Suicide Slum, Metropolis

A fire was raging in Metropolis. It had claimed the lives of three people and had place two more in the hospital. Rumour had spread that an unregistered mutant had caused it and the denizens of Suicide Slum had descended to the scene to exact some street justice. The six Metropolis City Police Department squad cards barricading off the source of the fire were struggling to hold the angry crowd back. The crowd shouted bloody murderer and threw bottles and bricks towards the building to express their impotent rage whilst the fire department tried in vain to tame it. Beside them SWAT officers prepared their service weapons in case of the worse. Though Magneto’s attack had been several years ago it was still fresh in everyone’s minds.

The thick smoke that filled Suicide Slum’s skies parted and through it appeared the Man of Steel. It took several seconds for his presence to register with the crowd below but once it had their anger seemed to fade. The shouting stopped for a moment, the bricks fell to the ground and even the police officers looked up in awe as Superman hovered to a stop beside them. He squinted in the building’s direction as he scanned it for signs of life and then paced towards it without offering a word.

Inside the building the smoke was thicker and heavier than it had been outside. A normal man would have struggled to breathe. Superman was no normal man. He waded through the smoke and flames as if they were air whilst he tried to focus on the whimpering. It was faint and laboured but it was there. A heavy wooden beam stood between Superman and its source. He tossed it aside as if it were paper and then blew out heartily to clear the smoke.


There huddled in the corner of the room was a small redheaded girl. She looked no older than ten years old and her hands and feet were covered in burns. His footsteps alerted the girl to his presence and she looked up at him with tearful brown eyes.

“I… I didn’t mean to hurt them,” Angelica Jones muttered. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

Clark nodded and knelt beside the girl with a gentle smile.

“It’s okay.”

“My Nana,” Jones whimpered. “She was trapped. The smoke… S-she couldn’t breathe. What’s happening to me?”

“You’re a mutant,” Superman said as he extended his hand towards the young girl. “That means you have special abilities. You’re going to need to learn to control them, Angelica.”

There was a loud crack and the ceiling beside Clark and Angelica came through. A wooden beam crashed through the floor next to them and missed them by inches. Outside Superman could hear the shouting again. He squinted and focused on one of the MCPD officer’s voices. Word had reached the crowd that one of the hospitalized had died and it had breathed new life into their rage. He looked to Angelica Jones with her big brown eyes and extended a hand in her direction.

“We need to get out of here.”

Jones shook her head.

“If I go out there they’ll take me away,” Angelica muttered. “I know what they do to people like… like me…”

“That's not going to happen.”

The young girl looked unconvinced until Superman thrust his pinky finger towards her with a smile. She wrapped her own around Clark’s little finger and shook his hand with it. He smiled and wrapped his arms around the girl and lifted her from her feet. Once she was in his arms Clark took a deep breath in and exhaled as hard as he could. Within a second the lion’s share of the flames were extinguished and Superman descended down the building’s stairs with the girl in hand. He felt her tiny arms tighten around his neck a little as they drew closer to the exit. She was scared. So were the people outside. The difference was that they had guns and bricks. All Angelica had was Clark.

“It's going to be okay,” Superman muttered to her as he planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “I'm not going to let them hurt you.”

The door to the building opened and Clark stepped through it. The firemen on scene stepped back in shock and the MCPD officers cowered behind their patrol car doors reached for their service weapons. The crowd roared their displeasure upon seeing the girl in Superman’s arms.

“Hand over the girl,” Officer Diaz spoke through a megaphone to Superman. His weapon was trained on him. “She killed four people and put another in the hospital, Superman, and she’s unregistered. She’s not your responsibility anymore.”

“She's a child, Diaz.”

Superman stepped further out into the street and there was a volley of clicks as the MCPD officers flicked the safeties off on their weapons. Angelica whimpered in his arms. Diaz lifted the megaphone to his mouth again and this time his voice was sterner still.

“We are authorized to use lethal force.”

A projectile hurtled through the air from the crowd and landed a few feet from where Superman was stood. It shattered as it made contact with the ground and Superman gritted his teeth. He blocked out the sound of the crowd and focused on Diaz. He was in his thirties, a heavy-set Latino man with a thick moustache, and had a faint smell of cigarettes to him. Clark could see the beads of sweat running down his forehead.

“Do you have children?”

Diaz nodded.

“A son.”

“And you would do anything to protect your son, wouldn't you?”

Officer Diaz reached for his black Glock 19 from the holster and brandished it in Superman’s direction. Clark could see his hands shaking.

“My son is not a freak.”

“And neither is Angelica. She’s a ten year old girl that lost the most important person to her in the whole world this afternoon. Tell me, if this was your son in my arms, would you want me to slap a pair of handcuffs on him and put him in a cage or would you want me to help him?”

“Don’t do this, Superman.”

Diaz’s finger pulled back on the trigger slightly as he weighed his options and Clark readied himself for action. At the last minute Diaz let his sweaty finger slip off the trigger and he forced the Glock back into its holster with a heavy sigh. He looked to his colleagues and with an emotionally exhausted wave signaled his intent to them.

“Stand down.”

Diaz nodded in recognition to Superman and Clark returned it with a nod of his own. He bent his knees as he prepared for flight until another bottle launched by the crowd crashed against his back. Angelica squealed in fear and Clark shushed her quietly as he stopped in his tracks and turned to face them. He walked towards the crowd slowly with Angelica still in his arms and the mob quieted.

“You are better than this,” Superman addressed the crowd. “I know that you are better than this.”

For the second time their anger faded as bricks and bottles clattered to the ground. The mob parted to let Superman through and he made a concerted effort to make contact with as many people as possible as he passed through it. Some met his gaze, others stared at the ground in shame, but all were taken aback by how small and helpless Angelica looked up close. Once he was through the crowd Superman dipped in preparation for flight again and Angelica looked at him.

“Where are we going?”

Clark smiled.

"Westchester, New York."

New York County District Attorney's Office
1:31 PM

"The verdict's in! Last call for bets!"

Adrian Chase looked up from his computer and peeked above the partition of his cubicle. The DA's office was a flurry of lunchtime activity as the junior clerks, prosecutors, and even the executive ADA's crowded around the television in the corner. Chase stood and walked through the office towards the television. He couldn't hear the news report over the chatter, but he could read the ticker below the anchorwoman. SYMINGTON VERDICT REACHED.

Chase unknotted his tie slightly and sighed. Sam Symington was human garbage. A Wall Street hedge fund manager, Symington had risen himself up from an also-ran to an actual power broker over the last five years. At the height of his power, the man had more accumulated wealth than the combined GDPs of several European nations. Six months ago he bought a biotech start-up that had started selling a new malaria vaccine that cost pennies to produce. Symington, a major shareholder in another company that had its own vaccine, put the company out of business. As the owner of the copyright, he ceased production on the cheap vaccine while the other company celebrated having no competition int he market by quadrupling the price of its vaccine.

The outrage over the move led to a closer examination of Symington and his business practices. It turned out Symington's empire was built on a nonexistent foundation. He made money from conning investors in a massive Ponzi scheme. City, state, and federal authorities were in on the investigation and all gladly filed charges against Symington. In the end, the feds won out and were prosecuting him on a laundry list of charges that would result in Symington spending the rest of his life in prison.

"What are the going odds?" Adrian asked one of the clerks as he passed by his cubicle.

"It's down to even money," the kid said with a shrug. "Not much of a payout if you ask me."

Adrian scowled. "How is it even money? This is a slam dunk case."

"US Attorney righteously fucked up," the kid laughed. "A bunch of the evidence they had on Symington was improperly filed and handled. The chain of evidence was compromised. The judge was pissed, but he had no choice but to throw out like ninety percent of the proof they had on Symington."

Adrian shook his head as the kid walked towards the TV. He'd been in the DA's office for ten years now and things like what he just heard shouldn't have shocked him. He'd long ago realized that there were a different set of rules in this world for those of influence. Men like Symington and their downtown lawyers exploited loopholes and worked connections in the criminal justice system to their advantage. If Symington were a kid from Harlem busted with a crack rock, just crack and nothing else, he'd do ten years minimum. But Symington was rich and white and now, because of some bullshit, he was facing a good chance of acquittal.

He walked towards the television and looked on from the back of the crowd as the picture showed the jury filing into the courtroom. A plan was already beginning to form in the back of Adrian's mind. If the court did indeed acquit Symington, that would be okay. Tonight, he would hold his own court and he knew in that court, Symington would be found guilty.

-----

US Federal Criminal Court
Part 21
2:05 PM

"Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"We have not, your honor. We are deadlocked and cannot reach a unanimous decision."

"Do you need more time?"

"We do not. It is our belief that we cannot reach a unanimous decision."

A gasp went out in the court at the news. The jury foreman looked ashamed, as did nearly all of the jury save for a few stoic faces. FBI Agent Marcus Fischer did not show relief at the news that the jury was deadlocked. This was what Symington wanted. This is what Fischer got paid twenty thousand dollars for. It was the first time in his twenty-five year career that he had ever taken money. He knew it was wrong, but his wife was sick and it was fucking impossible to turn down twenty grand in cash for doing something as simple as misfiling a few evidence control forms.

The judge sighed loud enough for the entire court to hear him. He gripped his gavel so hard that his knuckles were white and when he spoke, it was clipped and short.

"I'm declaring a mistrial. We have a hung jury. Based on the evidence, or lack thereof, I am recommending to the prosecution that they not attempt a retrial. Court is adjourned."

The judge slammed the gavel down and was already halfway to his chambers by the time the galley was on its feet. Calloway, the US Attorney prosecuting the case, looked green in the gills as Symington, his lawyer, and two bodyguards started to leave the court. There were boos and shouts directed his way. Symington kept smirking that same little smirk that he'd worn the whole time of the trial.

Fischer felt sick as he watched the man leaving the court. Symington scanned the crowd and found Fischer. He winked at Fischer and disappeared out the door with his lawyer and bodyguards in tow.

-----

McNeil's Auto Body Shop
Red Hook, Brooklyn
4:47 PM

Frank Castle's hands were a blur of motion as he stripped his Colt 1911 down to its parts. At this point it was simple muscle memory. He did it purely on instinct while his brain was on autopilot. It seemed like eighty percent of his life was conducted through muscle memory. He ate because he had to, he slept because he had to, and he rarely did anything that was not related to his war.

He'd considered himself a soldier even after coming back home from Afghanistan. He'd never been a big military guy when he was growing up, his parents weren't particularly patriotic. He signed up with the Marines after high school because he didn't have the grades for college and he wanted job security to provide for his wife and family.

But once he became a Marine it all clicked. He found something he never knew he was looking for: purpose. The Marines gave him stability and comfort and a place to achieve something. Even when he went overseas he was at home with the Corps. And then he discovered war. And he discovered that he was a creature of war. Battle was his element even more so than the Corps. He was truly at home knee deep in the shit. Shortly before he left Afghanistan he was actively seeking trouble, wanting to get that thrill by any means necessary. He was a warrior in need of a war.

And now he had his war. It came at a terrible cost, but he had a war that he knew would never end for him. There would be no meddling politicians or confusing geopolitical alliances in this war. It was a war of black and white. He was on one side and the enemy on the other and he would not accept anything less than unconditional surrender.

DING!

Frank waited until he finished putting the pistol back together before he checked his burner phone.

Court tonight. Same time, same place.
-- A

Frank put the phone down and started to strip down the Colt again.

-----

Battery Park
Manhattan
1:09 AM

"-- The courts failed, the FBI failed. The system as a whole failed Symington's victims. I say we finish what they couldn't. It's a no-brainer, guys."

Adrian Chase looked around at the three people gathered in the darkness around the park bench. Outside of a need, they very rarely all met together. Court was an exception. This was court, where one pled their case to the other three as to who was next. By virtue of his profession, Adrian had the advantage when it came to arguments. Right now he was telling them why Symington should be next. As always, Castle seemed emotionless as he listened to Adrian's pitch. Yorkie nodded occasionally and took drags off his cigar. Rachel didn't comment as he spoke, but he could tell she didn't agree with him by the look on her face and her body language.

"I don't know," she said after Adrian finished. "This guy is a scumbag, but do we have proof he's a killer?"

"He ain't the type to get his hands dirty," Yorkie grunted. "But he ruined a lot of people's lives and took their life savings. That ain't killing, but it's damn close."

"Right," said Adrian. "And the malaria vaccines crap. How many people are going to suffer and potentially die from that?"

"We've never done anything like this," Rachel said cautiously. "Never targeted anyone like this."

"That's why we need to do it." Adrian pointed a finger at Rachel and kept jabbing it in the air to make his point. "Our usual targets, drug dealers and pimps, are just symptoms of a disease. Guys like Symington are that disease. They're a hundred times worse than the worst mob boss, they steal and corrupt and take and take and take and keep getting away with it. I signed up for this to make a difference, and this is how we make that difference. If we're going to punish people like the Scargetti Family, we also have to punish people like Symington. Let the world know that we don't care about money or influence. If you do wrong then you will be punished."

"Enough," Castle finally said. "I say yes. Y?"

"Yes," said Yorkie.

"R?"

"No."

"A, do I even need to ask how you vote?"

"I say yes," said Adrian. "Of course."

Castle nodded. "3-1 vote. This Symington guy is our target. R, Y, and I will work recon in the next few days. A? Get with Microchip and get us intel on this guy outside of his day to day routine. I'll want a plan of action from you by next week."

And just like that, Adrian thought, it was over. Where the courts had failed, the four punishers had succeeded. Adrian argued the case and by a 3-1 vote, Symington was found guilty. Now it was time to plan his execution.

Gotham City
Archie Goodwin International Airport

The Gulfsteam V was privately owned.

The tail number, G-V137N, was registered out of the Kingdom of Bahrain to a bank holding company in Manama with assets and accounts that formed a financial spiderweb from Saudi Arabia to Copenhagen and Berlin to Hong Kong, before disappearing into Swiss Geneva. The flight plan had taken the private jet from Bahrain to London, where it had enjoyed some time in Heathrow before journeying from the United Kingdom to the United States.

A lady in a niqab held the passports. Aside from the four air crew -- two pilots, two attendants -- there was just the lady in the mask and a kid. Boy still in elementary school, not even ten years old by the date on his passport. Obaydullah ibn Mustafa Shayat. Kid was light for an Arab, with a pair of green eyes that made the immigration officer wonder at what point the Irish had gone to the Middle East. It caught the immigration officer's eye, but the paperwork was all in order and other people's kids weren't any of his business. So he stamped the visa and welcomed them to the United States.

"...London authorities still urging calm this morning, after gunshots were heard outside of the Palace of Westminster yesterday. Scotland Yard has yet to comment, though sources close to the investigation say that the leader of the House of Lords may have been taken to the hospital."

The televisions overhead in the airport were tuned to CNN, the broadcast showing London's bobbys in their signature yellow slickers blocking the view behind where yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a significant area outside of Parliament. The iconic image of Big Ben looming in the backdrop of England's capital. A smile crept like a shadow across the face of the small boy, a self-satisfied smirk as he walked underneath the news cast.

A limousine was waiting when the woman and the boy stepped outside of the terminal. They hadn't stopped to pick up any luggage, instead walking straight through the airport to get into the back of the car. Airport security cameras captured only a few fleeting glimpses of the car and the passengers before they'd rolled out of sight. Anyone running the plates would come up with a private taxi service and a lot of blank entries.

The woman in the veil took the seat opposite the driver, next to a squat man who was balding gray and with small, round spectacles drooping low on the bridge of his nose. As the boy settled down on the bench seat at the back by himself, he reached across to help himself to a Coke from the fridge and then opened the briefcase that was resting on the seat beside him.

"What the hell is this?" the child blurted rudely. Seated inside of the briefcase, atop a manila folder, was a German made Walther PPS. Subcompact, .40S&W, with a 6+1 standard magazine. A spare clip and a box of ammo were resting beside it. Popping the top on the Coke, the youth reached down with his spare hand to hoist up the small pistol and declare, "I asked for a P239 SAS."

The fat man just seemed amused by the child's ire. "Walther PPs are the gun of choice for James Bond," the man noted, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and removing his glasses. Cleaning them, the man nonchalantly added, "It was that or a Czech-75, which would you prefer?"

"I prefer the SiG."

Blowing on his lenses, the man paused his cleaning to look up. "And I prefer bigger tits," he cracked snidely, with a glance over at the lady in the veil.

Faster than the eye could follow, a rather pointed crochet needle was set against the man's carotid artery.

"...the point is, we don't always get what we want," the man stated flatly, even as a bead of sweat ran down his head.

The boy's expression transformed from confusion, to disgust, to frustration, and finally exasperation. "-tt-" he uttered in a huff, taking a sip of his Coke as he tossed the pistol back into the briefcase and shut the lid.

Stan takes one last drag of his cigarette, his face briefly illuminated in orange, before flicking the remaining nub in the direction of the harbor. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he shivers and lurches forward towards the quiet warehouse. As he approaches the building, he hears the telltale clicking of his partner at work. There, shrouded in darkness, a figure kneels by the nondescript side door. "Hey, Jimmy Valentine," Stan calls out mockingly, "You makin' any progress or what?" Stan exhales, his breath misting in the air, as he complains, "Just hurry up and get it open already! It's colder than a well digger's ass out here."

Shaking his head, Steve holds his tongue and forces himself to focus. Stan's complaining was nothing new; he never appreciated the subtlety required for Steve's work. Applying a gentle clockwise pressure, Steve feels the lock shudder into place. The resulting click confirms that he found the sweet spot. "Got it," Steve announces quietly, reaching up to give the knob a spin. The door to the warehouse swings open, and Steve gathers up his tools. He picks up a flashlight and clicks it on, following Stan inside the building. As the door closes behind Steve, he realizes just how massive this place is. "We sure this is the place?" he asks uncertainly.

"Yeah, yeah, this is the place," Stan assures him. He strides across the warehouse, sweeping the beam of his flashlight across row after row of sealed crates and boxes. "The boss' information is always solid. Everything you see here was once the property of one Silvio Manfredi. Before he went soft and turned himself in, anyway."

Taken aback, Steve replies, "Soft? The guy's own son turned against him. He choked the life out of him with his bare hands! You don't think that'd mess with your head any?"

"It's his own damn fault for raising the little Benedict Arnold and for not being smart enough to realize it sooner," Stan grunts unapologetically. "Anyway, I don't think he's got any need for this stuff now. The boss is smart to swipe it before the cops uncover this place." He stops in place and examines the tags on a few nearby boxes. Waving his flashlight, he says, "Come on. The one we're looking for should be down this way." After another minute of wandering the dimly-lit warehouse, Stan comes to another stop. "That's the one. Help me grab it."

After setting his flashlight atop a nearby crate, Steve steps forward to help Stan lift a large rectangular wooden box off the stack. The two men grunt and groan as they lower the box to the floor, finally setting it down with a dull thud. "Crowbar?" Stan asks. Steve reaches behind his back and produces the tool, handing it across to his older partner. Stan wedges the flat end beneath the lid and gives it a press. After a moment of resistance, the nails holding the lid down finally crack, and the lid pops open. Setting the crowbar on the floor, Stan pushes the lid aside and gives his partner an eager glance. He kneels down beside the box and begins pawing through the layer of wood shavings on top. When his hand hits something hard and cold, he gives a laugh.

Drawing to his feet, Stan pulls a brand new M4 carbine from the box, admiring the rifle greedily. After a moment, he says, "Here. Tell me how that feels," before tossing the rifle to his partner. The off-guard Steve nearly fumbles the catch but manages to cradle the gun in his arms. As he feels the weight of it in his hands, Steve can't help but raise the rifle and feel the weight of the stock against his shoulder. He closes one eye and stares down the sight, a smile creeping across his face. Stan laughs and remarks, "A whole crate load of 'em! With this kinda firepower, we're gonna own these streets."

No sooner has Stan finished talking than there's the soft sound of distant clattering. Steve spins on his heel, forgetting about the rifle as he scans the darkness nervously. A moment of stillness passes, but Steve's dread doesn't diminish. "What was that?" he asks, his voice feeling heavy in his throat.

"Probably just a rat or something," Stan rationalizes. "Nobody knows we're here 'cept you, me, and the boss. Now, help me get the lid back on this thing so we can get outta here." He bends down to retrieve the lid when he notices that Steve hasn't moved. Sighing, he straightens himself and snatches the rifle from his partner's hand. "Hey, you hear me? I'm freezing my ass off, so let's get this thing done." Shaking his head, he returns the rifle to the crate and muses, "This ain't Gotham. It's not like you gotta worry about the Bat."

"No," Steve agrees tentatively, "But he ain't the only one out there. What about the one that's always in the papers? The Spider."

Stan snorts. "If what those papers say is true, he probably just wants to be cut in on this job."

Allowing himself to let go of his fears for a moment, Steve gets to work helping Stan close up the crate. That is, until there's the sound of another, closer clatter. This time, both men are spooked. Stan slowly reaches for the revolver tucked inside the waistband of his Dickies. "Alright, maybe you're right," he concedes. Suddenly, there are footsteps echoing throughout the rafters of the warehouse. Stan draws his gun and aims it wildly at the darkness. A shadow moves, and Stan fires off two quick shots. For a second, the echo of gunshots fill the air. Then, there's a soft hiss as two small orbs land at the men's feet, emitting a thick cloud of gray smoke. Both men hurry to cover their mouths, but the coughing fits have already begun.

"What the hell?" Stan blurts out.

"This ain't Spider-Man!" Steve observes.

A voice calls to them from the darkness. "No. I'm not." Both men turn in the direction of the sound just in time to see the underside of a pair of boots. The swinging kick collides with Stan's chest, sending him stumbling backwards into Steve. The pair of criminals tumble over the crate of stolen rifles, hitting the floor hard amidst the growing cloud of smoke. Before either can react, the shadowy figure delivers one swift kick to each of their heads, rendering them unconscious.





"Pete, wait up!"

At the sound of my favorite voice in the world, I stop and turn around. There, hurrying across the quad to meet me, is perhaps the most beautiful girl in the world: Gwendolyn Maxine Stacy. Her long, golden hair whips back and forth in the light breeze, and the cold has brought out the perfect amount of rosiness in her cheeks. As she catches up to me, she flashes a quick smile, and it's all I can do to will my body not to instantly melt on the spot. Breathing little puffs of fog, she falls in line with me, and we continue walking down the quad. "Where are you headed right now?" she asks.

"Chemistry," I answer. "You?"

"Contemporary American Literature," she replies matter-of-factly.

I scrunch my nose. "Yuck."

Gwen laughs. "I've got to earn that English credit somehow. Besides, not all of us are liberal-arts-hating STEM majors."

Tilting my head, I argue, "I... do not hate the liberal arts. I just... like being employable more."

Upon seeing the self-satisfied grin on my face, Gwen goes slack-jawed and gives me a light punch on the arm. "Peter Parker! You are awful." She continues to shake her head as we turn the corner of the quad, getting some much needed shelter from the biting wind. Whether it's simply my imagination getting the better of me or not, I can swear that Gwen moves a little closer to me. As we walk, our arms are nearly touching. Oh God, I sound like I'm in high school all over again. Still, there's always been an unspoken something between us. I've been hesitant to pursue anything, though, because 1) a rejection would probably shatter me to my core and 2) the superheroing life does not lend itself well to attachments. I've already had to run out on Gwen and the gang so many times that I'm amazed they're even friends with me at this point. If I pull that act in a relationship, I'm sure I'll be persona non grata in this group. If they're forced to choose with siding with Gwen or siding with me, who do you really think they'll pick?

When the silence has hung just a second too long, I decide to break it. "So, any exciting plans for the weekend?"

Gwen shrugs. "Nothing that I can think of. Just waiting for the right opportunity, I suppose."

I'm not imagining this, right? I mean, that was a hint. It had to be a hint! God, I wish figuring out women was as simple as webbing up bad guys. Then again, I'm hardly an expert at that, either. Alright, Pete, you can do this! Just float something out there, see if she takes the bait. Her response will tell you everything you need to know... hopefully. Clearing my throat, I begin, "Well, I actually heard about this Studio Ghibli marathon at a theater just off campus. I don't know if you know anything about them, but--"

Gwen cuts me off. "Are you kidding? I love Castle in the Sky! Do you wanna go?"

It takes me a moment to respond. Not because I have to think about the answer but because I'm wondering how many advance paychecks I'd need from Jonah to buy this girl a diamond ring. With a big grin on my face, I blurt out, "It's a date!" The second the words leave my mouth, I realize what I've said. I can only hope that Gwen attributes the sudden reddening of my face to the cold and not my soul shrinking inside my body.

To my surprise, Gwen takes the turn of phrase in stride. Smirking, she says, "I guess it is."

I've had my share of joyful moments in this life, but this one immediately races to the top. Which, of course, means only one thing: that my trademark "Parker luck" is lurking just around the corner. The only thing I didn't realize is quite how literal that prediction would turn out to be. I'm too busy staring at my own feet, trying to hide my satisfied grin from Gwen, to notice the familiar figure striding in the opposite direction. Gwen, of course, says nothing because the two have never met. But there's no time like the present, eh? So it is, with a sinking feeling in my chest, that I hear the husky voice of Mary Jane Watson.

"Peter? Peter Parker?"

My head snaps up at the sound of it. Mary Jane and I have only met a few times, but she has an unmistakable sound. To think, for almost a year I actively -- violently -- resisted Aunt May's attempts to set me up with her friend's niece. It's not that I doubted Aunt May's ability to judge the attractiveness of a potential mate, but... no, actually, that was it exactly. So it came as a great surprise when she finally cornered me and put me in the same room as the Watson girl. Turns out, she's a total long-legged, red-haired bombshell. And she knew it, too; I believe the phrase she used was "jackpot." We went on our date, and I felt completely enamored and completely out of my depth. MJ radiated charisma, but she also intimidated the Hell out of me. That, plus the fact that I had to cut the night short to deal with some bozo in a grizzly bear costume, meant that nothing much came out of the date. And I was content with that, having flown so close to the sun without getting burned.

"Mary Jane?" I furrow my brow, ignoring the nervous pounding in my chest. I can feel Gwen's eyes darting between the two of us, trying to make sense of what's going on. Frankly, I am, too. "What are you doing here?"

"Your aunt didn't mention anything? I'm thinking about transferring to Empire State. They have an incredible theater program," she explains. Oh yeah, she's an actress and a model. Because of course she is. "I'm just here on a campus visit."

Gwen clears her throat. "Pete, you know this girl?"

Before I can reply, Mary Jane steps between us. She extends a slender, gloved hand. "Mary Jane Watson. My aunt and Peter's aunt are friends."

Tentatively, Gwen shakes MJ's hand. "Gwen Stacy," she answers, "I, uh, go to school with Pete. Obviously." Gwen turns to me with just a hint of suspicion in her eyes. "Pete, you never mentioned Mary Jane before."

I try my best to make a serious thinking face. "I didn't?"

"Don't blame him," MJ interjects. "He's embarrassed by me. Must be why it took so long to get him on a date."

Gwen's eyebrows shoot up. "Date?"

I am standing on a precipice. I have to choose my words and actions carefully, lest I fall to my death. "Just something our aunts schemed up," I insist. "Nothing too serious."

"Must not have been, considering I never got a second one," Mary Jane laughs. "Tell you what, though, you can make it up to me tonight by showing me where a girl can get good food around here." She looks at me with those piercing eyes and waits for a response.

Honestly, if a supervillain wanted to show up and pummel me into the dirt right now, I would welcome it. Carjacker, apartment fire, really anything to get me out of this situation. My eyes pass from one girl to the other, but I'm so nervous that I can't read the expressions on their faces. I know that I can't wait too long to say something, so I try for the safest approach I can manage. "I... suppose I can try my hand at being an ambassador for the university."

MJ smiles. "Great."

"Well, I don't want to get in the way of you two catching up," Gwen offers suddenly.

"Actually, I kind of need to--"

Gwen turns to me. "Pete, text me about that movie this weekend, yeah?" she says a bit more loudly than usual. She turns back to Mary Jane and offers her hand sharply. "It was great meeting you, Mary Jane."

"You too, Gwen," MJ answers sharply.

You know that part in those nature documentaries where two lionesses fight over a gazelle carcass? Guess who's the gazelle carcass.

The Purple Man

A cold, pale fist wrapped against the door.

“H-hello..?” Harry Yeong poked his sweaty head out into the street, regarding the stranger with an odd look, and a slightly out-of-breath demeanor.

“I like your house,” said the Purple Man, plainly “I’m going to be your guest here, indefinitely.”

Harry Yeong’s resolve melted away, as every cell in his body screamed for him to obey the purple man.

“The Wifi passwords on the back of the router.” He said with a smile, stepping back into the well-furnished hallway, and allowing the Purple Man to enter his home.

Kilgrave stepped gracefully passed the asian man, his dark coat tail billowing behind him ever-so-slightly as he swept up the steps and through the door.

“Harry!” screamed a naked woman as she tried to shield herself with a plant pot, dipping in and out of the living room “Why the fuck did you invite him in?!”

“Whose this?” The Purple Man asked Harry Yeong, nodding his head at the naked blonde.

“My next door neighbour’s daughter.” He said with a smile “Her parents and my wife are out of town.”

The blonde woman’s mouth hung open.

“Harry!” she screeched “what the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“Be quiet.” The Purple Man demanded, and she obeyed instantly “let me take a look at you.”

She put the plant pot to one side, and stepped forwards so that Kilgrave could look her up and down.

“Eh, I’ve had better,” He said aloud “this very morning, actually. Nice tits, though. Rather pert.”

He clasped his glove clad hands together, turning to address the pair.

“Right, you two; Out.”

The Purple Man pointed to the door, and they both began to file out into the street.

“Wait!” Come to think of it, the whole ‘no clothes’ thing might attract some unwanted attention. Go and put some clothes on ,you slag, then get out. Find some way to entertain yourself for the next...five hours.”

Kilgrave made his way into the living room, his mud-caked boots leaving blotchy brown stains on the fluffy carpet. He plopped down on the sofa, flicking open Harry Yeong’s laptop.

'5 * dining in my area' he typed into google.

Chloe Van Cleer sat with her long legs spread out across the backseat of the van, listening to the two other thugs bickering as they wound their way down Gotham’s grimey streets, beneath the light of flickering street lamps.

“What are you, six?”

“Yeah, I’m six.Six inches deep in your mom.”

“My mom’s dead, you freak.”

“I promise she wasn’t when I started.”

“I’m two fucking seconds away from snapping your neck, you prissy little lady-boy fuck!”

“Dudes! Chill the fuck out!” Chloe piped up, giving the back of the driver’s chair a firm kick. “At least wait until we’ve got the job done before you start killing each other. I don’t give a fuck what happens once I’m paid.”

“Well, I’m not getting paid enough to work with this bag of dicks.” Fierro grumbled from behind the wheel, his steely eyes fixed on the road.

“You look like you could use a good dicking,” jeered the prissy-looking figure with long eyelashes and a woman’s plump shoulders in the seat next to him “help you loosen up a bit.”

“When the day comes, I’m sure you’ve got a spare one lodged up your ass that you could lend me.”

Tuning out the two gangster’s whining, Chloe caught sight of the tinny blue mini cooper they were on the lookout for.

“Dead ahead, fellas.” she said firmly, pumping her fist against the floor.

“Gotcha.” Fierro nodded, hitting the accelerator, and speeding straight into the back of the car. The vehicles connected with a jagged thud, denting metal and cracking the glass tail lights.

“Rock and roll.”

The two gangsters killed the ignition, unlocking their doors and stepping out into the road, as the driver of the mini leapt out, red in the face and looking ready to curb stomp someone.

“Where did you jokers learn to drive?!” He bellowed, a vein in his forehead bulging.

“Sorry mate, our bad.” Fierro said smoothly, raising his arms in surrender.

“Too right, it's your bad!” He snapped “You better be insured!”

Meanwhile, in the back of the van, Chloe was fastening the straps of her mask over the back of her head, and locking a gas canister into place on her cocoon gun.

She ever-so-gently eased the van’s doors open, clambering down into the road, with her features obscured. She poked her head round the corner of the van.

The target and the goons were all caught up in a heated argument, giving Chloe the perfect vantage point to line up her shot.

She yanked the trigger, and a thick stream of highly concentrated knockout liquid lanced through the air, splattering across the target's face, and putting him to sleep almost instantly. The fumes leaked out into the air around him, and soon the two thugs were swaying, and then passing out and dropping to the floor.

“Sorry, lads,” she muttered from beneath her mask, as she crouched down next to them, pulling a knife from her boots and placing it across the prissy one’s throat “but this way...I become a fuck load richer.”

The Daily Planet, Metropolis

In the Daily Planet newsroom Jimmy Olsen stood over a copy of the morning’s Planet and stared at it. On the front was a picture of the Justice League of America in battle against the Wrecking Crew from the weekend. He sneered at it and flicked the paper open in search of a story on last night’s events in the Suicide Slum. There on page eight was a sixty-word summary of what had happened. Olsen’s face grew red and he muttered under his breath to himself as if preparing himself for something. Clark watched on from his desk in bemusement as Jimmy carried the paper to Perry White’s office and slapped it on his desk.

“Really, Perry? Another piece on the Justice League? Superman saved a girl’s life last night and stopped a riot from breaking out. Surely that deserves something? We’ve been running puff pieces on the Justice League all week.”

Perry White looked up from his computer with a smile. Olsen had been trying in vain to get the Daily Planet to change its editorial position on Superman and the Mutant Registration Act for months. He’d grown a lot since he first started at the Planet. Back then he’d never had the gall to call Perry out. He’d learned since then that in the Daily Planet newsroom a closed mouth didn’t get fed. Between Lois and Clark it was almost impossible to get a good lead unless he asked for it. So now he made sure his voice was heard.

“That’s because the Justice League respect the rule of law, Olsen.”

White let out a sigh and reached for the cup of coffee on his desk.

“Not this again.”

Before Olsen could begin his spiel Clark stepped up from his desk and clapped one of his large hands on Jimmy’s back.

“I think you’re fighting a losing battle there, Jimmy.”

The disappointment on Olsen’s face was almost palpable.

“Not you too, Clark.”

“Come on,” Clark said as he took a look at the watch on his wrist. “Why don’t you let me buy you a coffee?”

Jimmy agreed reluctantly and Clark shot Perry a smile as he saw the relief on his editor’s face. Usually Clark went to lunch with Lois but given that she was out of the office he thought he’d spend some quality time with Olsen. He was one of the few people at the Planet that seemed at all suspicious of Lex. It was something Clark appreciated about him, though he pretended not to share his suspicions, and as they made their way down to the café on the ground floor he regaled Clark with his theories about Lex and the Justice League.

“I just… I don’t get it. Everyone seems to have forgotten that a few years ago LexCorp was selling weapons to the Latv-”

There was a loud bang and the stairway of the Daily Planet seemed to shake with it. Outside of the window Clark could see an explosion in the distance. Jimmy leant to inspect the source of it and when he turned round to ask Kent what he thought it was he found his friend had disappeared.

“Clark?”

The wind whipped past Clark’s head as he tore off his clothes at super speed and revealed the famous red and blue uniform beneath it. With a single bound he lifted himself into the air and projected his body towards the explosion. Even after all of these years the feeling of weightlessness still took his breath away as if it were the first time. As he drew closer and closer to the explosion he heard a series of bangs, each louder than the next one, and a stream of people seemed to be running from its direction. The earth was shaking underneath him and panes of glass slid from their buildings and shattered.

As Clark turned the corner a burst of fire flew past his face and on the ground he spotted a heavy-looking orange man lifting a car overhead. He hurtled it in the direction of the mutant as another man wrapped his body around the mutant’s legs. The mutant shook the earth and deflected the truck away from him and a young woman set it down using her powers.

It wasn’t until he heard that heavy Brooklyn drawl that Clark deduced what was happening. It was The Fantastic Four – and they were in battle with the mutant terrorist Avalanche. Superman prepared to build up speed to knock Avalanche out and bring an end to the fight but Benjamin Grimm got there first. An overhand cross against the chin sent Avalanche to sleep.

As Grimm wandered towards Avalanche he spotted Superman in his periphery vision.


“What sorta time d'ya call this? No wonder the Justice League are putting you out of business, Big Blue. You're sleeping on the job."

St. Paul's Catholic Church

"Thank you for sharing tonight, Digger."

Digger Harkness looked up from his cup of coffee at the woman. The basement of the church was where they held their weekly meetings. Everyone had cleared out for the night and gone home, but Digger always hung around until the very end. He and the woman, Sheri is what she called herself, were the only ones left tonight.

"You've been coming a month now and you've made some real progress on your addiction. Most people want to laugh and make jokes when they think of sex addiction, but you've stuck to the program and made real progress."

To Digger, it was easy to see why Sherry, with her short frame and curvy figure, was a sex addict. She was made for sex, and if Digger had his way he would but her through the ringer to prove it. He had to suppress a wicked grin at that thought.

"It's hard," he said sheepishly. "The temptation is all around us, in the media and in everyday life, to give in and seek that pleasure. It feels so good that... all you want to do is chase it."

"Right," Sheri nodded and took his hand. "But you have to resist those urges."

"I know," he said with a sigh. "No matter how much you want to just bend some woman over and just rail her brains out over and over and over and over again... I mean, to give it to her so good that she screams your name and quivers like jelly."

He began to pull Sheri in closer as he spoke more about what he would like to do. They were close, their lips close together, when someone behind them cleared their throat.

"Digger," Lenny Snart said with a smirk. "Time to go home."

"Good idea," Sheri said, snapping out of her trance. "Good night!"

She hurried off, leaving Digger alone with Snart.

"Cockblocker!"

"Scumbag," Snart replied. "Going to a sex addict support group and trying to get laid, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Digger shrugged and smiled. "Low hanging fruit, mate. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. You should try it the next time Heatwave doesn't want to put out. Now, why are you here? And don't say it's to protect my honor or virtue--"

"We both you have neither, Harkness. We've taking a drive."

---

Digger and Snart watched the action from inside Snart's beaten up Impala across the street. The house they were watching sat on the edge of town in Keystone City. Digger stifled a yawn and checked the clock on the dashboard. It was coming up on six hours since they started the stakeout. The ashtray was filled with cigarette butts from Snart. The guy smoked like a chimney, something Digger could never understand. He had his own vices for sure, but smoking was never one of them.

"There's number six," Digger said as another car pulled up to the house and a passenger rushed towards the door. After a few moments, something passed between the courier and whoever was behind the door before the courier headed back to the car and got in. "One an hour at this point."

"This is it, Harkness," Snart said with a grin, the first time he'd showed something past contempt all night. "All these stops. Sometime in the early morning, someone is going to come out that house with a package and they'll be driven to a bank where a safe deposit box or something is waiting for him."

Digger whistled. "If this is cash they're running a courier route for, think about how much we can get by going into that house just before the final cash run and making off with it."

"Fuck that," Snart said. "This is chickenshit. The Top controls crime through this part of the Midwest, probably as far up as Fargo. Think about how many courier routes there are across the state and several states. I don't want one route, I want the mother lode. I want the bank that holds it and stores it."

"Stealing from the Top," Digger said mostly to himself. "That's dangerous for your health, mate."

"So are these," Snart said, stubbing out a cigarette butt. "But I keep smoking. And besides, if we steal from the Top what's he going to do? Call the cops on us?"

"Naah. Just cut off all our genitals and let us bleed out."

"Good thing you don't have any genitals, right?"

"Right," Digger said with a chuckle. "So we taking this idea to the table?"

"We are. Time for a family meeting."

Midtown Manhattan
10:14 AM

Yorkie Mitchell kept a long leash on his tails. Right now he was nearly a half block away from Sam Symington and his protective detail. Somewhere on the other side of the block Castle watched as well. Yorkie was back tail while Castle was the front tail. They were always the day shift since they didn't have jobs. Tonight, Alves and Chase would take over and watch Symington until he called it a night. Currently, Symington was in a jewelry store while his bodyguards sat in their car and shadowed the store's front door. He had three goons with him currently. Even from this far away Yorkie knew they were carrying weapons under those baggy suits.

"Y. Let's switch off, I work back and you work front. While we trade off, get close to the car and tell me what you can about it."

Yorkie stuck a finger in his ear and mimed like he was picking earwax as Castle spoke to him through the tiny earpiece. When he was done, Yorkie rogered and started walking down the block. He saw Castle from across the street, walking in the opposite direction with a cap covering most of his face. Smart move. Unlike the other three members, he was wanted.

The guards sized Yorkie up as he approached the car but let him pass without hassle. He did his best to observe them while trying to look nonchalant. A few minutes later he took over the front tail and radioed Castle.

"The guards look like ex-military types. There's a logo on the sides and fronts of that SUV. An arrow wrapped in thorns. Said Thornguard underneath it."

"Shit."

"You know them?"

"You remember Hephaestus Security when you were in Afghanistan? That's them, they just rebranded themselves after all that shit."

"Shit."

A PMC company, Hephaestus was believed responsible for the Wadi Massacre. Twenty men, women, and children were found shot dead in a Wadi in Northeastern Afghanistan in 2010. Despite all the fingers pointing towards Hephaestus and its mercenaries, Congress never found any concrete evidence to indict the company. The stink lingered, however, and the name was now synonymous with corporate greed, corruption, and American Imperialism. They once tried to recruit Yorkie after his messy exit from SIS. They promised a hundred thousand dollars a year but couldn't give him Finn Cooley... but Castle could. And that's where his allegiance lay right at the moment.

"What does this mean?"

"We just have to be more careful about how we plan this. Thornguard may be ruthless, but so were the Scargetti Family. Here he comes..."

Yorkie turned and saw Symington exiting the store with two large bags. The bodyguards hurried into place and helped him into the SUV before it took off down the street, blowing past Yorkie on the sidewalk. The windows were tinted, but Yorkie caught the clear image of Symington grinning widely while he held up a Rolex encrusted in diamonds.

-----

One Police Plaza
Manhattan
2:39 PM

Detective Oscar Clemmons looked up when he heard the sound of an elevator opening. He was surprised to have a visitor. Sometimes, whole days would go by down here in the basement and he wouldn't see another human being. If he did, more than likely it was a janitor just passing through towards the utility room down the hall. Clemmons stared over his reading glasses at the open door, expecting to see Ramon coming by with a mop bucket. Instead, he smiled widely when Adrian Chase breezed through the door. Like always, he looked like a million bucks in his expensive three-piece suit and slicked back hair with not one fiber out of place.

"And how is my favorite NYPD one-man investigation squad this afternoon?" Chase asked as he held his hands up and revealed a paper sack in his hand. "I got you a bagel from the place down the street."

A few minutes later Clemmons was eating his bagel while Chase examined the big board on the far wall. It was laid out with a map of Manhattan and the rest of the boroughs. Marked across the map were red pins, a lot more than were there the last time Chase was here. Chase tapped on the pieces of purple thread that were connecting pins together.

"The thread is new, Oscar. What's it represent?"

"Timeline," Clemmons said between bites. "If you accept that each one of those red pins are murders Frank Castle committed, then the purple thread between the two pins represent a murder that he either could not possibly accomplish or would have been hard to accomplish."

"Example?"

"The one near the bottom," Clemmons nodded toward the map. "If Castle strangled a Triad pimp to death that night, then there would be no way for him to have been up in Queens at the same time, shanking a drug dealer. Over the past four months, I've noticed an overlap in a few of the murders and ran it back to at least six months of overlapping vigilante violence."

"So one of the murders isn't a Castle hit, that or Castle has superpowers?"

Clemmons laughed and wiped bagel crumbs from his hands. "Castle with superpowers is a very scary thought. My working theory is this: He's got help. The media is calling him the Punisher, but what if there are Punishers, plural?"

Chase turned away from the board and smirked at Clemmons. "That's a very interesting theory, have you told anyone else about it?"

"I wrote a couple of reports on it and kicked it up to my boss in Intelligence. Haven't heard anything back. Hell, Adrian, I'm here in this basement for a reason. Nobody cares about Castle along as he waste scumbags."

Chase shrugged. "It's a win-win for some people, Oscar. Gets bad guys off the streets for no cost."

"It's more than that, Chase, and you know it."

Clemmons stood up and walked towards the map. He stared at it as he spoke.

"He's a man acting like his own legal system, playing judge, jury, and executioner. No oversight and nothing stopping him. So far he's taken out the worst humanity has to offer, but what happens when he makes a mistake? He will make a mistake and some innocent person will be killed because of it."

"I feel like I had a hand in this. That case, Oscar. It was... I should have won it. If I win that case, Castle gets justice and the Punisher isn't created."

"Hell, we all created him. It wasn't you or me, but all of us. We all silently consented to graft and corruption and apathy in everyday life. What worked for us ruined Castle's life. And now, he's ruining other people's lives by inspiring more vigilantes just like him."

Clemmons pulled at the threads connecting the murders together and sighed.

"Before long this entire map will be nothing but red and purple. How many of those red dots will have actually deserved it?"

"All of them, if we're lucky."

In the interstellar justice system, the people are represented by two sides; the Green Lanterns who investigate crimes and the Guardians who prosecute the offenders. The call came in at seventeen forty-seven, Oa Standard Time. A suspicious death in Sector 2814. That made it my problem. My name is Kai-ro. I carry a ring.


_{THE   PLANET}
U N G A R A

"Aren't you a little short to be a 'ringer?"

Hildabrant von Buron was, among many other things, an autopsy technician and a qualified coroner. She was also something of a legend in the medical community. During the Kree-Xandar War, the fiery red head had been a medic enlisted into the Nova Corps who had been among the first responders to the Scylla III massacre. Images of her running the battlefield and dragging injured back with her had made her something of a poster girl of the war and earned her the name 'Hot Ice Hilda,' a moniker that had stuck with her through the decades -- even though few today knew of the famous Scylla images of a red headed girl sprinting under fire with a Xandar twice her size over her shoulders.

Today, Hilda's red hair had hints of steel gray at the temples. The Kree-Xandar War had ended decades before the young monk had been born, and had lasted decades of hostilities broken up by intermittent ceasefires. Even today, with both government signatory to the Oa Accords, attitudes persisted from the Cold War era.

Holding up his right hand, a holographic representation of police credentials flashed into existence; created through the green energy resonating from the ring on the boy's middle finger. "The facts, if you would, please, ma'am." The young monk wasn't actually speaking English. He spoke in the Lahsa dialect of Tibet. Even still, for all her educational accomplishments, Hilda didn't speak or understand any Earth language. Hell, she'd never even heard of Earth and had no idea what species the short, bald alien before her represented. What he said, and what she'd heard, hadn't been entirely the same. He was speaking Tibetan and she was hearing the Xandar language.

It was another facet of the ring on the boy's hand.

Forged from the battery of green energy on the planet Oa, the ring had served the cosmos for generations. It had first belonged to Starkaðr. Like him, a Green Lantern. One of many, part of an organization dedicated to preserving peace and order through the rule of law. After Starkaðr's death, the ring had chosen a member of this planet, an Ungaran, named Abin Sur. Like the Green Lantern before him, Abin Sur had put his life on the line to serve and protect the people of an expanding universe. But everything that had a beginning must also have an end.

The search for a successor to such legendary heroes as Starkaðr and Abin Sur had brought the ring to the most unlikely of places, a world whose people had yet to reach beyond the atmosphere of their own planet and whose society and technology were not yet ready to join the galactic community. There, in a Buddhist monastery atop the Himalayas, it had found a boy. A young monk of Tibet, humble in demeanor and meek in speech. Such qualities could be quickly dismissed as weakness, yet the ring had seen something else. Something deeper.

It had chosen him, and by so doing brought him into a larger universe. One in which the Green Lanterns functioned to try and maintain the laws laid out to keep spacefaring civilizations functioning as populations bloomed across worlds seeded throughout the 3,600 sectors of known space.

"Male Grund, age thirty-five," the former Nova Corps medic stated, pulling back the sheet that had covered the body of a squat, rotund alien. The yellow pigmentation of his skin had faded to an off white.

A green light leapt from the boy's hand, sweeping across the body a moment before a muted chirping noise emitted from the device on his finger. "Cause of death was a myocardial infarction, likely triggered by the toxins in his digestive tract prompting sudden organ failure."

The woman looked surprised, momentarily speechless, before she postulated, "Synaptic interface?"

The ring was connected to his mind, like a monitor connected to a computer. "Correct," the boy answered simply. "Which does not account for how the toxins came to be there."

"Sometimes medical scanners are no match for an old fashioned postmortem," Hilda opined aloud, gesturing to several trays containing a series of organs, fluids, and other unattractive facets of biological life better kept on the inside of a body. "He was body packing narcotics. Glitter, it's a..."

"...psychotropic compound, from the pollen of the genus lyca suplentae found on the planet Nok," the boy supplied seamlessly. "First developed as a pharmaceutical for the treatment of disassociative disorders in Quists, until further testing revealed strong addictive effects and organ damage in most humanoid races. It is banned in forty-seven jurisdictions, considered a class-IV biotoxin on Lotaria, and..."

"Fancy ring. Expansive database. Got it," the doctor said, holding up her hands in defeat. "The bag burst, and the drug was absorbed through the intestinal tract into the bloodstream."

"Lyca suplentae is incapable of growing in the environment on Ungara," the young Lantern noted aloud, brooding as he tucked his chin down and tapped the side of his face with one hand. So the narcotic had to originate from somewhere off world. The Ungarans had a respectable system for screening passengers arriving to their world so, logically, the Grund had been working as a courier.

So who on this world had the narcotics been intended for?

And who had gotten packed the drugs inside of the Grund?

Questions. Neither of which he was going to answer here. Glancing back up, the boy merely gave a nod of his head in respect as he said, "Thank you for your assistance."

Downtown, Metropolis

As Superman touched down beside the Thing a broad smile crossed his face. The last time he'd seen the Fantastic Four they had been fighting off a character that called himself the Super Skrull. Unlike Clark, the Fantastic Four spent most of their time either off-world or travelling through the dimensions in search of advanced civilisations. Richards was the premier mind that Earth had - cleverer even than Tony Stark or Bruce Wayne. The technology the Fantastic Four salvaged from their missions were almost always turned into some new invention, almost always in aid of curing some once thought of incurable disease or something else equally charitable. In short, in a world full of heroes, the Fantastic Four were the real heroes.

Clark patted Ben on the back by way of greeting.

"It’s a pleasure to see you too, Ben."

"Superman, it’s been too long. How are you?" Reed said as he stretched out a hand towards Clark. "You look stronger than before. You should stop by the Baxter Building some time so I can run some tests."

Superman shook his head.

"Thanks, Reed, but I’m not too keen on labs. What brings the Fantastic Four to Metropolis?"

Sue arrived next to her husband, placed a loving hand on the small of his back, and rested her head on one of her shoulders. Though Grimm was the powerhouse of the group, Sue was its backbone - her quiet strength was what held the Fantastic Four together through thick and thin. It had been Sue, not Reed, that had helped Ben come to terms with his appearance. Though her fiancé was often too focused on his research to notice the little things she did for him, it was clear even to Clark that without Susan Storm there would no Fantastic Four.

"Well, we were passing through and Reed decided he just had to pick Lex’s brain about something."

Johnny Storm touched down next to Clark, Reed, Sue, and Ben and gave the unconscious Avalanche a nudge with his foot.

"Looks like poor old Avalanche couldn’t have chosen a worse time to try to rob a bank."

Ben gave Johnny a playful jab in the side. At last, it was meant to be playful. What passed for a playful jab from the Thing was a normal person's sledgehammer to the chest.

"Pah. You can talk, last I checked I was the one doing all the heavy lifting, Matchstick."

Johnny staggered several feet before regaining his footing. There was a burst of flame as Johnny reignited and shot towards the Thing at speed. He rocked Grimm with an uppercut that knocked Ben back a step or two but didn't seem to do him any real damage.

"You want to go, ugly? Name the time and place."

Clark watched on in bemusement as the two threw blows back and force at one another mere seconds after having downed Avalanche. People in the buildings overlooking them had their phones trained on them as Thing batted successive fireballs away and Johnny darted just outside of Grimm's reach. Clark looked to Sue for an explanation.

"Are they always like this?"

He was met by an exasperated look.

"You’d be surprised."

With an extension of her hand Sue Storm created a forcefield between her brother and Ben. The latter tested the strength of the forcefield with one of his rock-like fists before eventually conceding he wasn't going to make it through. Johnny powered down and, convinced the hostilities were done, Sue let the field melt away into nothing.

"You’re more than welcome to accompany Sue and I to the Watchtower, Superman – I’ve heard Lex has made some improvements to the building since my last visit."

Clark turned a blushed red with embarrassment and Johnny let out a knowing chuckle.

"Haven’t you heard, Reed? Big Blue and Lex don’t exactly see eye to eye."

The smug look on Johnny's face disappeared as Clark looked at him, unimpressed.

"Thank you, Johnny. I’m flattered, Reed, but I’m sure I’d just hold you and Lex back. Do make sure to send him my regards though."

Ben's orange rock brows contorted into a frown as he realised that Reed had omitted his and Johnny's name from the trip to the Watchtower.

"Hey! What about us? Can’t we come to the Watchtower too?"

Reed looked to Sue for help and she shrugged her shoulders. Sensing the awkwardness, Reed cleared his throat and then looked to Ben and Johnny with a sheepish grin.

"I’m not sure I trust the pair of you not to break something. You’ll have to find some way to keep yourself busy whilst your sister and I speak to Lex. And please try to stay out of trouble this time."

The sound of Lois Lane's voice in the newsroom across town caught Clark's attention and he reached out his towards Reed with a friendly smile.

"I had better get going. It was nice to see you all again."

Reed shook Superman's heartily and the Fantastic Four stepped back to allow Clark some space to depart. He flicked his cape away from his body and bent his knees. In one bound he took to the air and shot back towards the Daily Planet building. As he flew off into the distance the Fantastic Four watched him fade into the horizon, his red cape fluttering behind him as he went, and Ben Grimm elbowed Johnny Storm in his side with a teasing smile.


"Now that’s flying."

Cedar Rapids, Iowa
1:14 AM

Johnny Frost drove the Cadillac while Dean Swarbrick rode shotgun. One car a quarter mile ahead of them on the interstate was the only vehicle on the road. The radio played classic rock, the only type of music that was one midwestern radio stations that the two of them could stand. Swarbrick cracked the passenger window and started to light up a cigarette.

"Not in my car," Frost snapped. "When we drive your shitbox, you can stub your smokes out on the seat. But in my car, you don't fucking smoke."

"Jesus Christ, alright."

Swarbrick tucked the pack back into his jacket, right beside his holstered, still warm Sig Sauer. The car in front of them turned off the interstate, leaving them alone on the road. Cedar Rapids was a shithole, to put it mildly. He'd be glad to put it in his rearview mirror and get back to Central City. The job was done, save for this last little task, and they should be back home before the sun was up. Thirty miles outside of Cedar Rapids, Frost pulled off the interstate and found a back road with a wide open field.

"This looks good enough," Swarbrick said as Johnny pulled off the road and slowly drove across the field.

"Heads or tails," Johnny asked.

"Heads."

Frost flipped a quarter in the air. He snagged it out of the air and smacked it on the back of his hand. When he pulled it away, it was heads up.

"Shit. Best out of three?"

"Fuck you," Swarbrick laughed. "Get to digging."

They got out and let the car run. While Swarbrick got a shovel out of the backseat, Frost popped the trunk and lifted it up. The dead body of Robert Hess looked up at him. A neat little hole in his forehead leaked blood and brain matter. A plastic tarp in the trunk kept the blood from staining Johnny's upholstery. Hess, formerly the owner of Hess Trucking and Transport, had been skimming his monthly tribute to the Top and pocketing ten grand a month. When the Top's people found out about it, they sent Frost and Swarbrick to send a message. Whoever took over for Hess would know not to fuck with the Top's money.

Swarbrick smoked and watched Frost digging into the ground. They traded off when Frost needed a break. They threw off their coats and jackets, digging in rolled up shirt sleeves with their shoulder holsters still strapped on. After an hour, they had a hole deep enough to put Hess in. Swarbrick was nearly done filling the hole with Hess in it when Frost's cellphone rang.

"Yeah?... Yeah... we're almost done here... Yeah, no later than eight in the morning... yeah... Okay."

"What was that?" Swarbrick asked as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

"Something's going down back at home. They need some muscle."

"Of course."

Swarbrick packed the earth down with the shovel and smoothed it out as much as possible.

"We got time to stop at IHOP on the way home?"

"Sure."

-----

Shake Shack
Central City, Missouri
2:52 AM

"Is that comic sans?" Electro asked with a raised eyebrow.

Lenny Snart rolled his eyes. He should have never let Digger do the presentation. He and Digger and the rest of their gang, The Rogues, were gathered in the back of the greasy fast food place where Mirror Master worked during the day. Right now, McCullough was still dressed in his work uniform instead of his outfit. Digger tapped a few buttons on the laptop resting on the counter and clicked to another slide.

"'Our lucrative plan involves stealing a shitton of money and keeping it,'," Digger said as he read the large, bolded comic sans words on the screen.

"'Are you up for an exciting and different business plan? Are you ready to seize the initiative?'"

"What's the plan," Heatwave grumbled. "We don't have all night for this shit."

"Mirror Master, can we get some burgers?" Rhino asked.

"No," McCullough said. "My register was short two dollars this evening and Mr. Ericson already gave me a verbal warning. He's on my ass."

"Isn't your boss like twenty years old?" asked Electro.

"Yeah... little asshole makes me call him mister."

"Focus," Snart snapped. "I agree with Michelle. Cut the bullshit and get down to it. The bare bones of the plan is this: The Top has a cash stash somewhere, and odds are it's within a few hours drive from Central City. There is no way in hell he wouldn't have too far away. I know where the money train starts, but we need to run it down to the hub and proceed from there."

"Stealing from the Top would put a huge target on our backs," Heatwave said with a shrug. "I'm cool with it."

"That's why I love you." Snart winked. "What about the rest of you? This is a plan that could get us a lot of money, but dead men can't spend a dime."

"A million dollars buys a lot of burgers," Rhino said mostly to himself. "I'm in."

"That's one. Show of hands?"

Without fail, the rest of the Rogues all raised their hands.

"Democracy," said Digger. "Ain't it wonderful?"

I've never been a "morning person."

My mother had a saying: "Life is locomotion. If you're not moving, you're not living." She'd pull that line on me whenever I'd try to get away with laying in bed all day. Old habits die hard, I guess; even as I grew older, I never quite got the hang of mornings. If Mom were alive today, though, she'd be a proud woman. Nowadays, I usually beat my alarm to the punch, and today is no different. Just one of many tiny, life-altering side effects of being the fastest man alive: I don't need as much sleep anymore. Rising from the bed, I open the blinds and admire the city. My city. Downtown Central City expands in every direction from my window, and just beyond the horizon lies Keystone, our sister city. This has always been home to me, but now that I've covered practically every square foot of the Gem Cities, I feel a particular connection to them.

I go about my morning routine at normal speed. In addition to the fact that I've got a roommate who'd be very surprised to learn my secret, I simply feel no need to rush. When your morning commute is nothing more than a momentary jog, you have the privilege of taking your time. Before hopping in the shower, I put on a pot of coffee so that it'll be ready when I get out. I don't need the caffeine -- in fact, too much makes me jittery, and jittery means accidental phasing -- but like I said earlier: old habits. After the shower, I get dressed and emerge to find my roommate Vin having helped himself to the first cup from the fresh pot. In the early days of my "new" life, Vin would bust my chops about actually seeing me in the morning, but he's since adjusted to the new routine. Besides, he gets fresh coffee out of the deal sometimes, so he's pretty satisfied.

"Gonna catch some bad guys today, Officer Gonzales?" I ask as I pour myself a cup.

Moving past me to set his cup in the sink, Vin replies, "I will if you lab geeks get me my evidence."

I smile over the rim of my cup. "We will if you uniforms don't contaminate our crime scenes."

Vin claps me on the shoulder as he crosses the kitchen. "See you out there, then," he offers before grabbing his hat off the counter and making for the door.

Not long after, I see that it's time for me to head out. I want to make a quick round of Central City before settling in at the Crime Lab. Slipping the ring of Harrison Wells' design over my finger, I give the tiny button on it a press and hear the sound of escaping gas as my suit expands to full-size. Seconds later, I'm clad head-to-toe in red and ready to say good morning to my city. Starting at my apartment, I zigzag north and east, passing Mercury Labs and the Central City Picture News building. I stop briefly to assist a motorist with a stalled engine, rubbing my hands together fast enough to build up a static charge that brings his vehicle back to life. A grateful handshake later and I'm already skirting the northern city limits. I turn south at the Missouri River and start knifing back towards the heart of downtown. A skateboarder loses his balance and nearly faceplants before I gently set him down on a nearby bench. All that leaves me just enough time to zoom past a sightseeing bus and give the folks on the upper deck a quick wave as I pass by.

After a quick change back into my civilian clothes, I approach the CCPD Central Precinct. Here, unbeknownst to everyone, the Flash plies his trade as a lowly forensic scientist. As I make my way up the steps towards the building, I notice a relative lack of loiterers. Usually, this entrance is packed with officers, both uniformed and plainclothes, coming and going. Even inside the building, the reception area is mostly vacant. I shake my head slightly at the curiosity and simply make my way to the elevators. Emerging on the third floor for the Crime Lab, I find that empty, too. Well, save for one fixture that I can always count on: James Forrest, resident DNA analyst and sailing enthusiast. He's parked behind his desk with a greasy Big Belly Burger bag on his lap.

"Hey, Forrest," I announce as I enter the lab. I head over to my desk and drape my jacket over the back of a chair. "What gives? Where is everyone today?"

Covering his mouth with the back of his hand, Forrest murmurs, "Most of 'em went to go watch the groundbreaking ceremony for the Flash Museum." He nods to a nearby television set which, while muted, shows Mayor Anthony Bellows giving a speech behind an outdoor podium. Swallowing a mouthful of patty and grease, Forrest adds, "They said the Flash is gonna be there in-person to commemorate the occasion."

My eyes widen. "That was today, wasn't it?" I think aloud. I hastily grab my jacket off the back of my chair and check my watch. "Actually, now that I remember it, I think I'm gonna join them. Thanks, Forrest!"

Burger in mouth, Forrest gives me a confused look. As I head for the elevators, he says in muffled voice, "But you just got here!"

You'd think becoming the Flash would mean that I would stop running late for things, but all the superpowers in the world can't change bad habits. It would've been so simple to set a reminder on my phone about today or something, but no, I trusted myself to remember. Well, it's a good thing Forrest would rather stay in and clog an artery than attend something like this, or I would've felt pretty foolish about this afterwards. I mean, when your city announces plans for a museum in your honor, it's a little ungrateful not to attend the groundbreaking ceremony!

I arrive at the ceremony not a moment too soon, as it sounds like Mayor Bellows is starting to wrap up his speech. Coming to a sudden stop behind the stage, I nearly give one of the stagehands a heart attack and send the papers on her clipboard flying. Once she gathers herself, she presses a finger to her headset and announces quietly, "He's here." Up on stage, Mayor Bellows tilts his head and glances back at us.

"Well, I'm sure you've all heard about enough of me at this point," the Mayor jokes, drawing a gentle laugh from the crowd. "Without further ado, I am proud to introduce the man without whom we wouldn't be here today, in more ways than one. Please join me in giving a warm hand for the man of the hour, our Scarlet Speedster, the Flash!"

The open area around the stage erupts in applause and more than a few yells. The Mayor himself steps back from the podium and joins in the clapping. After a deep breath, I step up onto the stage and raise an appreciative hand high. The crowd noise swells, and I feel a smile overtake my face. I zoom the length of the stage, appearing suddenly at the Mayor's side, much to the assembly's shock and delight. I shake the Mayor's hand, offer a quiet word of thanks, and take my place behind the podium. Giving the crowd a quick scan, I spot more than a few familiar faces. Captain Darryl Frye, my adoptive father figure. Roscoe Dillon, industrial and philanthropist. Tina McGee, head of Mercury Labs. Yet among all those faces, I find the one I'm looking for.



Iris. Still grinning ear to ear, I force myself to look away from her as I address the crowd, "Thank you all, really. This reception is more than I could have ever hoped for. To be honest, when I heard that you guys were making a museum about me, I thought you were crazy." The crowd laughs. "Seriously, it is an incredible honor, and I only hope that I'm worth it. You have my word that I'll work every day to deserve something like this."

A voice cries out, "WE LOVE YOU, FLASH!" It sets off an echo of cheers.

"The feeling's mutual," I reply, leaning into the mic. "Now, let's do this." I turn to the Mayor and give him a nod. He, in turn, is handed a shovel adorned with a big red and yellow bow. I begin to make my way across the stage towards the preordained spot, a roped-off square of dirt where the Flash Museum will one day stand. Just then, the communicator embedded in the earpiece of my cowl chirps to life.

_{<This is Captain Marvel to Justice League; looks like this protest is turning into a riot, feel free to you know... help. If you want. You know how the Brotherhood gets.>}

I maintain my cheerful appearance and take my spot next to Mayor Bellows. We each place a hand atop the shovel and drive it into the dirt in unison. The crowd applauds, and a million camera flashes go off. The Mayor shakes my hand, and we pose for a few more photographs. Finally, though, with the pomp and circumstance over, I can keep Carol waiting no longer. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor, but I've gotta run."

Just like that, I'm a streak on the wind, crossing the Van Buren Bridge into Keystone and headed west. Once I'm clear of the city limits, I kick it into the next gear, going supersonic. The resulting shockwave sends ripples across fields of wheat and corn. My surroundings disappear in a blur, and I lose track of everything but the run. Green and yellow plains melt into the oranges of the desert. As I crest the Sierra Nevada, I begin throttling back down in preparation for the more populated areas. Coast City appears on the horizon, and I follow the sounds of chaos to their source. There, Captain Marvel stands alone against mob of incensed protesters. I zoom up beside her, my limbs still vibrating and crackling with Speed Force energy.

"So. This is going well."

Ivy wiggled her toes as she waited. Her digits burrowed into the cool soil. She could feel it's pain radiate up her legs. The Power Station was sucking life out of the surrounding earth. The power station was owned by the Polish Energy group¹. And it hadn't pinged her radar even once over the past few years despite it being ranked one of Europe's worst polluters. She kept up with all sorts of environmental activist groups. And according to her sources the power station's owners, PEG, had signed a memorandum of understanding that they'd build or fund another plant to capture and store the first plant's emissions². The deadline had been 2011³, but everyone knew bureaucracy moved slowly. It wasn't until the 2014 reports came out naming Bełchatów Power Station "the most climate-damaging power plant in the European Union" by the European Commission. The plant had emitted roughly 37.2 million tonnes of CO₂ in 2013⁴.

Unforgivable. And still nothing changed. The PEG made no more advances to hinder or prevent their ways and continued to let the plant pollute the world. There was no recompense for the PEG. They just flaunted their misdeeds and got away with it. For too long. Soon Ivy would bring a reckoning down upon their heads. Something they'd never forget.

Ivy's mouth twitched up into a smile and she gave a small croon to her tree she was leaning against.

"Soon my love. Soon." She ran a a hand up and down it's bark. She could feel it's shortened life span. So near the plant it was strangled. She passed a little bit of her strength to the tree. It wasn't much, but all she could spare. She'd need everything she had if she was going to raze Bełchatów to the ground. All the life here was crying out for vengeance.

Of course soon was all relative. She needed a time when the station was least active. It would do no good to destroy it only to have it explode and kill the plants she was trying to save. Which, consequently, meant she needed to wait until night time. Luckily for the men who worked there for they'd all be home for the night. Except for the night crew. Hopefully they could all run.

Ivy watched as the men departed. Her green eyes sharp and dangerous. She knew no one saw her because her lovelies hid her from sight. She could see out of the little wooded area she was in, but no one could see in. As soon as the last worker left for the night Ivy pulled herself away from the tree. It tried to cling to her but she pushed it gently away.

"Hush my love." Ivy whispered to it. "Mommy's going to destroy this nasty Power Station and make you feel better. I promise."

With on final caress Ivy pulled away for the last time and started walking towards the station. The towering smoke stacks were visible even through the trees. The stacks were among Poland's tallest free standing structures⁵. But soon that list would have to be revised.

Ivy's bare feet stopped at the chain link fence blacking her way. The red headed woman raised an arm and a thick tree root burst from the ground and smashed through the fence. Bits of dirt rained down on her but Ivy didn't notice. She was already walking through the new hole.

Ivy walked casually all the way up to the front doors when two men with guns burst from inside. They shouted at her in Polish. Ivy didn't have to understand the language in order to know their meaning. The guns were trained on her unfailingly. So, Ivy offered them a small smile and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender.

---

^1-4en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Be%C5%82chat%C3%..