too much about them. Family didn't come up much during bag-work and sparring. The gum-shield generally got in the way of chit-chat.

"Hrrm. And where is your brother?" The only question that really mattered right now. Luciano took a step back, gesturing for Ted to come further into the room, pointing at a three-seater couch that had it's back to him. The old boxer stepped around it to see Claudio spread upon the upholstery, unconscious.

The kid was in a bad way, all bloodied and bruised, clothes ripped and torn, face so beat and swollen that he mighta passed for the elephant man. If it wasn't for the slow rise and fall of his chest you'd be forgiven for thinking he'd already died, so serious was his injuries. Ted had seen men die from a lot less, but then Claudio was a fighter, that much was evident, if not already then from his bloodied knuckles. The Clawhammer hadn't gone down easy, and Ted guessed who'd ever done this was smarting right now.

"Why haven't you got him to a hospital?" Hissed Ted, under his breath so he wouldn't wake the kid. Not that there was much risk of him rousing, not right now. Luciano glanced away, as if he was embarrassed to answer.

"Claudio. . . before he lost consciousness, he told me not to. Say's the one's who did this told him that if he involved the police then they'd come back for him, for our familly, that they'd finish the job. He made me promise not to take him to the hospital, knew the cops would want answers. I have a doctor friend though, one who can be trusted. Our cousin is fetching her now. They wont be long, and once Claudio is stable I shall take him to my home, to recover." Ted grunted in reply, not too happy that the kid wasn't receiving proper medical care. He just had to chew on it though, seeing in Luciano's face that he wouldn't be dissuaded. At least they'd made other provisions. Instead the old fighter changed tact, to something he could deal with.

"Claudio tell you who did this?" Ted fervently hoped so. Would make what comes next just that much simpler.

"No, he didn't, but I can guess," Luciano replied, his heavy brow furrowing. "This was the work of that cocksucking, wannabe-mobster Victor Moretti. Or more likely it was the Dragna twins, acting on Victor's orders, because he never, ever get's his hands dirty, not when he can pay other men to do it for him."

"He's been trying to get Claudio to join his payroll for a long time, to become his new legbreaker. Claudio always says no, wanting nothing to do with Moretti's black buisness. Moretti obviously got tired of being told no, decided he'd give my little brother an ultimatium."

It was a familiar story to Ted. Mobsters always needed new muscle, especially in a world with men like Batman, Superman and the Flash, chewing through regular mooks faster than a cow through cud. And where was the easiest place to get that muscle, why from the inner cities troubled youth. And one like Claudio, who already knew the best way to smash faces, well he was just too tempting a prize to pass over. Only problem was the kid had some real tight morals, morals that would have to be beat outta him, threaten those he hold dear some, until you had yourself the perfect little enforcer. Yeah, Ted had seen this before, almost ended up a victim of it himself, once upon a time.

"Are you alright, you look ill." Said Luciano. And yeah, he was right, Ted was sick. Sick to his stomache of men like Moretti. But luckily he knew just the thing to set him right again.

Looked like the Wildcat was getting outta that locker after all.

Washington D.C.
March 21st, 2005
07:22 Local Time

George Smiley had a tail.

He noticed it as soon as he started out on his walk to work. The thin man wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a jean jacket easily blended in on the streets of Washington simply because of his attire. It was his haircut that keyed Smiley to the fact something was off. The man's blonde hair was perfectly styled in a short crew cut that didn't match with his casual attire. He looked like something straight out of the 80's. This lack of subtly made the man as Russian. Only Ivan would think a typical American dressed in all denim.

The man followed him from the hotel he was staying at for the time being. SHIELD tried to rope him into getting a car, but he demurred. It was only a few blocks to the Triskelion and he could desperately use the exercise. This shadow that followed him was its own exercise. It'd been so long since Smiley engaged in tradecraft, but one never forgot the tools of the trade. He started simple, going down streets the wrong way, cross to the other side of the street seemingly on whim. Doubling back and ducking into cabs, only to duck out at the last moment. Smiley felt pride in the fact that he shook the tail free after only a half hour of tradecraft.

And then he noticed the second tail. While the Russian tailed from behind, a Chinese man shadowed him from the front. Smiley noticed him earlier, but his focus on Ivan made him not think much of him. Now that Ivan was gone, the tall Chinese man with the olive green coat and black turtleneck was still there, casually smoking a cigarette as he walked just far enough ahead of Smiley to keep track.

"You have a lot of eyes on you, George."

Smiley turned at the sound of the voice. Standing behind him was a ghost from the past. He'd put on weight and his hair had more gray in it than he remembered, but Peter Guilliam looked almost the same as he did when Smiley last saw him fourteen years ago. Smiley stared at the man, adjusting his glasses to make sure he was really seeing him right here in front of him. Guilliam wore a sardonic smile.

"Never mind him up there," Guilliam said, nodding towards his watcher ahead of them. "The spook world hears George Smiley is back in the game, they want to see for themselves."

"What are you doing here, Peter?" Smiley asked.

"I work here in Washington now. I work out of the embassy and liaise with the Cousins on intelligence matters. Walk with me."

It took Smiley a moment to find his feet, but he found them and walked with Guilliam down the sidewalk. Guilliam ended up having to slow his pace, his longer legs outpacing Smiley's short strides.

"You've sent many a tongue wagging across the pond," said Guilliam. "It's not every day that a former head of the Secret Service goes to Washington to become a Deputy Director of SHIELD."

"Fury roped me into it," said Smiley with a shrug. "Plus he's offering me real work. Which is more than the Circus was offering."

"Vauxhall Cross is worried about what you may tell the Cousins about your time in the Circus."

They came to an intersection and waited for the light to change. Smiley kept one hand in his pocket, the other clung tightly to his briefcase.

"is that why they sent you here, Peter? Who better than my old protegee to pump me for information?"

"Of course," said Guilliam as the light changed and they walked across the street. "But I also feel it was necessary to reach out to you. Anglo-American relations have vastly improved since the Cold War ended. Special Relationship and all that. Six wants to make sure everything stays just as chummy."

"And an Englishman in SHIELD threatens that?"

"No, an Englishman forced into retirement by SIS threatens that," said Guilliam. "M wants to make sure you won't make things tense, your complicated history with the Circus could cloud your perception."

Smiley sighed and rubbed his temple. He was starting to severely regret not having that car pick him up.

"Tell Sir Mallory that I do not dwell on the past like some people can. I'm working for SHIELD to help fight HYDRA, and that's all. I have no intention to air MI6's dirty laundry to the Cousins, especially when I was responsible for parts of that dirty washing. Will that suffice, Peter?"

Guilliam nodded. The two came to a stop in Dupont Circle. Smiley saw the Chinese man was still with them, always an appropriate distance away.

"Where's your man, Peter? I spotted the Russian and the Chinese watchers, I know you have someone following me. If it's the man walking the terrier, I would suggest not having someone with a dog do tail work. It's too conspicuous."

Guilliam kicked at the ground, putting his hands in his coat pockets and staring down at his feet.

"My own country spying on me... what a day."

"You would do the same, George," Guilliam said he met Smiley's gaze. "You were sent out into the cold for a reason, George. It was never intended for you to come back. You have us all on edge -- Russians, Chinese, and British. Everyone wants to know what you're going to do."

"All this fuss over little old me," Smiley said with a laugh. "You flatter me. Like I said before, Peter, I have a simple mandate to find HYDRA. Unless you have members of HYDRA in your organization, you'll be fine."

"That's what worries me," Guilliam said with a raised eyebrow. "You pull strings, George. You pull regardless of where they lead, and you send the whole damn thing crashing down."

Smiley adjusted his glasses, pushing them up off the bridge of his nose. He turned and waved at the Chinese man. He saw Smiley's wave and turned around, quickly scurrying down the street. Smiley let out a laugh and turned to Guilliam.

"If the whole damn thing can be destroyed by a few string pulls, Peter, then maybe it deserves to come crashing down. Maybe it wasn't that stable to begin with. Now, if you'll excuse me I need to get to work."

Guilliam nodded and they shook hands. They said their pleasantries and Smiley watched his old friend walk down the street. A few moments later the man with the terrier followed him. Smiley checked his watch and straightened his tie. Welcome back, George, the thought to himself. Welcome back to the game.

Tarene was in shock. What she felt transcended shock. She'd thought after Ragnarok that nothing could surprise her, afterall, bearing witness to The End tended to leave one hard to shock. She'd wandered aimlessly for quite some time, she didn't count the days because time mattered not when you lived many many centuries. She was still slumped down on the ground, her knees had buckled beneath her once she'd realised what she was looking at was entirely real and not some cruel desert mirage. It had been hours and she still hadn't pulled herself up.

The band of wagons that she'd been rolling along with had kept moving, but something had called her to step away and following a strange inexplicable instinct, she was drawn to the crater. Within it lay the very hammer that had borne legends and legacies. The hammer that had the power to destroy worlds, or save them. The hammer that had belonged to her dear friend and ally, her former-prince, then her King.

Mjolnir.

She stared at the hammer for so long that the sun had begun to rise. Last she'd seen it, Thor Odinson had thrown it across the battlefield, knocking Odin's sceptre, Gungnir, just before Loki could deliver a fatal blow. It was then that she knew that the Thor Odinson who'd attacked her so mercilessly, leaving her vulnerable for Loki to deliver the killing strike, had been a fake, an imposter. The real King of Asgard had arrived to save them all. She'd watched that very hammer soar back into his grasp, he glanced over his shoulder and yelled at her to run, to escape and to live.

And now it was here.

She squinted as the sun began to rise, spreading blistering heat across the barren sandy wastes that surrounded her. Finally, after what may have felt like an eternity of drinking in the sight of the relic infront of her, she clambered to her feet though with little grace for an Asgardian such as herself. Such clumsiness from an Asgardian warrior would make Valkyries blush with embarassment, but it didn't matter.

Mjolnir called to her. It whispered her name and asked her to come forward. She obliged and found herself wrapping her fingers around the leather-wrapped hilt. The handle fit comfortably in her grasp and a warmth spread through her fingers and palm. The hammer spoke to her again and asked her to lift it. She found herself replying aloud to the omnipresent voice.
"What if I cannot wrest thee from thine crater?" she asked.

Mjolnir whispered again, ignoring her question, urging her to lift. Tarene wanted to argue, to tell the hammer that she had not been worthy on Asgard, how could she be worthy now? She had failed her destiny and allowed Asgard to fall. Every night she relived those battles and wondered what would happen if she'd reacted differently? She punished herself for not being able to recognise the evil-Thor Odinson as a fake, if she had been his true friend she should have known it was not him who attacked her, if she'd known, she would have fought him without hesitation and without hesitating maybe she could have saved Asgard.

She looked at her hands, Mjolnir nestled in its crater, waiting to be held aloft.
"Whosoever holds this hammer ... if she be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor"
Her breath caught in her chest and for a giddy moment she wondered if she'd utterly lost her mind, with the small portion of her brain which she still had some ability to control, she urged the muscles in her arms to contract, her fingers to hold tightly ...

It moved.

Out of nowhere, the sky filled with heavy, dark brooding clouds. The barren desert became soaked with spontaneous rain showers and thunder struck the crater Tarene stood in. The prongs of lightning licked across her body and the hammer, but she didn't burn, it didn't even hurt. Her arms tingled and she managed to draw her gaze to her forearms, silvery scales shimmered into existence along her arms, materialising out of the very lightning itself that was striking her. Her worn out Asgardian armour, that had been in need of repair since Ragnarok, began to restore itself and change before her eyes. She felt her heart thunder against her chest and a strange sensation swept through her body. She lifted Mjolnir higher, now it was above her head and the pillar of lightning that shot down upon her bled into the hammer.

As quickly as the thunder had appeared, it suddenly dissipated and Tarene found herself standing as she had done moments before in the crater, except Mjolnir was no longer lying in a crater, it was in her hand.

"I am the Mighty Thor, Goddess of Thunder."

All the past mistakes ... her failures, she would undo them all and correct those faults that haunted her dreams. From this moment forth, she was Thor, the Mighty Thor, and she was going to save this realm.

Somewhere, far far far away from the desert, scientists shouted to draw the attention of their colleagues.
"Massive anomaly in Oklahoma ... Sudden spontaneous electrical surge ... readings off the scale ... unexpected radiation spikes in a virtually barren region."
Various secret service organisations all found their attention drawn to the same location, a number of these secret operations had access to satellite technology and they honed in on that spot, getting a clear visual of Thor's face and body and the hammer. The manhunt would begin to capture this unusual specimen. If she was another mutant, they had to assess her powers, if she was some kind of non-human creature, they had to catch her, study her, understand her. Most of all, a number of interested parties wanted to capture her to harness her power. The readings from the spontaneous storm were astronomical and she'd stood at its core and escaped entirely unharmed.

"Find that woman, bring her to me."



Thor felt strange, she felt all of Thor-Odinson's power surging within her, she could feel instincts she didn't know existed, the hammer was like an extension of herself and she knew how to use it, it came as natural to her as breathing. She flicked her wrist and the hammer began to spin from the strap, like a propellor and she threw it. She didn't know where exactly she was going, how to control her direction, somehow Mjolnir managed to fill in the blanks, it bent to her command, and it corrected itself if it moved ever so slightly off course. She landed with a steady "thump" on her feet and found herself in Stonehenge.

It wasn't quite London, but she knew Stonehenge was significant, it was here that Thor Odinson's ally Erik Selvig, had unravelled a number of clues about the Convergence before Odinson battled Malekith. Though there was no sign of Selvig here now, Thor knew that she was certainly getting closer, at least she was closer than when she was in the middle of the desert. From here she'd find her way to Selvig and he would help her find out more. She needed to learn more about this realm if she were to do it any justice and Selvig was a man that Odinson had trusted, and thus, he was the only man she was willing to trust, for now at least.