J o h n C o n s t a n t i n e

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"A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames
No light, but darkness visible
Served only to discover sights of woe,



"It's not always like it is in the books."
- John Constantine

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Fire. Oh god, fire. Licking flames marred the horizon like the ridges of mountains, burning nothing and everything. It seemed to absorb light rather than emanate it, exuding a thick blackness that, nonetheless, still illuminated the twisted landscape in a way that made John feel nauseous. Far below him, pinpricks of agony went on in their suffering, skewered and crushed and lashed, their torture brazen and subtle and unending. Stronger souls put on airs of resistance, stifling their own screams, while in the distance the more wretched spirits simply writhed in dirt and scum, the pain and torment of this place etched into their very being by the eons. Others had been twisted into obscene parodies of Man, a mocking affront to God through the perversion of His most beloved creation. All was curated by devils, convicts of this prison who had made their cells their kingdoms, and overseen by their demonic generals. John conjured their names to mind, each flitting in and out of his consciousness like nymphs through the glen, their eagerness to be known and dreaded imprinted behind his eyes: Mammon, King of Worms and Wealth, eyes searching ever downwards for gold; Belial, the Impure Lord, destroying all that lies before and behind; Moloch, the False Idol, who feasts upon children; Mulciber, Mockery of the Creator, great architect of sorrows and sin; and Beelzebub, Lord of Flies, devourer of carcasses and mouthpiece of Satan. Ah, Satan, the Most Unclean, the Son of Perdition, the Father of Lies, the Dragon, the Beast, the Adversary; Lucifer, King of the Bottomless Pit. A story old as anything, and John had done his research in Ravenscar. He was here - he was always here - but John would escape his gaze for now.

Somewhere, off in the distance, a light blinked into life among the flames, a burning point of pure white that outshone the oozing darkness of the fire surrounding, piercing through all of Hell's great disgust to focus John's attention completely. He felt himself moving, no longer transfixed by the cavern's horror, and stumbled forwards, legs battling against the mire of dark, sickly discharge that seemed to ebb from the ground itself and coat the earth. His feet were drenched, and as he advanced - somehow passing over the void of agony that lay beneath him, apparently existing on a separate plane - the mire clung to him ever more tightly, climbing past his ankles to lap at his shins, then his knees, each step requiring twice the effort of the one preceding, until John was dragged onto his hands, crawling and dragging his body toward the white light that beckoned him, his journey taking him millenia, but the light never moving, never getting closer, but always reaching out to him, as if to say keep going, John. Keep crawling. Come for me. Just a little bit further...

He slumped into the mire, the mud overtaking him as exhaustion took hold. The ground enveloped him, swallowed John whole, and he could feel himself suffocating, drowning in the viscous, foul liquid for centuries before he was spat out below, the pinpricks he had looked upon so long ago growing larger and larger as he fell to join them. He craned his neck upwards, hoping for any sign of that light, the beautiful, pure shining star that had goaded him forth.
There was nothing but inky blackness.
Not even the flames.
But still, the voice echoed around him.

Save me, John. Come for me. Save me. You put me here, John Constantine. You put me here. Save me, John.

---

"I CAN'T." He yelled back, startling himself awake with the forcefulness of his reply. There was a bubble of silence, and then John drew the first ragged, stale breath of the day, and it was broken; the sounds of traffic and the city filtered in through his window, and he could hear the creaking of floorboards above him, the faint sounds of strong, angry words floating down through his ceiling. The sun shone harshly outside, spilling onto his bed, and John threw off his covers, propping himself up as he wiped his face of sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. This was the fourth night of the same dream, and it had always played out the same way. Failure, accusation, and tortured pleading. John sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as shaky hands fumbled around in the drawer of his bedside table to find the lighter and the nearly-empty pack of Silk Cut cigarettes that dwelled within, a fag quickly finding its way to his mouth in one hand as the other flipped the lighter open and lit the wick. He held the flame to the end of the cigarette and drew deeply as it caught alight, drawing the toxic smoke into his lungs and pushing it out in one motion. His heart began to calm itself, though his mind still raced. These were not mere nightmares, imagined illusions of horror born of external stress. These were deeper, more vivid - John would say premonitions were he not a cynic. But a cynic he was, and he was quite content to endure these dreams for as long as they would persist, a subconscious desire to be punished eager to inflict such lucid terror when John's waking mind was not there to suppress his inner demons.

^{"I am in his kingdom, John."}
John flinched, ducking sharply as he reacted to the vicious whisper that came from just behind his shoulder. He stood from his bed, cold air stinging his naked torso as the duvet fell from around his shoulders. Smoke from the lit cigarette drifted lazily upwards, ash falling to the ground and pooling around John's feet. The room was empty save for him, but the voice had been so clear and direct that even the deepest cynicism John could muster failed to dispell the belief that something - someone - had just spoken to him.
_{"Find the house of Nergal, John."}

"Fuck off." John said loudly, and then he heard a stomp on his ceiling as the 88-year-old lady above disapproved of his vulgarity. The room was still again, and John poised himself for a third intrusion, carefully sucking on his cigarette as he moved across the bedroom to his closet, fishing out a shirt and a pair of slacks, pulling the trousers over his legs and buttoning his collar as the keen silence of his apartment remained steadfastly unbroken. He didn't want to think about who was talking to him, delivering ominous, cryptic messages and pleading commands. Instead, he pushed his tie up to the top of his collar and walked out of the bedroom, leaving his dreams and spectral visitor behind him. In the kitchen, he stubbed his cigarette out on an ashtray that sat in the center of the small round table and snatched his coat from where it hung on the door, slinging it over his form while his free hand snatched the flask from the inside pocket, feverishly pulling and twisting at the cap before he swung it to his mouth, taking a large gulp. He stowed the flask again, and held a hand out, parallel to the ground. It twitched slightly, and Constantine drew it into a fist until his knuckles were white and his fingers ached with the pressure. Smoke rose from the cracks between his fingers and he opened them, fire bursting from his palm and smoldering painlessly. He watched the flames dance across his skin, lashing at his wrinkles and hopping the callouses at the base of each finger. The voice from his dream echoed in his head as the flames span round and round. The house of Nergal...

John's cigarette burnt to its last end in the ashtray as the door to his apartment slammed shut behind him, another already lit and hanging from his lips as he took the stairs two at a time down towards the building's lobby.

"This is it for me," Handy McKay said from the passenger seat of Parker's car. "This is my last job, Parker. I can't do this anymore."

Parker didn't respond. Parker and McKay had been working together off an on for nearly a decade and every job they worked together was always going to be Mckay's last. He was tired of the life, he couldn't keep taking the risk, it wasn't worth the headaches. But yet here he was, sitting int he car in the shadow of a housing project he was about to rob.

"Shit has just changed so much, Parker. What happened to the guys like us, huh? The strongarm guys and the yeggmen?"

"Dead, retired, or in jail," said Parker. "It's the crook retirement plan. Pick one of the three."

"Yep, and there aren't any new kids coming up to take their place. We're the last of a dying breed."

Parker just nodded. Handy was right about that. Thanks to computers and the internet, the way thieving was done was completely different than when Parker had first started robbing. Fifty years ago, guys like Parker and Handy were all over the place. Professional hijackers, safecrackers, highwaymen formed their own shadow working class across the country. Now? The best thief in the world was probably some fat teenager sitting in his underwear in Estonia, stealing credit card information by the hundreds.

In the past few years guys like Handy always asked themselves and Parker the question of why. Why did they still do it? Why run the risk when there were easier rackets out there where they could make just as much, if not more, money? Parker couldn't answer for guys like Handy, but he knew why he was still out here. It was because he was good at it. And he knew that if this were fifty years ago, he'd be considered the best thief in the world. If guys like Thomas Segel subscribed to a type of Economic Darwinism, then Parker was a full believer of Criminal Darwinism. He was the meanest, toughest, son of a bitch out here and he would rob and take whatever he wanted until he was stopped.

Down the block from where they sat was an open-air drug corner. They watched as a crew of three teenagers served customers who walked up on foot or who drove up in cars. In the half hour they'd been watching at least twenty people had come through to get their fix. Parker did the quick math in his head, but before he could get it out of his mouth Handy beat him to the punch:

"They probably clear close to five grand a day," he said. "And that's just one corner. Skeevers has all the drug corners on this side of town and runs product through all the housing projects."

"Skeevers has to be making at least twenty grand a day," said Parker. "All that money has to be collected from the corners to go somewhere. I'm betting it's the tower."

Thanks to Segel's connections, Parker and Handy had gotten a blueprint of the Finger Homes. The main building was a twelve story tower. Surrounding it were four low-rise housing complexes. All told there were two hundred units and apartments with which to hide drugs, money, and whatever else could be hidden.

"We need to get closer," Parker said as Handy lit up a cigarette. "We need to get into the project house."

"Good luck," said Handy, blowing smoke. "They'll see a big white guy like you coming a mile away. Even a brother like me, I'm not from the homes so they're going to be looking at me funny. I'm telling you, Parker, I grew up in the PJ's. Those corner boys are watching everything."

Parker scowled. How in the hell would they get in to do recon, much less to actually pull the job, if their every move was being watched? Parker was beginning to regret ever living Tampa for this shit show.

"We need a finger, that's for sure," said Handy. "Around these parts, that's going to be easy. We flash some cash at one of these small fish dealers and they'll sell out their mama. Still doesn't help us the day of. We need a way to get into the projects without anyone paying us attention."

A car zoomed down the street past Parker's parked car and came to a skidding stop beside the drug corner. The black car's light flashed blue as three plainclothes detectives jumped out and started to rush towards the fleeing drug dealers. Even the junkies and neighbors all started to make themselves scarce as another unmarked police car came into the area and joined the chase after the runners.

"What if we don't go in quiet," Parker said with a nod towards the cop cars. "What if we go in loud and bright, and doing so in a way to make people avoid us like the plague."

"Son of a bitch," Handy said with a grin. "And mamma always said I'd look good in uniform."

P A S T // 2003

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“I’ve heard you’re some kind of justicar out in the outer rim, is that true?”

It had been some time since Thaddeus Bach had needed to engage in small talk; a realization he was grossly reminded of as he crossed his arms, a scowl forming on his lips as the representative greeted him on the space station. Word had reached him through his communications terminal that a very particular job was looking for someone with a very particular pedigree and a very particular set of ethics; Bach’s sort of particular. A job inquiry that had at the very least piqued his curiosity given that few even knew who he was given that “The Ghost of the Outer Rim” hadn’t been a very popular man and Bach made it his business to be very difficult to find, less alone sought out for.

There was only one type of person who could have the sort of connections it took to find him— someone so powerful that not only did they know how to find him, that they knew how to contact him. So powerful that they couldn’t hold their meeting over communications channels.

“Depends who you ask.”

The representative walked forward, a hearty laugh leaving their lips as they continued down the corridor.

Bach didn’t smirk; not even a little. He had lost his taste for the sort of conversation that he was once adept at— in his past, as a member of the vanguard that protected the Outer Rim planet of Eidolon IV, he was good at talking to people and getting them to sing their tune his way; in recent years he just preferred to break their bones rather than play charismatic diplomat.

“This better not be a trap.” Bach’s tone was forceful, dangerous.

“It isn’t.” The tone of the messenger was jittery, but it was more as a quick reaction to his threat.

Bach narrowed his brows, “I’ve made a lot of enemies.”

Bach eyed the uniform of his “guide” and thought back to her mannerisms and the way he spoke, and how she approached him on what was supposed to be a routine refueling stop. She didn’t look like much as far as young spacers went— perhaps a reason that they went unnoticed among a crowd of smugglers, bounty hunters, and scouts.

Accent is from the core worlds— Xandar, Graxos IV, Rann.

The woman in front of Bach stopped at a console to a door. This part of the spaceport looked like it was under repairs and a bit off the grid from the rest of the station; but it was nothing out of the ordinary or at least it wasn’t for Bach considering his work as a special operations agent within the Eidolon Elite several years prior— after all, it had been his job to infiltrate and investigate shady parts of the outer rim for the sake of the mission. He just didn’t realize that translated to “for the sake of your comrade’s financial gain”.

“But it seems you know that.”

The sound of silence found itself cut between the two men before the icy click of the metallic doors opening broke it.

“Who are you?”

She turned, giving Bach a glance as she pulled a stray strand of black hair and moved it out of her face. “You’re inquisitive and smart. That’s good. Follow me and I’ll explain what you need to know.”

An irritated grumble left Bach’s lips— she avoided his question. But he should’ve expected that given she was from Rann. There was no one else from the core planets that she could’ve been, and given her secrecy there were only a few options of where this was leading.

“Fine. But this better not be a waste of my time.”

“It won’t.”

"The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish."
-Charlie Chaplin

"Chaplin did not account for Black Adam."
-The Wizard Shazam

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---

Like many middle-eastern cities, the streets of Shiruta, the capital of Khandaq, were abuzz with life. The occasional Car horn blared its jarring warnings, messengers on bicycles dinged their little bells, children screamed or laughed or cried, while men chatted away in open-air cafes. It seemed every single thing on the street leading to the royal palace had it's own little voice, it's own noise to make. Almost every thing. A black-cloaked figure walked purposefully through the throngs of people and animals, and never made a sound. The crowd didn't part before the hooded figure, not exactly, there wasn't room for such a reaction in the crowd, but many shifted uncomfortably when forced to pass too close. Children shied away, the youngest of them bursting into tears as they neared the figure. The cloaked man ignored them all, moving inexorably toward the palace of Shiruta, the seat of power of Asim Muhunnad, the current "president" and dictator of Khandaq.

Khandaq itself was a small country, having fallen further and further into irrelevance in the eyes of the world, focused as they were on it's more noisy neighbours in the middle-east, such as Israel, Pakisatn, and Iraq. This allowed Muhunnad's regime a freedom of movement that few leaders in the area could enjoy. As a result, the regime in power was corrupt and despotic, with Muhunnad himself at the decadent head of the country's affairs, sucking much of the wealth from his citizenry and living in relative opulence compared to the common folk of Khandaq. The country had a serious homeless issue, and both drugs and weaponry were moved through it's cities discreetly for the highest bidder. In short, it was a mercenary country, who's borders could be opened for the right price, and whose leader was a symbol of despair for it's people. A revolution was surely in the works. A new leader would be installed, and though nobody had risen to take the charge yet, those of a rebellious nature were confident that it was not possible for their leader to be any worse.

The man on the street reached the checkpoint in front of the royal palace compound. The throngs of people tended to avoid this area, as the guards of Muhunnad were not particularly well-known for their pleasant demeanor. One such guard, in a military uniform and holding a firearm strapped to his shoulder, approached the hooded man, holding a hand up in the universal gesture for halt. The hooded man held his ground, but did not step any further forward, raising his head and sweeping his eyes across the palace. Different than I remember.

"Hey, what're you doing? No visitors expected today. Who are you?" The guard asked. The cloaked man ignored him, removing his hood to get a better view of the palace. The guard raised his weapon to the man's face and switched off the safety. The sky above Shiruta had grown dark with storm clouds, and they rumbled threateningly now.

"I will shoot you." The guard said calmly when the cloaked man did not respond, flicking off the safety on his rifle. Abruptly, the cloaked man looked the guard in the eye, fixing him with a glare. Thunder boomed as the cloaked man narrowed his eyes on the guard's face. The guard took a step back, and his comrades behind him stepped forward, raising their own weapons at the dark figure. It began to rain, lightly at first, but the frequency of the drops was increasing steadily. A bolt of crimson lightning streaked the sky for a moment, catching the eyes of the guards momentarily and bathing the area in bright scarlet light.

"I said what are you doing here? Answer me! Say something or we'll blow you away!" Shouted the first guard, nervous now.

"Shazam." The cloaked man said calmly.

High above the city, the heavens seemed to roar in protest as the eldritch lightning shot down to meet it's caller. Somewhere, Mephistopheles gave a quiet chuckle. The bolt of blood-red lightning seemed to carry with it the screams and wailing of a hundred people, and struck where the man was standing. There was a massive explosion of hellfire at it's point of impact. The guards, and many of the citizens who had gathered to watch the spectacle, were sent hurtling backward covered in hellish flames that the rain did not put out. At the epicenter of the blast, crackling with crimson electricity, and wreathed in hellfire, stood the cloaked man, now transformed. Slowly, the powerful figure levitated off of his feet, and began to float toward the gates leading into the compound surrounding the palace. An alarm went off from somewhere within, and air-raid sirens called their mournful cries through the peels of thunder.

The gate to the palace compound was a chain-link fence on wheels, twenty feet high, and topped with barbed wire. Without slowing, the man lifted a hand and pointed to the gate casually, and the red lightning surrounding his form traveled across his arm, pooling in a crackling orb at the tip of his finger for a moment, and then shot forward in an arc of crimson plasma that struck the metal fencing and spread all throughout it, melting the gate into nothing. The man floated through, over the molten heap.

Gunfire rang out across the courtyard, the insistent popping of automatic rifles, and the occasional louder crack of a larger-caliber from atop the palace's roofs. Bullets struck demonically-enhanced flesh, bouncing off of the man and ricocheting across the courtyard. The rumbling of thunder, popping of gunfire, and crackling of lightning served to cover the sound of a tank engine roaring to life. The cloaked man stopped his forward momentum, and looked up toward the highest-reaches of the palace's spires. He began to ascend, scanning each window he passed, hunting his query.

The tank took aim, adjusting it's barrel to account for the movement of such a small target, and fired, the boom rivaling that of the thunder above. The man had enough time to turn his head and search for the noise before he was struck with the highly-explosive shell and was rocketed into the ground many yards away. The commander of the tank crew popped the hatch and looked at where the man had fallen, though smoke and dust obscured his view, and he couldn't see anything. He lifted his binoculars to his face, and looked through them just in time to see a large fist before it shattered them, and his head, spreading gore all across the tank's back flank. The cloaked man no longer held his composure, his eyes wide in anger, his mouth pulled back into a snarl. With a grunt of effort (or perhaps simply rage) the man lifted the tank above his head, and with a magically enhanced roar, threw it into a group of the guards who had been taking ineffective potshots at him. The tank smashed into the ground and rolled several times, shredding several of the guards into pulpy pieces.

The guard's were running now, no more gunshots could be heard. The cloaked man flew toward the gates and into the palace itself, smashing through the large wooden doors with his shoulder. All was quiet, save the patter of rain and the rumbling of the thunder above the city. After a few minutes of quiet, the crowds started to move in out of curiosity. Nobody heard the man say the word, but another massive, blood-red bolt of lightning shot down toward the compound, this time into the palace itself. There was another explosion, then silence again. For nearly five minutes, the quiet deepened, as did the density of the crowds surrounding the palace.

Quite suddenly, a section of the roof blew apart, and the cloaked man flew high into the sky through the breach. In his left hand, he carried a man by the ankle, who was screaming and flailing. The assembled crowd murmured and exclaimed in awe, but a bolt of lightning from the sky and a crash of thunder forced them to silence, and the man spoke.

"Behold! I am Teth-Adam, God-and-king of this land since ages long past!" He shouted, his voice magically amplified, as if the thunder itself carried his words, "I return to the land of my people, only to find you weakened. What have you accomplished in the thousands of years without me? You have withered away, until the superpowers of the world have nearly swallowed you up. No more. I have returned! Fear me and rejoice, mortals, for I have come to lead my chosen people into glorious prosperity! As my first act as your God returned, I will rid you of your weak leaders, for I am a jealous lord. Let none but me sit upon the throne of Khandaq, from now until the end of time!" As he finished speaking, he tossed the man in his right hand to his death, his body falling to crushing destruction on the street below. As the crowd gathered to see who it was, hushed murmurs ran through the group. Asim Muhunnad was dead.

"Now, prostrate yourselves, or die as he did." Adam commanded, and the people did so.

It was a brisk night on top of the roof of the Daily Bugle building. A man wearing a trench coat stood next to the giant letter sign that crowned the headquarters of the multimedia giant. Everyone couple minutes, the man peered down at his watch. If that was not a dead giveaway, then his pacing showed that he was waiting to meet someone on the roof. And obviously, that person whom he had scheduled to meet was running a little late.

The man walked over to the edge of the roof and gazed at the street and buildings located below. While waiting, he saw a figure decked in a red and blue suit swinging on some sort of ropes from skyscraper to skyscraper. And this figure was approaching towards the Daily Bugle building. With each swing, he came closer and closer. Finally, with one last swing, the colorfully dressed man landed on the roof right next to the man who had been waiting on the roof.

“Ben Urich.” The costumed man addressed the other man.

“Spider-Man.” Ben Urich said in response, “I suppose you’re here for some leads on the foiled robbery attempt at the Metropolitan Museum of the Arts.”

“Wow, Urich. You read my mind.” Spider-Man joked, “If I didn’t know better, I might have suspected that you might have telepathy.”

“Alas, I do not.” Ben Urich told Spider-Man, “That would, however, make my job way easier.”

“So, what can you tell me about those robbers?”

“As of right now, I don’t have anything concrete. But I can say that there’s a rumor floating around that the Bialyans were behind it, even though their government adamantly denies any involvement.”

“But why would the Bialyans want those Egyptian artifacts? Bialya isn’t even near Egypt.

“Well, the territory of modern-day Bialya was inside of the borders of the New Kingdom of Egypt at its peak. Recently, the Queen of Bialya has been canvasing that some of the Egyptian artifacts that are located in museums around the world to be returned to her country for safe keeping.”

“Keep me posted if you get any updates about the situation, Urich.” Spider-Man then leaped off the building, swinging back the same way from which he had first came.

---

Spider-Man landed on the roof of his apartment. Although it would be easier to enter his home through one of the windows, at the same time, it was also riskier, since someone might spot him going inside. Instead, Peter would open up the bathroom skylight and jump down into his apartment. With his spiderlike reflexes, he could perform this feat without making anyone on the floors below suspicious because he would not make a ruckus when he landed.

This time, Peter noticed that the skylight was fogged up. Even when he opened the window, not only could he see the steam rise up into the night air, but he call also feel the high rush out of it. When he hopped through the open when and landed on the bathroom floor, he found his wife brushing her teeth. MJ had a towel wrapped around her wet hair. She had recently changed into her pajamas after she had gotten out of the shower.

“Hi, honey! I hope you left me some hot water.”

“If you had gotten home a few minutes sooner, we could have shared the hot water.” MJ teased her husband with a coy smile.

“I really don't think 'solo vigilante' and 'on-time' quite go together.”

“I bet I could make those skin-tight spandex look fashionable on myself, and still be able to prompt.” MJ joked, since she knew that sometimes some of Peter's superheroics took longer than he might have expected them to have gone.

“I can see Jameson's headline right now.” Peter pulled his wife into an embrace. "Spider-Woman: Our Newest Hero and A Role Model for Our Daughters."

"Isn't there already a Spider-Woman?" MJ asked. "Although I have to admit that he would say that just to spite you."

"Um...I'm not sure. I wouldn't be surprised that someone had taken up my gimmick. But I bet you would be the best one. You've already taken out the Chameleon once, and that was without powers! True potential there."

“Well, on that note, I’ll leave you to your nice cold shower.” MJ winked at Peter as she exited the bathroom.

Peter immediately pulled off the long-sleeved shirt portion of his Spider-Man costume. Thank goodness he had a couple spares of his costume. Otherwise he would be constantly throwing his threads into the washer. No one likes a smelly superhero. Sure, it might distract the villains, but no superhero league would ever be making a call to his number with that type of hygiene. He turned the knob on the shower and held his hand under the water. Yep. It definitely will be a cold shower.

Suddenly, he heard a scream come from their bedroom. He knew that voice. It was no doubt MJ’s. Peter instinctively rushed out of the bathroom and into their bedroom, even though he still had half of his Spider-Man threads on. It is a hero’s greatest fear that somebody in their rogues’ gallery had found out their secret identity and was now breaking into their home and possibly threatening his or her loved ones. And Peter was relieved when he discovered that some masked maniac had not broken into his house. He only found MJ in their bedroom. She was crouching behind the far side of their bed.

“Peter.” MJ’s voice wavered because she did not know how he would react to what had just happened. “Don’t freak out.”

“What’s wrong?”

When Mary Jane crawled out from behind the bed, she revealed to her husband what had happened. Her upper body, all the way down to her waist, was now attached to the body of a giant spider. Her waist had been fused into the cephalothorax. Eight legs now supported her up, while an arachnid abdomen followed behind her. And on her ring finger, where her wedding ring had been, now rested the ancient Egyptian ring that the robbers had tried to steal. A scarab symbol engraved into the ring gave off a dim glow and it eventually faded away until it gave off no more light.

Colorado Territory
January, 1873

The four riders kept their horses in a straight line up the mountain pass. They kept their nags at a steady and brisk pace in order to cover as much ground as possible before it was too late. Although it was just after three in the afternoon gray clouds hung heavy in the sky, obscuring the sun behind them and making the chilly afternoon dip even lower. The clouds were snow clouds. A blizzard was on its way and they had to get to their destination.

Riding at the head of the four-man convoy was John Karnow. That wasn't his real name, just the name he was using in Colorado. Karnow and his gang were headed for a cabin near the mountain top. It wasn't stocked with much, which was why their saddlebags were loaded down with provisions to make it through until the spring. Karnow's saddle bags had more than canned food and salted pork in it. In two bags on both sides of the horse and one wrapped around the horn of his saddle were gold and greenbacks, the gang's hard-earned spoils after a robbery spree through Nebraska and Wyoming in the fall.

"We're almost there!" Karnow shouted back to his men. "Keep movin'! We gotta get there before the snow does!"

As if on cue, the first flurries of snow began to fall from the sky. Within a few minutes, a steady snowfall began to cover the ground. Karnow cursed and spurred his horse onwards up the pass. The behind him did likewise, one whipping the side of his horse with his reins.

"How much further?!" Joe McGruder yelled up at Karnow. "I can barely see in front of my face, Jimmy!"

"Just a bit further, dammit!" said Karnow. "Get yet goddamn horse movin' and we'll be there!"

While the band of outlaws continued their rapidly slowing journey through the pass, a voyeur watched from above. He was nestled in a hiding spot of foliage and snow scarcely a hundred yards away from Karnow and his gang. The watcher had been here for twelve hours, toughing out the cold and waiting for his quarry to arrive. For five months now the watcher traveled in the wake of Karnow's gang. He tracked them across Nebraska and Southern Wyoming and saw the destruction they had wrought first hand, from the bank teller with his throat slit in Lincoln to the burned down houses in Cheyenne. As the days grew shorter and the cold started coming in, the watcher made a gamble and headed to Colorado while the gang caused mayhem in Casper.

A man from Louisiana, a Cajun who knew Karnow as one John David Ferguson, told the watcher about the cabin in the Rockies. It was where he and Ferguson and three others went back in '69 after dynamiting a mail train in Utah, and then in '71 when they went on a spree through New Mexico and killed a half dozen souls. Anytime it got cold, Ferguson headed there to wait out the winter and hibernate. The Cajun told the watcher all this with tears in his eyes just before a Nebraska hangman tied the noose around his neck. He begged for clemency and promised he would show the watcher where the cabin was if he could be set free. The watcher's scarred face was as hard as stone as he shook his head and condemned the man to whatever waited for him in the next life.

From his hiding perch, the watcher clung tightly to the Spencer rifle in his glove-covered hands. Richard Adams, the slow-witted Arkansan with a penchant for raping female bank tellers, had trouble keeping up with the pack thanks to the increasing snowfall and a stubborn horse. The watcher had his first target.

The rifle cracked once. Adams' horse raised up and threw him to the ground. Adams coughed blood and held hard to the gaping wound in his chest while the panicked animal took off down the mountain in a frenzy. The three others looked around in confusion as the watcher worked the Spencer's action and loaded another round. Another rifle shot went into the side of Joe McGruder's head and exited out the other side, taking what little brains he had with it. He was dead before his carcass landed in the snow.

By now, Ferguson and his one remaining man had their guns out and were looking for the watcher. The heavy snow made it almost impossible for them to see his hunter's blind. The Spencer kicked as the watcher blew Chris McCall off his horse. The horses of the two dead men were panicking and Ferguson could barely control his own nag.

"WHERE EVER YOU ARE, YOU GODDAMN BUSHWACKER, YOU COME OUT AND FACE ME RIGHT NOW!"

With the confusion and violence of the last few seconds, Ferguson had lost where he was on the mountain. At the start of the ambush, the watcher was a hundred yards away. Now Ferguson was on top of him, far too close for the Spencer, but close enough for the big gun.

"Where are you?!"

"Right here, Ferguson."



"Draw, you bastard!"

The watcher rose from his hidden vantage point, snow and leaves falling off of him as he came out with the revolver aimed squarely at Ferguson's heart. He needed to keep the face intact. He was worth the same amount dead as alive, but that wouldn't be worth much if the watcher turned Ferguson's face into pulp.

Ferguson let out a surprised gasp at the sight of his face, a gasp that became a gurgle as the watcher put three shots into his chest, a tight grouping that made Ferguson's heart explode and killed him before he could raise his gun.

Slumping off his spooked horse, John Ferguson sprawled on the snowy ground and breathed his last breath as Jonah Hex stomped away to finally take the piss he had been holding in for hours.

P A S T // 2013

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Victoria Vale tapped the base of her desk as she looked at the blankness of the computer screen in front of her, the light illuminating the darkness of her apartment. She was nearing closer and closer to her current deadline and she wasn’t sure if it was going to come to her at this rate.

This retrospective is going to kill me.

After thirteen years of covering the exploits of the ambiguous caped crusader that the criminal underworld had dubbed “The Batman” she had begun to second guess herself in fear that she was just repeating the same old tired tirade. It almost made her regret not exposing the vigilante as real several years prior. It was not hard to come to the conclusion that the exposé would’ve elevated her career; a thought that had often come to her mind in the recent years. She was sure had she done just that she would’ve been rubbing elbows with the likes of Ben Urich or Jane Arden and would’ve put her name on the proverbial map. It might’ve even resulted in her winning a Pulitzer. Had she been without her integrity and convictions that The Batman was a good thing it would’ve been all different for her.

She probably wouldn’t have gotten assigned a tedious opinion piece about Gotham City’s perseverance against any disaster, terrorist, or gang. Vicki didn’t have much interest commenting about the progress from the earthquake that hit New Jersey two years ago, no matter how “uplifting” and “inspiring” it was. Inspiring the people in Gotham City was going to take more than the equivalent of a puff piece about a city that had been soulless for over forty years.

Though there were certainly others who were trying to fix that soullessness.

Wayne Enterprises’ prodigal son, Bruce Wayne, had certainly turned his company around in recent years; a fact that any citizen of Gotham didn’t need to be told by the press— the proof was already in clear view. The Wayne Foundation’s countless charity drives, Bruce Wayne’s industrious efforts to destabilize Gotham’s infrastructure, the investment in the city’s police department and public works… there was no question of his efforts. It was surprising to Vicki most of all as she had been the biggest critic of Wayne Enterprises and Bruce Wayne’s “reform” since pretty much the onset. But that jaded cynicism had recently taken a backseat and over the years their professional relationship shifted to a personal one. A friendship that Vicki had admittedly ignored to write the article and finish before Blackcrow grumbled to her about the importance of the piece for the sixteenth time this week.

It was a thought that caused an exasperated sigh to leave her breath. She was sure that Bruce was still upset that she canceled on him.

A few moments later her cellphone buzzed, as if on cue, snapping her out of her thoughts. Presuming it was Blackcrow, she grabbed her phone quickly and dialed in her passcode so she could send a quick reply before getting back to work.

Blackcrow needs to get off my back.

She frowned; the text was from an unknown sender.

As she opened the message a gasp left her and penetrated the silence of her apartment. The message definitely wasn’t from any of her associates or friends. The text itself held an attached file that caused her to nervously bite down on her lower lip.

It was a picture of a rooftop, darkness swallowing the light, making the photo grainy at best— but the figure that stood at its centre, back to the camera, devil horns piercing the air and cape suspended mid-flow, was undeniable in its apparent identity. Below the attachment was a caption to accompany it, sending chills through Vicki’s spine, confirming her suspicions.

Where’s Batsy?

She fumbled to respond to the text, her nerves getting the better of her as she struggled to type the right letters. She knew that she should be deleting the messages, wiping them from her phone’s, and her own, memory.

Who are you?

Three dots appeared on her phone for four agonisingly long seconds before a new text arrived. It was cryptic, giving nothing away and yet raising gooseflesh all the same. Just two words.

A messenger.

US Federal Penitentiary
Fishkill, NY
2005

The cacophony was near-deafening as the gate opened and Frank Castle was led through general population. Two guards flanked him on either side as they walked into the open area where five hundred men watched the Punisher join their ranks.

"Fuck you!" someone yelled.

"Gonna fuck you up, old man!"

There were more threats, each one more lewd than the last one. From a guard station, FBI agent James McCaleb watched the chaos with a frown. For the past twenty years McCaleb had been the Bureau's preeminent Punisher hunter. Nobody had done more to get inside Castle's mindframe and try to plan his next move.

After decades on the run, Castle had walked into a police department in Rye, New York a week ago and turned himself in. The move caused national news and left the big question of why. After decades of avoiding the law, why did he turn himself in? A lot of people in Quantico didn't care about the why, they were just glad it was over. Over McCaleb's protests, Castle had been transferred to the prison here in Fishkill to await trial.

McCaleb knew Castle's play in the prison. The fifty-five year old was coming back to where it all began to end it. In the prison's infirmary ward was eighty-eight year old Dominic Scargetti, the man whose crime family created the Punisher. McCaleb argued with his bosses that the old man was Castle's target. For whatever reason, he was coming here to finally get revenge on the man who took his family away from him.

The concerns were brushed away. Castle was old, the prison was secure, he'd have to get through so much to even get close to the infirmary that it was impossible. They didn't get it. In the years since 9/11, Frank Castle had been put on the backburner in favor of counter terrorism. Radical Islam was the threat. Meanwhile, Castle had probably killed more people than all the terrorist attacks in America combined. He was one of the most dangerous men in America, and now the FBI was giving him what he wanted.

McCaleb looked on a monitor and watched as Castle was led to an open cell. The electronic door slid shut and the guards walked away. Castle gripped the bars of his cell and looked around. His eyes found the camera McCaleb was watching from and stayed locked on it. After several long seconds of looking, Frank Castle actually smiled at the camera and winked.

----

Boston
Now

Special Agent Rachel Cole always had lunch at the diner across from the FBI building. Most of the other agents always had lunch together, either in pairs and trios or in groups, but she was always by herself. She was new to the office, having come from the Alabama field office just a month earlier, and was still finding her place. She was in the bank robbery unit -- Massachusetts had a very high number of bank robberies per year -- but what she really wanted was work in the crimes against person section. They were busy with the Bunker Hill Butcher, working with Washington and the Behavioral Analysis Unit to catch the guy. Rachel didn't consider herself the next Clarice Starling, but she wanted to catch serial killers. It was part of the reason she joined the Bureau.

"Hello, Rachel."

And old man slid into the booth across from her. He wore a black jacket and black work pants. His hair was grey and he was big and burly. He looked like an old fighter. She started to protest, but then she saw his eyes. They were green, an unnatural shade of emerald, and bright. Those eyes kept her transfixed and seated right where she was while he spoke.

"When you get back from lunch, you're going to have an idea concerning the Bunker Hill Butcher. The Bureau already knows that he's killing his victims somewhere else and then dumping them at the monument, but you're going to go through a map of Charlestown. You're going to look through the homes and apartments within sight of the monument and find this address --" he gave her the number and street "-- and you're going to find that an apartment on the third floor is rented by a man with two names, the lease is one name and the utility bill is in another, both names are nondescript and sound like aliases. You're going to find this suspicious and check out the apartment yourself. That's when you're going to find DNA evidence that will tie the apartment to the killings. And you're not going to remember this conversation at all. Understand?"

"Yes," she said evenly.

"Good," he said. He stood. "Enjoy your lunch, Special Agent Cole."

He walked out and Rachel remained motionless for a few seconds before blinking rapidly. She looked down at her food. She'd lost her train of thought. The Bunker Hill Butcher, that's right. The killer had taken at least five lives, maybe more. Always dropping them off at the monument... she wondered.

"Can I get my check?" she asked a passing waitress.

She had a thought. Something had clicked in her head. She stood up and threw a twenty dollar bill on the table and walked out before she could get her check. She had to get back to work.

Missouri
March, 1873

Wilbur Helms gasped for air. He was running as fast as he could through the thickets and underbrush around him. A painful stitch in his right side felt like a knife to the ribs every time he moved. He was too old and too fat to keep running like this, but it was a matter of life and death that he get as far away as possible.

They came for him in the middle of the night, knocking in the rickety door of his small house. A wayward shot clipped Wilbur's ear and took a chunk of it off. He went for the derringer under his pillow and took enough potshots at his assailant to send them back out the door. Wilbur grabbed his bigger Colt, along with the scrap of paper he always had with him, and managed to slip out the back door and into the woods behind the house.

He tried to slow down his breathing. His rampant wheezing could be easily heard out here, making him an easy target for the man after him. Wilbur reached into his shirt and held the scrap of paper in his pudgy hands. The paper was why they were after him. For nearly ten years Wilbur had been living his life in fear of this moment, and now it was here. Based on his own estimates he had another quarter of a mile to get to the river that ran through his property. If he could ford it and get to the Samuelson's farm house a few miles after the river, then he could be safe. He just had to make himself move.

With a deep breath, Wilbur broke out of the underbrush and straight into the double barrel of a shotgun. He let out a small sound of surprise as the shotgun disintegrated his face and his dead body flopped to the ground. Spitting a wad of tobacco at his feet, the killer rifled trough the dead man's clothes until he pulled the scrap of paper from Wilbur's shirt. Tucking it into his own pocket, the killer stepped over Wilbur's dead body and whistled under his breath as he headed back to the house.

Central City, Missouri
April, 1873

Max Steiss snarled and raged against the bars of his jail cell. He cursed and spat through the bars at the two men impassively watching him from ten feet away. Jonah Hex had a smoldering cigar clamped between his teeth and a mocking smirk on his face. Beside him, US Marshal Jason Garrick shouted Steiss down with promises of violence upon his person. Steiss fumed and collapsed on the cell's small cot, his back to the two men.

"Thank you for bringing him in, Mr. Hex," said Garrick.

"Don't thank me," replied hex. "Just pay me."

"You'll have to see the US Attorney about that. The bounty on Steiss is what? Five thousand? An amount of money that size, I can't pay out for."

Hex looked at the marshal and sized him up. He was at least ten years older than Garrick. He knew the reason why a man as young as Garrick was the head marshal for this part of Missouri. He had the job forced upon him after a bushwhacker killed Garrick's boss six months earlier. Hex was in on chasing after the man for the bounty, but Garrick beat him to the draw and came back to Central City with the murderer tied to the back of his horse. It pissed Hex off something fierce to be denied that bounty, but he was okay with it in the end. Justice was something that Garrick needed to get for the dead marshal and the town and for himself. Hex never brought justice into his dealings. No, death and violence were enough for him.

"How far a ride is it to Jefferson City from here, a few days right?"

"Jeff City?" Garrick asked, scratching his chin. "Two days ride if you push it, why?"

Without a word, Hex ambled over to the office's far wall. Hanging on it were wanted posters of Missouri's and the country's most wanted. Hex dug through the different pictures until he found the one he wanted. It was a yellowing piece of paper that curled at the corners. On it was a drawing of a fat man with a double chin and a hook nose. Underneath the photo was the name Wilbur Helms and a price of two thousand dollars.

"Helms here was part of a gang of rough boys that operated out of Kansas. He and four other men have been on the lam for at least five years now. A federal judge in Lawrence is willing to pay full price on Helms and the rest of them. Only problem is I found Helms dead a week ago in Independence, least I think it was Helms. Shotgun blast to the face ruined what looks he had."

Reaching into his jacket, Hex produced wanted posters of two other men with black x's drawn across their faces with charcoal.

"Two other members of his gang I tracked last year in Kansas were both dead, both of them murdered by persons unknown."

Garrick let out a low whistle and walked to his desk. He leaned against it and looked at the scarred bounty hunter.

"Someone scooping you on the haul?"

"No. Whoever's killing 'em is leaving 'em behind. Can't claim a bounty without a body. The next member in their gang that's on my list is supposed to hang around Jeff City."

"Well, I'd hurry the hell up if I was you," Garrick said with a wink. "Get to Jeff City before you miss out on another payday."

P A S T - P A R T O F T H E W O R L D A T W A R S T O R Y

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L O N D O N E N G L A N D

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Jay sat at a table in a bar full of smoke. It was equal in parts from the pipes and cigarettes of those in the room, and the stench from outside. While he and Shazam had quelled many of the fires the stench was persistent, though it was better than the smell of burning flesh. He had had enough of that for a lifetime, part of him knew however that it wasn’t going to be the last time he ever had to deal with the stench.

He still remembered during the first bombings he used to use his speed in order to rebuild the damage done, he didn’t bother anymore. Not that he didn’t want to, but he didn’t want people returning to their homes only for them to be destroyed in the next round of bombings. No, they’d do better to do what so many in cities had already done and evacuated to the countryside. He understood that many remained to work the factories, or due to not wanting to leave their homes. He just wished that this war would end soon, though with the U.S so far avoiding getting dragged into the war it didn’t look like there was an end in sight.

For now, Jay left that behind him. His helmet sitting on the table between him and Shazam, a pint of beer in one hand and several empty plates sitting on the table. He wasn’t sure if Shazam was ready to see someone who needed a large diet eat yet, as the plates had barely made contact with the table before the speedster had emptied them. Hell, with rationing in effect the only way he managed to get so much to eat was by the fact that he wasn’t very secret with his activities.

He took a sip of his pint, before looking at Shazam. “You sure you don’t want one?”

Billy raised a hand in polite declination, “I don’t really drink. Thanks though.” He said, slightly awed at the speedy man’s appetite. It was becoming more and more apparent that the root of their powers was very different. Jay seemed to be starving, while Billy couldn’t even remember the last bite of food he’d taken, sustained as he’d been by mystical forces. Billy hadn’t talked with The Wizard about protocol for meeting and interacting with other empowered individuals, so he hesitated to reveal anything about himself, unsure of how the world at large would react. He settled for doing the questioning instead, for now.

“So, Jay,” He began, pausing momentarily to allow the man to chew his food (if he was even chewing, Billy couldn’t tell,) “Does that symbol on your chest have any significance?” He asked in a casual tone.

Jay looked down at the lightning bolt. “A little. I’m a scientist, experiment went wrong. Some lightning and I gained super speed. The wife thought it was a fitting symbol to wear on my chest, I’m not one for all this symbolic stuff. Though I can see at times like this people need an icon to look up to. How about you? I mean I thought I was dressed up fancily, but you’ve got me beat.” Jay put the last plate he emptied onto the top of the pile and leaned back in his chair.

If they had both been hit by lightning, he had gotten the short end of the stick in the powers department.

Billy’s suspicions about the origins of Jay’s power had been tossed away, and he wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed that the man truly hadn’t met The Wizard, or excited about the fact that there was another person like him, despite different circumstances. Well, not exactly like him, but definitely not ordinary. Billy figured he could open up a bit. He owed Jay that much after they he had helped him save so many.

“Well, my lightning carries a different meaning, I suppose. I guess not too different. You could say that the source of our powers is… similar. I call down the lightning to uhm… well, get stronger. It’s a bit more complicated than that but I’m honestly not sure you’d believe me if I told you.” Billy finished and took a moment to contemplate his navel, chewing his lip as he considered what he should or shouldn’t say, “How much do you know about… uhm… magic?” He asked, not looking up.

Jay paused for a moment, giving Shazam a skeptical look. What did he believe in magic? Did this guy seriously think that he got his powers from magic? That didn’t make a lick of sense. There was no such thing as magic, surely in the modern age of technology people were starting to learn that. This guy had to be at least in his twenties, still believing in magic made no sense. That was kids stuff. The ‘call down’ lightning thing did seem somewhat interesting though.

“So, by call down lightning… what exactly do you mean? Is there a process that you need to take? Can you show me?” He shook himself out of it as he had begun to talk faster and faster, the last thing he wanted to do was for his speech to simply turn into a high pitched drone.

“Also, I’m not one for magic tricks.”

A smirk crept across Billy’s lips when Jay didn’t outright call him crazy. As it happened, he could demonstrate what he meant, but without taking the man directly to The Rock of Eternity, he wasn’t sure he could explain it in a way that didn’t leave room for alternate explanations. Oh well, first thing’s first.

“Yeah, I can show you. It’s a word actually. We should probably head outside for this.” Billy said as he rose and strode to the door of the pub they had picked for the night. He had been flying so much lately that it felt strange to keep his feet on the ground, but he did so, so as not to spook anyone unnecessarily, despite what he was about to do. He lead the way to a deserted street, away from prying eyes, and anything too flammable.

“Okay, so, you’ll wanna’ stand back.” He warned, looking up to the sky. The night was clear. No clouds this time. That was fine, it’d be a better demonstration this way. He looked back down at Jay and gave a wink, then said quite calmly,

“Shazam.” A thunderous boom generated from the cloudless night sky, and several hundred feet above, a sudden and violent flash materialized, hovered for a moment, and then shot down toward its caller. Billy didn’t plan to be struck by it though, as revealing his true identity had been expressly forbidden, so instead he stepped back, lightning-quick (though perhaps not as fast as Jay could have,) dodging the lightning strike and allowing it to smash into the ground, leaving a smouldering crater several feet wide.

“See? Calling down the lightning.” He said with a smile.

Jay followed with a skeptical look upon his face. Heading outside made sense, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting himself in for. As they approached an abandoned street - a common occurrence for a London street during the bombings. As he entered the street he recommended that Jay stand back, and he did so. Calling his own name, the cloudless sky turned grey and a lightning bolt came down.

Jay ran towards it as things slowed down in his perspective, as far as he could tell it was just a box standard lightning bolt. Nothing technological, and there was nothing in the sky that seemed to be casting the bolt down. There was a look of disbelief on his face, if Shazam could catch a glimpse of it going at this speed. As he pulled back to his initial position he cleared the look on his face and stood eying Shazam as he pulled back from the point of impact.

“So, what happens when it hits you? I mean, is this your natural state or are you typically more baseline human? Is it like an on off switch? Where did you firstgaintheseabilities?Howdidyoufigureouthowtousethem?Howcomes-” He began to speed up more and more until he was unintelligible. Barely noticing as he then stood waiting for Shazam to give him an answer. Shazam was the first other superpowered individual Jay had ever met, with a seemingly similar catalyst to his abilities. The inner scientist in him had him wanting to know as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

Billy went wide-eyed and then laughed a bit as the man seemingly lost his verbal control. He chuckled as Jay cut himself off before his voice droned into a high-pitched buzz.

“Well, I’ll answer what I understood.” Billy said with a laugh, “Remember me asking about The Wizard earlier? Well, I get my powers through him. The magic word acts as a sort of mystical catalyst, I guess. As far as figuring out how to use them, the very same Wizard taught me how, although I don’t fully understand yet. Still have some way to go. I couldn’t understand the rest of what you said. Sounds like I’m not the only one who hasn’t mastered my abilities yet. As he finished speaking, he folded his arms across his chest an raised an eyebrow at Jay.

“Say, have you met any others like us?” He asked abruptly.

Jay shrugged. “It’s not so much I haven’t mastered my abilities. It’s just the subject to being in one timebase, and operating in another. To make it simple think about it as knowing two languages, sometimes you speak one to someone who only speaks the other. It’s-” He paused for a second to figure out the words he planned to use. “-Complicated to explain. I don’t just run really fast, but do everything fast. Which is why I have such a high metabolism making me eat so much, and don’t even ask about the bedroom.” He laughed for a second before continuing.

“Maybe when this war is over I’ll have more time to spend on figuring out the full extent that the accident had on my body, where my powers come from and how I generate lightning when I run. For now, I’m just happy to make a difference, in terms of your powers well… That’s even more of a mystery. A wizard?” Maybe the wizard was some form of scientist that operated on another level entirely? Some kind of mantle passed from person to person to become Shazam? Maybe the word was like a code phrase when said a certain way? There were theoretical programs to put objects into space, maybe one such object. An artificial satellite as it were, was responsible for the lightning?

Though that would require a level of technology not currently seen on the planet, or he hoped that no-one had such a high level of technology. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to get the answers he sought out of Shazam, either by ignorance or keeping secrets he wasn’t going to tell Jay anything. “In terms of others like us, I’ve heard rumours of a man in France with one hell of a punch, but that’s about it. You’re my first, congratulations.”

“Back at ya’.” Billy smiled, oblivious to Jay’s joke, but making a mental note to scrutinize it with the wisdom of Solomon later. “And I know it’s definitely out of the norm, but yeah. A Wizard. Maybe I can take you to meet him sometime after all of this is over. “He gestured vaguely to the shelled-out city around them, “Then maybe-” He stopped suddenly, cocking his head. He only had to take a moment, as everyone in the city was familiar with the sound by now.

“They’re back.” He growled to Jay, a scowl darkening his features. He looked up toward the sky as the sound of the engines grew louder, “I’ll go high, take out as many as I can.” He said, keeping his head turned upwards. A moment later, he nodded to Jay, and then shot into the sky like a bullet, heading straight up with a boom of thunder, and then arcing his trajectory toward the encroaching bombers.

Jay sighed. Of course they were back, though not really back. More likely that it was a second wave. As Shazams feet just began to leave the ground Jay ran off, jumping over debris and then straight at a wall. The top of the building held the closest air raid siren that would alert the people of the city, who couldn’t actively hear the bombers, and the military that there were more bombers incoming. He pushed off the ground in a minor jump before his feet made contact with the building. Pushing for more speed he ran straight up the building - A feat he had only done once or twice before, and he still wanted to know why it was even possible.

As he reached the top he was launched into the air momentarily - Giving him an idea for a plan of action later - before landing in a roll. The surprised Warden jumped up, spilling his warm cup of coffee all over him. He didn’t even say anything and just immediately ran to man the siren, Jay smiled slightly. Word about what he did was starting to spread. He looked up as he heard the first whistle of a bomb, it was going to be another long night. He just hoped there’d be enough food after to keep him going.

Parker saw Grofield coming out the airport terminal and honked the horn of his car. He was dressed in jeans and a jacket. His straw blonde hair was styled in a thick mop over his head and he had a thick mustache the same shade as the hair on his head. Alan Grofield and Parker had worked together on many jobs over the years. Among the many recurring partners Parker had, Grofield was among the most frequent.

Unlike Parker, who considered thief as the closest thing he had to a job, Grofield was an actor first and a thief second. All the money he made from heists went to fund a theater troupe he and his wife ran somewhere out in the Midwest. The fact that Grofield kept having to come back to pull jobs was a pretty good indication of how successful the troupe was.

Next to Handy McKay, Parker worked with nobody better than Grofield. They complimented each other almost perfectly. Parker was rough around the edges while Grofield was all charm. Grofield could talk his way into a locked room while Parker would just opt to kick the lock in. Even in the looks department they were a ying and yang, Parker with his stern looks and Grofield looking like a young Robert Redford. Some wiseass working with the two of them on a job once called them Butch and Sundance in honor of the old western outlaws. Against Parker's wises, the nickname stuck.

"Parker," Grofield said as he got into the car with his bag. "What's it been, three years?"

Parker looked at him for a second before nodding. "You need to cut your hair."

"Wow... nice to see you too, buddy. Do you know that you're the closest thing to a best friend I have in the criminal underworld?"

Parker turned back at Grofield and looked at him silence for a moment before nodding again.

"Keep the mustache. It plays with what we're going to do."

---

Parker's hotel room served as the command center for the job. The far wall had the blueprints of the Finger Homes pinned to it. Alongside it were notations and observations written on sticky notes and attached to the wall. Along with Parker, Handy, and Grofield was another pro from out of state. Parker had never worked with Luis Ortega, but Handy vouched for him. In the few days he'd been part of their crew he seemed like he had a good head on his shoulders and that's all that mattered to Parker.

"Our intel comes courtesy of one Lil' Peanut," Handy said as he stood in front of the blueprint.

All four men were in the room. Parker and Ortega stood while Grofield sat on the bed. Three black uniforms were on the bed beside him. They weren't perfect copies of GCPD uniforms, but they would hold up for what they needed to do.

"Lil' Peanut is a dealer who works out the high-rise tower," said Handy. "And in exchange for a cut -- or so he thinks -- he laid out how Skeevers' system works. The man himself lives in an apartment on the top floor. 12D. His money is close by in apartment 12F, 12F is the clearinghouse for the whole projects. Skeevers has a crew in there counting all the money before it gets redistributed to him, the other dealers, and their supplier for more drugs. According to Peanut, someone from the high-rise goes through the projects and the drug corners twice at noon and midnight to collect the proceeds for the day. Most of these operations are damn near 24/7, so they get a nice chunk of change from every stop along the day."

Parker was glad for the daytime collection. The job was always planned as a daytime one for several reasons, the Bat among them, so it helped them out that if they hit in the middle of the afternoon the counting room would most likely be flush with the profits of the previous twelve hours.

"Where's the drugs?" Parker asked.

"That's a little bit different. They're still in the high-rise, but the stash is moved on a regular basis. The cash is up top and Skeevers knows nobody in Gotham would be crazy enough to take his money, but you can't trust a junkie so he moves it every few days to another location in the high-rise. According to Peanut, they just moved it to 5B. If we're going on this soon then 5B is still going to be the location."

"How are they going to react when we make our play?" Ortega asked. "Are they used to cops coming into the high-rise."

"Nope," said Parker. "Cops are always harassing the corners outside the projects, but they rarely go in. Which makes me think they might have someone on the payroll. That might be trouble if we don't move fast enough."

"So the action is this," said Handy. "We go in fast, get up to the twelfth floor, grab Skeevers and the cash, ride the elevator down to five and get the stash. Throw the cash and stash in the trunk with Skeevers in the backseat. And we deliver all three to our employer."

With a slight gift to Skeevers, Parker thought to himself. It was something that he hadn't discussed with anyone, but he was going to make the move himself just before the hand off to Segel and his heavies. The man had blackmailed and threatened Parker into doing this job. If Parker didn't put a stop to him, he would almost certainly try to do it again.

"Get a good night's sleep," Parker said. "We're meeting back here at ten sharp to get ready to go."

---

Parker looked at himself in the mirror. He wore a gray suit with a white shirt and black tie. His shoes and belt matched the color of his tie. The suit was off the rack, decent quality but something that a detective could afford. He had a glock in a holster on his hip and a fake badge tucked into the breast pocket of his sports coat.

A knock at the door drew him to it. When he opened it, Grofield was standing there. His hair was now in a buzzcut, but he had that thick mustache still. He wore the uniform of a GCPD patrol officer along with aviator sunglasses.

"Sir," he said evenly. "I need you to come with me downtown."

Parker smirked and looked over his shoulder. A replica GCPD patrol car was parked beside Parker's car. Again, it was a fake but high quality. With Segel bankrolling them they could afford the best of almost everything. The only way to get more authentic would have been to go out and steal a cop car.

Handy's van pulled up and he got out with Ortega. Both were wearing the same uniform as Grofield. The four men quickly got into the car. Grofield got behind the wheel while Parker took the shotgun seat. They pulled out of the hotel parking lot and drove towards the projects.

"The shotgun's in the trunk," said Grofield. "Handy, do you want to do the honors?"

"I certainly will," he said with a grin.

When they got two blocks away, Parker nodded.

"Grofield, light it up."

"With pleasure."

He flicked the lights and sirens and sped up. The car announced its presence to everyone as it sped into the housing project. Grofield came to a skidding stop right in front of the high-rise. The dealers and musclemen always hanging around the front entrance scattered as the four robbers jumped out the cop car. Parker, Grofield, and Ortega pulled their glocks while Handy pulled the shotgun out from the trunk.

"Bad boys, bad boys, watcha gonna do," Grofield sang as the four men went through the door into the high-rise.

P R E S E N T

---

H A P P Y H A R B O R

---

Ah, Mount Justice! From here, the Justice League watched over the world with eyes ever alert to the presence of evil! Yes, there was no job more noble than that of serving as an eternally vigilant guardian, ready to alert the world’s heroes to spring into action on a moment’s notice! Truly, only the most dedicated and worthy were entrusted with…Monitor Duty!

Well, at least that was how they’d pitched it to Ted the first time around. As the Blue Beetle had found out since, it mostly consisted of staring at a bunch of screens while trying not to fall asleep in his chair or binge eat too many donuts, like the world’s most glitzy and glamorous security guard. Oh sure, sometimes he gave dispatches and watched other heroes whizz away to stop a villainous scheme or a natural disaster but when was the last time it’d been him doing derring-do and rescuing orphaned kittens from flaming trees or the like? Occasionally he took over Den Mother duties for the Titans or gave people a ride in the Bug, but as rewarding as mentoring the next generation of heroes could be at times, ‘babysitter’ and ‘chauffeur’ weren’t exactly the titles he’d had in mind when he put on the big blue bug-suit.

“Yeah, Ted, join the Justice League! It’ll be great! Travel the world, see new places, meet interesting, exotic supervillains and foil them! Just what happened to me, huh? I used to be Blue Beetle, dashingly handsome scourge of Chicago’s criminal underworld! Mad scientists with fake PhDs and crazy psychos in colorful headgear used to line up around the block to take a shot at me! Now I’m just,” he spread his arms wide and kicked his swivel chair into a spin “Ted Kord, world’s smartest hall monitor.”

Well, Ted supposed it wasn’t all bad. Being a mentor for the Titans had a lot of rewarding moments when it wasn’t full of teenage drama or behind-his-back, thought-you-didn’t-know mockery. But man, just let him get ONE crack at an A-grade, top-of-the-line, world-threatening bad guy and he’d show them all that the Azure Avenger still had what it took to rock these tights!

Well...they weren’t exactly tights and they were getting a little tight around the middle, but that didn’t matter!

“Yeah, I’ll show ‘em! I’ll show ‘em all! BWAH-HAHAHAHA!~”

Recognised: Flash.

Barry had to give it to Batman, Beetle, Beast or whoever designed the computer system for Mount Justice. Within a split second of standing outside the entrance it had scanned him and opened the door. He had watched Wally test the reaction time of both the system and the door, resulting in a bloody nose, which was why Barry stopped to actually allow the computer to scan him. The computer was exactly what he was here for, the League kept records on everything super powered. He wasn’t exactly sure where Batman got his hands on all the information, though Barry wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know either.

As he worked his way through the halls of the Justice Leagues secret headquarters, he heard the maniacal laughter coming over the P.A. system. He half expected to turn up to the monitor terminal to find one of the Titans. While they had their own headquarters it wouldn’t be the first time one had decided to mess with members of the League, as he rushed into the room the displaced air rushed forward blowing any loose papers from their resting place.

He had to repress a sigh, it wasn’t any of the Titans that sat at the monitor terminal. Instead it was none other than Blue Beetle. The worst thing was, the maniacal laughter over the P.A made more sense now than it would have if it had been one of the Titans.

Beetle got a lot of flak, but what set him apart to Barry was how truly genuine and carefree he was. Which was more refreshing than facing the Scowl of the Caped Crusader. Out of habit, more than necessity, Barry cleared his throat after he had slowed.

“Uh, Ted? You left the mic on…”

Ted stopped mid-cackle and tried his best not to let his embarrassment show too blatantly.

“Oh uhh, clearly I was just simulating a possible super-villain attack, y’know, with the long, frustrated monologue about society’s lack of appreciation, the maniacal laughter and all! Congratulations for-” He paused and let out a sigh “I mean, I don’t believe me either. Just don’t tell Batman. You know how he gets.”

Ah, Batman. If there was anything more demeaning than always being second best to a man with no flaws, it was always being second best to a man with no flaws that you actually liked. Yeah, the Caped Crusader somehow managed to be everything Ted wasn’t: professional, stoic, feared by his enemies and respected by his colleagues and he never once let Ted forget it. Well, he never really said anything about it either, but then again with a guy like Batman all you really needed was a look.
“So, apart from a laugh at my expense, is there anything I can do for the Fastest Man Alive today? Maybe whip up a bicycle capable of withstanding the Speed Force? I mean your feet must get tired at some point, right?”

Barry shrugged. “If Jay were still alive I’m sure he would have taken you up on that offer in his old age.” The concept of a bicycle that could withstand the speed of a speedster was an interesting one however, what would happen if it was then attached to a battery? Could he potentially store enough power to power a house, or something bigger? He shook his head, his mind was running away from him. “Also, I’m not laughing at you Blue. Think how I feel on monitor duty, time really drags on.”

He walked over to the computer, and plugged in a USB flash drive. “I confronted two Speedsters today, Trajectory and Speed Demon. It’s the first time they’ve ever teamed up, but they’re old news. What I am more interested in-” He opened a video of the security footage from the museum, showing the front entrance from across the street. Barry's back was visible but what he was focusing on was the visage of Zoom. “-This guy here.” Barry tapped his finger on the screen.

“He’s fast, from what I managed to glean from the crime scene, before Captain Signh kicked me out, and from what I saw I’d wager he’s nearly as fast as me. Calls himself ‘Professor Zoom’. Subtle name I know, but I don’t know anything on him. There has been sightings of a yellow speedster in Central City though, ruling out Wally I’m guessing that it’s this guy. Think you can get your miracle computer to help me out?” Traditionally he would have done this himself, it was part of his day job after all. He had spent years piecing together evidence and finding out where it could lead someone, in his Father’s case he had even worked against the evidence.

That all being said and done, Barry knew how Ted felt. When the League formed it was in a crisis, and they had reacted. Sure in Jay’s day he was one of the most powerful people on the planet, but compared to some of the others who were on the League his powers paled in comparison. After all, his only real ability was to move really fast (with some handy tricks). It had taken time for him to learn his place, what he was capable of. Everyone was invaluable to the team, he just had to help Ted realize that.

Ted was already back at the keys with a determined expression by the time Barry finished asking, absorbed in having a meaningful task to do. “Well, if it can beat me at Chess, Go, and Minesweeper then I figure it has what it takes to tell us a thing or two about Not-so-Mellow-Yellow there.” He couldn’t really take credit for the computer, since it was mostly Batman’s creation, but he had performed a few useful tweaks to the system whenever he’d gotten too bored so having it complimented did help improve his mood a little bit. “We’ve got this one good look at him to work with, so it’s no big deal to cross-reference a rough outline of his body metrics and facial structure with Batman’s list of metahumans, not to mention parse through any rumor or story about this yellow speedster seen around Central City for keywords and phrases that might lead to anything good. Plus, y’know, bring up any news stories or articles involving freak accidents, rogue magic events, secret military experiments, high-end science projects or people getting electrocuted while plugging in their new treadmill, typical supervillain genesis events.”

As Beetle spoke the computer generated what looked like a wire-frame model out of the visage of Zoom before rapidly flickering through a series of computer-generated headshots of suspected individuals, briefly lining them up and discarding them one by one. It also started generating a list of names and a short summary of incidents connected to them that might hint at speed-based powers, as well as another for locations where the yellow speedster had been sighted. Occasionally a news article or a research paper popped up as well.

“Y’know Batman always likes to act like detective work is this big, difficult arcane art, but I think he just does it to seem more mysterious and intimidating. You don’t need pointy ears and a cape for this!” Blue Beetle stared hard at the image of Zoom’s face and the generated model, squinting. “Come to think of it, the guy does look kind of familiar. Not like I know too many speedsters though, I’m probably just imagining things.”

Ted was distracted from any further musing by an emerging pattern in his searches, pulling up a few scholarly articles and a number of opinion pieces.

“Hmm...have you ever heard of a Doctor Elias? ‘Cause from the looks of things he has a big, science-y man-crush on you! Submitted a few papers on the implications of the existence of Speedsters for the laws of physics, a whole bunch of op-eds in scientific monthlies on what he thinks make your powers tick the way they do, kinda the PhD version of putting up a bunch of pictures of you on his school locker. If anyone’s using science to imitate you he might be a pretty good place to start. Facial recognition is still running, but I can set it to ping you when it’s finished. There’s a whole list of locations for sightings of Zoom too.”

Barry chuckled. “If you think this is easy, there’s always more cold cases in Central City if you’re ever feeling bored.” He stopped to look at the screen as it processed a variety of complex algorithms, Barry knew his stuff but that Bruce had designed these systems - with some input from Ted - was astounding. “That said, just give us a computer like that and you’d half the time it takes to close a case.”
At the mention of familiarity, Barry just shrugged it off. He’d seen the guy in person, and hadn’t really seen any sense of familiarity. It was probably just Ted’s mind playing tricks on him, or trying to lighten up the mood. The mention of Doctor Elias was something else, Flash - or in this case Barry Allen - had followed his work closely. He arrived in central city a couple of months ago, a real advocate for cleaner, renewable energy. Iris had done a piece on him just a couple of weeks ago, her and Barry going to one of his fundraisers in his facility and the work he was doing was impressive.

There had been something off about him however, he quite often shied away from the questions regarding the Flash. After all it wasn’t possible to inhabit either of the Gem Cities and not have an opinion on the Scarlet Speedsters. “I’ve heard of his work, he’s a brilliant scientist. Advocate for green energy and a better tomorrow, though he’s not really spoken about the Flash in any interview though. That’s curious.”

He leaned over Ted’s shoulder trying to get a better look at the computer screen. There were a lot of theories on why Speedsters generated lightning, or what looked like lightning, when they ran. On how when they caught someone from a falling building they managed to retain speed, and not break the person in half, not to mention why people weren’t torn to shreds when being carried by a Speedster. All in all it was interesting stuff, and without getting a hard detailed look at the research it looked as if Doctor Elias was stumbling onto the existance of the Speed Force. At least that was where the theories seemed to be pointing, as far as Barry knew Elias wasn’t actually a speedster… or was he?

This research, and the fact that Zoom appeared not long after Doctor Elias moved to Central City. From his work, not just as a hero but as a CSI he knew that some things were more than just a coincidence. He gave Ted a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks Blue-” his earpiece buzzed, an alarm he had set earlier to remind him of something incredibly important. “-I gotta run, but I’ll let you know how this works out. If you ever need my help in return, just give me a call.” With that he turned around, and kicked off down the corridor.

Ted deserved more time out of Mount Justice. Maybe he’d give him a call next time he needed a hand instead of Batman.

Blue Beetle left the computer to its facial recognition scans and went back to monitor duty with the kind of long-suffering sigh that’d make even the most melodramatic overactor embarrassed. This time though, Beetle was smiling. Barry had reminded him that if nothing else he was still valuable for his smarts. Maybe he really did still have what it took to save the day without the League’s help!

He went back to his usual round of keeping watch until a message came up behind his goggles reminding him of an appointment: Ted Kord was due to give a talk on his vision for the future at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry, entry tickets and all other proceeds going to charity of course.

Well, if he couldn’t do any good today as Blue Beetle, at least he could do some as Ted Kord.

Jefferson City, Missouri
1873

Reverend Timothy Partlow looked up from the pulpit at the sound of an opening door. The reverend almost recoiled at the sight of a tall, lanky man with a horrible scarred face stumbling through the nave towards him. He seemed to sway with each step, grasping on to the wooden pews for balance as he walked.

"There's no service at the moment, friend," Partlow said, stepping away from the pulpit and cautiously walking towards the man. "We've got one coming up this evening you're welcome to attend."

"Ain't here for no service, rev," the scarred man said with a drunken slur to his voice. "Need someone to witness to me. I need to get right with God."

A drunken man stumbling into the church was nothing new to Partlow. With a rowdy saloon down the street and an even rowdier cathouse beside it, men regularly came in to repent their wickedness. In the reverend's experience, every man succumbed to temptation, himself included. As willing as the spirit may be, the flesh was always weak. The feat was not exactly in avoiding temptation, but in asking for forgiveness once it had happened. What happened more often than not was they would soon leave after getting sober, never fully embracing God and going right back to their sinning.

"Come sit next to me on the pew, son. We'll talk."

The man reeked of liquor. Not just on his breath, but seemingly his whole body had been doused in it. Partlow could barely stand to sit just a few feet away from him on the pew. He noticed for the first time the man wore the gray of the Rebels, even though the war had been over for nearly ten years.

"What have you exactly done?"

"What haven't I done? Name the sin, rev, and I've done it. I've fornicated, fought, cursed God, and even killed many men."

Partlow gingerly placed a hand on the man's back in order to comfort him. He seemed genuinely remorseful, but he was convinced that had to be the hooch talking. This man had the look of a real gun thug, almost like the men Partlow knew from his past. If the sins were true, then Partlow had more in common with the drunk than the man realized.

"What's past is past, my friend. Wickedness may have been in your heart, but that wickedness can be driven out and replaced with the Lord. I speak from experience. In my youth, I battled my own demons before I let Christ into my heart. I was once a wicked man, but through His grace I have repented my ways. I was washed in the blood of the lamb and I became a different man."

"Have you really, rev?"

The drunk fixed his eyes on Partlow. The reverend found it hard to maintain eye contact with the man, especially with the scarred side of his face that made the right eye look bigger and unblinking.

"Changed, I mean," said the drunk. "I don't think it works like that. I had a man explain it to me like this one time: Our lives are a series of doors that lock behind us. We walk through a door and we can't go back. Soon or later we run out of doors to go through and we're left in a little room with the person we've become. We make our choices and we have to live with them. Now, the guy who told me that was coming down off a three-week opium high and I had just recently kicked six of his teeth out with my boot... but I think he was on to something. We are who we are and no amount of praying and weeping and gnashing of teeth can change that."

Partlow recoiled backwards at the man's words and at the fact that, slowly, is drunken slur had seemed to disappear.

"Like how you may be doing good here in Jeff City as Reverend Partlow, but saving all the souls here won't change the fact that you're really Timothy Perkins, and you are an evil bastard."

The reverend's blood seemed to run cold at the mention of that name he thought he'd left behind. He started to back away from the man, but before he could get too far away the man's strong hand found itself wrapped around Partlow's wrist.

"You tell your flock about what you did in Abilene? All the men you and your gang killed when that bank got robbed? What about those fires outside Wichita? All them women and kids that got caught in them burning houses? I bet them old ladies love hearing about the smell of burning human flesh and the way a human being screams while their lungs on fire. That gets them going, don't it?"

"NO! NO! NO! NO! That ain't me!"

Partlow struggled against the man's iron grip before he was pushed to the floor by the scarred man. He thrashed and spat and tried to fight back, but the man was too strong. The stranger jerked the preacher's hands behind his back and tied them together with a short length of rope before knotting it tight.

"I'd kill your sorry ass right now if I could. Unfortunately, the bounty stipulates you're wanted alive. That judge out in Kansas really wants to see you at the end of a rope."

"Whoever you are, you're mistaken! I'm a preacher, for God's sake!"

"Keep denying it and I'll cut out your tongue. You'll bleed out plenty, but I'll stop it before it gets too bad."

The reverend was brought to his feet by the bounty hunter. The scarred man's face was in a permanent sneer, but he felt that the man's face would look like that if he could make the face by choice.

"What I want to know is why is Bill DeVery killing the rest of your gang?"

Partlow blinked in surprise and looked at the bounty hunter.

"Bill?... I mean, who... is Bill?"

"Nice save there, rev, but it ain't gonna make a bit of difference. The rest of your boys -- Migs Malone, Swede Harden, Wilbur Helms -- all got gunned down by someone before I could collect the bounty on them. You and DeVery are the only two members of the gang still alive. With you acting all pious I imagine it's Billy boy doing the killing."

The reverend's heart raced. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, but he licked his dried and cracked lips before nodding.

"I... yes, I am Tim Perkins. I was Tim Perkins. All those things you said I did, I did. I was a monster... but I have changed my ways. I know why Bill is after me. Let me tell you my story and, after I've finished, you can decide if you'd rather take me in for the bounty... or make ten times more than what you would if I hang."

The bounty hunter snorted loud and long before he spat a wad of mucus on the church floor.

"Talk fast, rev. You're using up what little bit of patience I got."

---

Rockford, Illinois
1868

A pitch black engine steadily chugged and poured smoke from its stack as it roared down the rails. Connected to it were six cars that swayed with each dip and divergence on the tracks. The town of Rockford began to rapidly disappear behind it, giving way to the open country of Illinois. It was headed north towards the Wisconsin state line, the towns of Janesville and Madison before the big city of Milwaukee. That was its planned destination, anyway. The five men following the train had other plans.

They watched the moving train from a close hilltop with their horses hitched and waiting. The five men looked every bit like the roughnecks that they were, scraggly facial hair and dressed in dark clothing with bandannas hanging around their necks. One of the men watched the train’s movements with a looking glass in his hands while another stood next to a dynamite plunger.

“Alright,” Timothy Perkins said to the other men. “Mount up. Swede, you got about a minute until the train gets close enough to blow it.”

Swede Harden nodded and prepared to pull the plunger’s handle down while the other four mounted their horses. Perkins pulled his looking glass back out and watched the train approaching a bend.

“Now!”

Swede pushed down on the detonator, sending a electrical impulse a quarter of a mile away where three sticks of dynamite were wedged against the train tracks. The dynamite exploded just as the engine passed over it, sending the engine up ten feet into the air in a fireball of burning coal and twisted steel.

The fiery engine landed on its side and slid off the rails, twisting and dragging the rest of the train with it in a heap of battered boxcars.

“Let’s go,” said Perkins, slipping the bandanna up across the lower half of his face.

The five masked outlaws charged towards the wrecked train with guns drawn. Their intended target was the mail car three spots behind the engine. Part of its delivery in Janesville was payroll to the workers of the various factories and industries in the town, a cash sum totaling nearly twenty thousand dollars. The gang approached the overturned train car, quickly dismounted their horses and pulling their revolvers.

The mail car’s door swung open with a loud clatter. Two hands reached through the door and began to pull someone up through the door. As soon as the burly and mustached face of a man appeared through the hole, he was blasted through the head by Wilbur Helms’ big Smith & Wesson and fell back into the car, dead. Somewhere, someone moaned and someone else cried.

“Spread out along the train,” Perkins told the others. “Anybody even looks a bit like the law, gun ‘em down. Billy, you’re with me. We’re going into the mail car. “

Perkins and Bill DeVery climbed up across the car towards the open door where the marshal had attempted to come through. They jumped down through the hole into the capsized boxcar. It was a mess of scattered mail and twisted bodies. There were a lot of men on the floor, either unconscious or too hurt to put up a fight thanks to the crash. Perkins narrowed his eyes at the men. There were nearly a dozen in here. That was way too many for a simple mail run. Perkins found a dead man’s body and rifled through his jacket. He found a badge announcing the dead man as an agent of the United States Treasury.

“Bill,” he called over to DeVery. “Something’s not right here.”

“I think I found out what it is.”

Perkins looked over where DeVery had a very large trunk opened at his feet. The trunk was easily four feet across and two feet tall. The trunk had been knocked around in the crash, flying open and spilling large amounts of United States greenbacks across the floor. DeVery looked up from the cash and grinned at Perkins.

“It’s all twenties and hundreds. I think there’s at least three more of ‘em in the train.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Perkins said under his breath. “To hell with that payroll. Get that money back in the trunk and let’s find the others.”

---

“The Great Rockford Train Robbery,” Jonah Hex said mostly to himself. “That was y’all?”

“It was,” Timothy Perkins replied. “We found out later that all that money was on the train because it was being put into circulation and the old bills being brought back to the Mint. They had just dropped off one of those trunks at the Treasury field office in Chicago and were headed to Milwaukee to do the same. All told we took at least three million. We eventually gave up counting.”

“You got scared, didn’t you? That was a hell of a lot of money to take, nowhere near what you had planned.”

“We got spooked, yeah. This time we ripped off the federal government, not some wildcat bank or some penny-ante factory owner. It was a big crime that they wouldn’t stop trying to find the money or the robbers. Three million dollars. More money than anybody could spend in ten lifetimes. We took a small share of the haul and split it up, hid it, and went our separate ways.”

Perkins reached into his tunic and pulled out a scrap of paper. He held tightly to it as he looked at it.

“This—“ he held out the paper before pulling it back close to him. “—is part of a map to find the money. Upon our death, we would pass on our part of the map to the others. Last one left alive gets all the piece of the map and gets the money. In theory, it was a good plan…”

“But Bill got tired of waiting,” said Hex. “After just, what? Five years? Surprised y’all took this long to turn on each other.”

“I don’t want the money any longer, Mr. Hex,” said Perkins. “That is part of a past I wish to forget, it was a version of myself that no longer exists that did those things.”

“Well, tell that to DeVery when he shows up.”

“That will not stop Bill from killing me, if only to prevent me from coming back one day and killing him for the money… but what if I give my part of the map to you? You take out Bill, you get all five parts of the map, and get the money and I get to live in peace.”

Hex looked at the preacher. A line of perspiration ran across his hairline and beaded down his forehead. He looked at Hex with an almost fevered sense of optimism. Hex was about to reply when the doors to the church burst open.

The two men turned and saw the tall, meaty frame of Bill DeVery with a shotgun in his hands.

“Tim,” he called in a thick southern twang. “I come for ya!”

“Get down,” Hex growled, pushing Perkins to the floor and drawing one of his Colts from its hip holster.

The outlaw and bounty hunter opened fire upon each other simultaneously.

P R E S E N T

---

C E N T R A L C I T Y

---

"You're late." Barry winced at the worlds, practically physically recoiled. "How is it, that you're always late?" It was a truth, it was part of the reason Barry had asked Wally to step down as a member of the Titans to guard over Keystone, so that he'd theoretically have less to do to be able to spend more time with this woman.

Iris Allen, unless you saw her on the news or read her articles in which case she went by 'West-Allen'. He had been married to her for ten years, and she was argueably the best thing about him. She had been the one to guide him through using his powers and making him the best hero he could possibly be, she had introduced him to Wally and now she was pregnant. "You know how it is Iris-" He leaned down and gave her a brief kiss, before reaching out and taking her hand as they walked down the street. "-There's always something else. I am trying though, really I am."

She squeezed his hand. "I know, I'm just teasing." He smiled, he knew that she was all along. Though part of him still felt guilty, he wasn't there for his mother when she died. His father absent until he died in prison for her murder, something Barry had never been able to change no matter how much research he did. "I know you'll always be there for me."

As she said that there was a KA-THOOOOM, instinctivly Barry turned to put his body between the explosion and Iris. He looked at her, concern on his face. "Don't worry about me, go." He kissed her on the cheek before he turned around into a nearby alley. Iris always understood that this was something he needed to do, that Central City needed The Flash. As he ran down the alleyway he raised his right hand, upon one of his fingers was an ornate ring with a lightning bolt upon it. Reaching over he tapped a stud on the side of his ring, a red suit was launched on front of him. Lightning flowing through him he ran into the suit, vibrating his molecules he literally ran into the suit. Speeding off in a red and yellow blur towards the scene of the explosion. He could already see the explosion, whatever happened had taken a sizeable chunk out of an appartment building.

He couldn't see the culprit now, but what he could see was a fire that needed put out. He ran into the building with the burning heat, though his healing and suit itself helped protect him from the heat. His lungs repairing themselves from the smoke as soon as he took a breath. Barry could see people all around the room, but knew that the first thing he had to do was put out the fires. In the first room he began to spin his arms around, creating a vortex starving the fires of air. Lightning trailing him he grabbed the people in the room and deposited them just outside the building.

Turning around he ran back into the building, though this time he noticed as the building shook as he ran up the stairs. The building was becoming unstable, and that meant that he had even less time than he thought he had. He moved in and out of the blur, becoming increasingly aware that each time he ran back into the building it shook more and more.

The man in yellow stood out of sight, he made sure that the explosive device didn't kill anyone. He didn't want to kill the Flash. All he had ever wanted was to be the Flash, to help the Flash. He was his biggest fan, his entire life had revolved around him. He'd make the Flash realize he needed him. He couldn't do this alone, not since the pretender Kid Flash had left him. No, Professor Zoom and the Flash would go down in history through the ages, there was no doubt about that.

They complimented eachother.

Barry ran out of the room with the last person from inside the building. "Flash!"

"OhMyGodOhMyGodOhMyGod!"

"My house!"

"My Dollyyy!!!"

"What just happened?"

"I think I'm gonna be sick-" He listened to all the complaints as the fire engines came closer and closer. He wasn't really listening to them however, he was observing. Using all the skills he had ever accumulated as a CSI and the Flash he was looking for the smallest signs of discomfort or pain. It was part of his job to make sure everyone was okay.

When he was satisfied that everyone was okay he spoke up. "You're all safe now, the authorities will be here soon to inspect the building-" There was a crack as the building collapsed in on itself showever everyone in a layer of dust. "-Or not."

"What are we going to do now?"

"Where are we going to live!"

"Dolllyyyyyyyy!!!!"

In these instances Barry would normally use the Speedforce to cram his short term memory full of information on construction - information that would quickly fade - before building a new building. Though before he could even get a chance there was a yellow blur, as it shot passed him running back and forth. For him he could actually see the individual running back and forth building it, everyone else would see a building appearing with a flash of yellow. As the building was complete the figure in yellow stood waiting in the doorway, holding the little girls doll. She ran over to the man in yellow and took the doll.

"Thanks Mr....?"

"The names Professor Zoom. I'm with the Flash." Barry paused, at least he seemed to be on the side of the angels. Wait, what was this about him being with the Flash?

P R E S E N T

---

N E W Y O R K CITY

---

The reception was unusually crowded, Samuel noted, though perhaps not unusually so for New Year's Eve. He had just stepped through the door, the blissful warmth already thawing his frozen face. It was a decidedly unusually cold night, the temperatures dropping as low as 10 degrees, according to the radio channel Samuel had been listening to while getting himself ready for tonight. Having walked from his lodging to Essence, Samuel had no trouble believing it. He smiled innocuously as the club's patrons turned their heads at the new arrival, and proceeded to walk towards the dressing rooms. Normally the staff entered the building through a back entrance, but that door was locked and under guard per request of the firm which had hired the club. Samuel didn't even want to know what it would cost someone to book up the entire club on New Year's Eve.

With the bow tie in place, Samuel took a final look in the mirror to make sure he looked appropriate. He did. Dark, tall and lean with a clean-shaven, warm face and not as much as a wrinkle on his clothing. Just as he was leaving the restroom Mr. Cox popped his head through the door.
"There you are, Samuel!" The old man entered the room, his posture impeccably straight as always. "Have the others told you what you will be doing tonight?"
"Yes sir." Samuel answered. "I am to serve the company leadership on the top floor."
"Just so. These are important guests, so I want you to be even sharper tonight, if possible." Mr. Cox said, looking at him. Samuel nodded and smiled. His boss left the room, Samuel following soon after.

With the elevator reaching the top floor, Samuel stepped out. The top floor was furnished much like the rest of Essence - traditionally British, dark mahogany, with elements of alder, zebrano and even Indian laurel. Wood, basically. The decor was sparse and tasteful, the intent to look as luxurious as it was. Yet the top floor was more extravagant than the others. Perhaps not obviously so. The furniture was the same as the others, the colors the same if perhaps using a slightly lighter palette, and the art of a similar nature. It wasn't the prices but rather the design of the floor that made it luxurious. The symmetry, open spacing and lines in general were incredibly tasteful, Samuel thought. Pretentious, clearly, but also appreciated amongst those who understood interior design. Samuel was very impressed by the state of the club in general, but this floor in particular was extraordinary.

The top floor was unsurprisingly less crowded than the others. Most of the tables had been removed for the night, only a handful remaining. Samuel went to the bar and was greeted by the other staff, before being asked to deliver an order to a side table.
"Where you waiting for me to take this?" Samuel asked.
"We heard you where on your way up." the woman in the bar answered. She hesitated. "Sam, we're pretty sure these men belong to the mob. They have armed guards on every floor. This order is for their boss." She looked worried, but Samuel laughed it off. Even though Samuel had only worked at the club for a few months, the staff was already looking up to him. He was handsome, confident and above all very good at his job. Dealing with important individuals came exceedingly easy to Samuel. He had noticed that several men in the club where armed, primarily those located at exits and the elevator. He was hardly surprised.
"It doesn't matter who they are Beth. Tonight they're just here to enjoy themselves. It's perfectly fine. We have guests like these often, if perhaps not occupying every floor."

Nevertheless, Samuel did take the order. A salmanazar of very fine champagne. He looked at his watch. 23:55. The midnight toast, he figured. He put the champagne in a large bucket of ice. It was a tight fit. He then placed it on a silver plate along with glasses, turned the corner and went for the table.

---

Lightly puffing on his cigar, Wilson Fisk turned his head. A waiter approached the table, putting champagne in front of him.
"Would you like me to pour, gentlemen?" the man asked.
"If you don't mind." Fisk answered, smiling. The waiter nodded and set two glasses for them before filling them. "That is all." The waiter nodded again and left. Fisk looked at the young woman opposite him once again. Maya Lopez was a mere sixteen years old, but she carried herself with a grace that far surpassed her young age. Her father, Jensen Lopez, had been a trusted worker of Fisk's, before falling victim to drugs. The man had become a problem, and Fisk had him killed about four years ago. With the rest of her family already gone, Fisk had opted to take Maya under his wing. Perhaps it was out of a feeling of guilt, but Fisk felt more inclined to believe it was due to Maya herself. She was a remarkably talented musician and dancer, intelligent and incredibly likable. She had a way of appearing casual and proper simultaneously, effortlessly mingling with any crowd and winning over anyone to her side with nothing more but a glance and a few words. It was a quality Fisk respected and deeply envied at the same time. The dress she was wearing tonight was hardly appropriate for her age, but Fisk had already learned that trying to control Maya was the quickest way of losing her trust.

"What are you thinking of?" she said, while lifting her glass. Fisk dropped his thoughts and met her gaze.
"Tonight, my dear." Fisk lifted his glass and swirled it lightly before taking a whiff. Very good stuff. "To tonight!" he said, and took a swig. Maya echoed his words and followed suit. She gave him a curious look.
"Aren't you worried? I'm practically shaking." She clearly wasn't. Fisk offered a weak smile and put the cigar back in his mouth.
"A man, or indeed woman,-", he nodded, "-is only ever worried if they lack faith in their planning, or lack a plan entirely. I am never worried."
"Well well, boasting much are we?" she answered with a light giggle.
"No, I believe we are toasting, Maya." He took another swig and checked his watch. 23:57. "I think it's time we head for the patio, no?" Smiling and nodding, Maya rose from the table. Fisk did the same and headed outside.

The cold outside hit Maya like a truck. Fisk didn't feel a thing. He took off his white jacket and wrapped it around Maya's shoulders. It was a comical sight. Other than the two of them, the patio was empty save for Jack Rose, one of two men Fisk had planned tonight's engagements with. They were located on the 26th floor, with a very decent overview of Midtown. The snowfall had subceeded, but a few snowflakes were still falling. Thankfully, it was not very windy at all, even at this height. Fisk inhaled, filling his mouth with the taste of the cigar and the cold of the evening.
"Mr. Fisk." Jack Rose was one of very few people in the organization who called Fisk by his name. Hell, he was one of few who even knew it. Others simply referred to him as "the Boss". "All teams are a go. They are ready to move when you are." Nodding, Fisk looked at his watch again. 23:59. Fireworks were already blazing across the city.
"Why then, Mr. Rose, I do believe it is time to allow the proper fireworks to commence. The operation is greenlit."

---

"The operation is greenlit. I repeat, the operation is greenlit." The words buzzed in Samuel's ear piece as he approached the table. Five men were seated along it. He recognized two. One was Jamie Carr, the newest member of the made men of the Maggia as far as Samuel was aware. Their paths had crossed plenty in the past, as they used to attend the same high school. Carr had certainly risen fast through the ranks. The other man he recognized was Damian Adelardi - the very top leader of the New York Maggia. Samuel drew a deep breath. He reached down in the ice bucked and grabbed hold of a sub-machine gun. His eyes met those of a couple of the other servers. They nodded in response. Unceremoniously, Samuel dropped the bucket and lifted the weapon. Without saying as much as a word, he turned off the safety and squeezed the trigger.

---

Fisk's eyes were intently focused on a building a few blocks west from the patio they were standing on. It was a splendid building, called Enterprise State. Not the exterior perhaps, but the building housed some of the most exclusive organizations and clubs in New York. Too exclusive for Fisk, apparently. The foremost establishment of the building was a gentlemen's club called Essence, which took up twelve floors of the building, including the bottom floor and the top floor. The fact that the Maggia had effortlessly hired the entire building - not just Essence's twelve floors, but the entire skyscraper - at an extortionate amount that Fisk would never dream of paying irked him. It irked him very, very much. Right now, he was watching that top floor. He was just about to say something to Jack Rose, when the top floor suddenly lit up. The flashes where sudden, bright and above all silent, but there was no mistaking the gunfire. Fisk continued to watch with Maya on his arm and Rose speaking on his communications device. And then, windows of various floors of Enterprise State shattered as explosions lit up the night. "Now those, Maya, are the fireworks of progress."

---

Samuel wiped his brow. Fire was enveloping the floor, and the heat was already palpable. He couldn't help but feel a tingle of grief knowing that the exquisite designs throughout the place were about to go extinct. Luckily, they weren't the only things about to go extinct.
"Who-who are you?" he heard someone wheeze through their pain. Samuel looked down. In front of him Damian Adelardi lay sprawled on the floor. Judging by the amount of blood, Samuel had probably hit the man all over, but it was the gun shot wound in his throat that caught Samuel's attention. It was impressive that the old fart was able to speak in spite of it.
"I might as well be Jack-in-the-box for all you care, Adelardi." He cleared his empty magazine and started reloading. "In fact, I suppose I indeed am." Adelardi looked at him incredulously. "I jest, old man. I am Samuel Silke, and you - I believe - are dead." He raised his weapon once more and snuffed out Damian Adelardi's life.

---

Metropolis
12:00pm EST
December 25th, 2007

Ma and Pa were never the devout church-going type, but Christmas was always something special to us. My parents would plan sometimes months in advance to find exactly what I wanted, and when I was old enough to start giving back, I'd go to the ends of the Earth- sometimes literally- to do something special for them. As a kid, I'd show off and do something crazy like move every boulder and heavy rock in every acre of our fields and make a statue. As I got older, it became more personal, like learning how to painstakingly restore the old broken pocket-watch that had been a Kent family heirloom since the Civil War. Point being, this is the time of year I go to great lengths to get the people in my life the thing they want or need more than anything else in the world.

Christmas morning in Smallville was wonderful; Ma was up before dawn making breakfast because she knew I'd insist on making it myself when Lois and I arrived. We caught up on all the daily goings-on in the old town and what we were up to in the big city, and exchanged gifts after I put the dishes away. Over the past few months, I'd secretly brought all of the heavy machinery from the barn to my Fortress and had Kelex retrofit them all with menial AI systems to drive themselves, and we surprised Ma with a completely automated self-sustaining farm. She found Pa's old baseball glove and re-stitched it together for me. She was always better at finding the perfect gift than me.

I would have stayed longer, but sadly, my job doesn't allow for holidays. I spend the rest of my morning putting out fires, stopping a few potentially fatal car crashes, and helping Captain Turpin and his men take down the Helgrammite, who had apparently assumed I'd taken the day off and thankfully didn't seem to be in the mood for a fight when I arrived.

With things relatively calm, it's time for my next stop, and the I'm the least certain about trying.



The tower is one of the most imposing man-made structures ever assembled, stretching even higher than the Burj Khalifa. I've been told that with normal human vision, the very top of the spire isn't visible from ground level on a cloudy day. And yet, despite reaching heights that would collapse most known designs under their own weight, the place is shockingly sturdy. Through disasters, bombings, rampages from super-powered criminals and terrorists, and even the Dominator invasion, the tower has never sustained more than cosmetic damage.

I'll say this for Lex Luthor: he's one hell on an architect.

The upper floors of the LexCorp tower blossom out on one end like mushrooms on the side of a tree: layer after layer of helicopter pads and observation decks, added in recent years to accommodate visitors from the sky. For someone who's never been able to stand the sight of me, he sure did go out of his way to make sure I had plenty of places to meet him for our occasional conversations.

Today, as I touch down on the uppermost observation deck, I see he's not out to greet me with his usual smugness. I peer through the layers of reinforced ferro-crete and poly-alloy structure to see him at his desk, typing away at one of several laptops arranged around him. Of course he'd be hard at work on Christmas Day; while I'm sure he's never said it out loud, he's the type of person who's had "bah, humbug" on the tip of his tongue all his life.

"The door's open, Spaceman," he calls out, not even looking up from his desk as I approach the office. I raise an eyebrow at how clearly I'm able to hear his voice- usually the windows in LexCorp Tower are so perfectly soundproofed that even I can't hear through them. I suppose he's created some way to selectively filter sounds coming in and out of the Tower, similar to my own senses, but that's another question for another day. Today, I'm here for a talk....and to deliver a gift.

"Keeping your nose to the grindstone, I see," I remark as I step into the clean, almost sterile office. Every piece of furniture, every light fixture, every piece of art, was precisely engineered to be in its exact space, giving the room an impressive but soulless air. "I'd read that a few years ago, you'd replaced most of your board of directors with high-functioning AI to handle the day-to-day business at your company."

"Yes, well, after the Brainiac incident I soured somewhat on the idea of turning that much work over to software," he says, a bitter tone in his voice. "Now, what do you want? Here to scold me on another project that doesn't adhere to your Commandments? Maybe make a few more accusations that I'm some criminal mastermind even though you just can't seem to whip up the evidence to prove it? Or did you come here to blubber and beg me to see the light so we can be friends?"

"Actually," I say, brushing off his rebuke and producing a small gift-wrapped box, "I just wanted to give you your Christmas present."

Lex finally stops typing, one eyebrow raised.

"Did you bring a soccer ball?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh come now, you have to know about the Christmas Truce," he says, looking up from his desk with a mocking smile. "It's 1914, and Europe is in the first stages of tearing itself to pieces. A whole generation of bright-eyed young men are thrown into the meat grinder and empires are broken forever. The destiny of the world hangs in the balance of two lumbering alliances trying to clog the enemy's throat with the corpses of their young. But ah, it's Christmas. So the Germans and French and British all climb up out of their trenches, sing songs, trade trinkets back and forth, and play a friendly game of futbol. It's a tear-jerking story that really shows the inherent goodness of the world and the magic of the season.

"So, I ask you again," he says, an edge sharpening the smile on his face, "if you want us to have a little Christmas truce, did you bring a soccer ball?"

"No," I answer plainly. "I thought you might like--"

"Might like what?" Lex cuts me off, standing up and rounding the desk to face me eye to eye-- or really, eye to chin for him. "This is supposed to be some gesture to show me that you're not all that bad, right? That maybe, deep down, you really do care? Do you know what Christmas is to me, Superman? Christmas is my old man buying me a new video game I'm never going to play, a new suit I'm never going to wear, or a new car I'm never going to drive, to make up three hundred and sixty-four other days of his fist, his insults, or his indifference. Just like every other higher power that either puts you through hell or ignores you, only to turn around and hope a token act of kindness will make us all forget how awful you really are."

He snatches the box out of my hand, contemptuously ripping off the wrapping paper and digging his hand into the box.

"So let's see what the mighty and merciful Man of Tomorrow got for the man who opposes everything he believes," he says. "Some sappy reminder of happier days, or a souvenir from some amazing adventure, or a........what............what is this?"

In his hand is a small, seashell-like bowl of shimmering crystal and dark dull metal. Inside the bowl seems to be a handful of bright white sand which shifts and stirs with his movements, but never spills out even as Lex turns it upside-down.

"It's a small matter compiler, I tell him. "It pulls trace elements out of the surrounding environment and re-configures them on a subatomic scale into any substance you want, once you understand how to operate it."

Lex scowls at it, perhaps annoyed by how interested he is.

"And how do I operate it?" he asks idly as he turns it over and over in his hand.

"I'm not telling you," I say with a grin. He stops fiddling with the device and glares. "On Krypton, this was a toy meant to entertain children. I'm sure you can figure out how to make it work with no problem."

"Ah-ha," he says with a bitter laugh. "So that's your 'Christmas present,' mocking me."

"Daring you," I correct him. "This little device can only make objects about the size of an apple, but the principles remain the same no matter what the scale. With the right design, you could make one big enough and powerful enough to feed everyone on the planet, manufacture shelters for the homeless, custom-build medicine for the sick, and conjure it all literally out of thin air...."

"....or build a whole new society from the ground up and rule over it myself," he says, his eyes fixed on the trinket. "I could make anything with a device like that, and you're just giving it to--"

"No," I say, deftly snatching it back from him, "I'm letting you look at it, and daring you to make a better one."

There's a long pause in the air between us.

"Get out of my office," he says coldly.

"Merry Christmas, Lex," I respond with a wink.

"GET OUT!!!!

I duck out of the way to avoid the laptop that Lex hurls at me, which shatters against the bomb-proof window as I leave. Taking to the sky, I find myself wondering if I got through to him. Someone like Lex Luthor won't accept a mere present, or a peace offering, or a token of friendship. But if there's one thing he will accept, it's a challenge.

We'll see if he ever puts that gift to use. In the meantime, there's plenty of day left, which means there are going to be plenty of people who'll need me to use my own gifts.

All in a day's work, I suppose.

P R E S E N T

---

C H I C A G O

---

One of the biggest perks of owning a hypersonic, bug-shaped airship had to be the ability to get across the country in no-time flat. Life as a billionaire, genius, and inventor-vigilante definitely had its upsides and for Ted one of the biggest was the chance to give speeches like these, to minds ready to be inspired towards a future of great inventions. That was without even counting the potential millions that could watch it as it was streamed to the internet too. Some might have been made nervous by the attention, but for Ted, about to get on stage in a teal blue suit and a bright green tie, it was just energy to feed on.

The announcement finished up, and there was an instant hush as somewhere around seven-hundred people caught sight of the purposefully garish colors of his outfit. He raised his hands for their further attention, then gave a flourish and a dramatic bow that set some less decorous viewers chuckling and put a few smiles on what was otherwise a sea of raptly attentive faces..

"Well, I know we're not here just to admire my raw charisma and dashing good looks, so let's get right to it. Hello everyone, and welcome to my 'TED' Talk." Another series of scattered laughs from the crowd. "As many of you know, since I took over Kord Omniversal at eighteen, I've always oriented the company towards a single slogan 'Making a brighter future, today'. Too often, it seems we envision the future as a dark place, bleak and degraded if not an outright wasteland, especially in our pop culture. Too often, it seems that technology in one form or another is to blame for this dark future."

He paused for a moment as images flickered across the screen from a variety of dystopian and post-apocalyptic films and properties, then continued.

"But when I went to work at Kord Omniversal, technically at the tender age of nine, it was a different version of the future that inspired me to invent. A future dreamed up by men like Isaac Asimov, the Strugatsky Brothers, and at times my dear old dad. A world where things weren't always perfect, but always better! Where technology was a benevolent tool, one that helps us better ourselves and better understand our universe. Yes, I have some talent, but it's that bright vision for the future that I really credit for my success."

Right on schedule, the big screen flashed the Kord Omniversal logo and brought up a series of images of all sorts of Kord inventions.

"In the many years since, Kord Omniversal has created endless new technologies, from drones built to explore the vastness of space and the depths of our oceans, to life-saving and life-extending medical inventions. We've broadened out even further to artificial intelligence development, electronic entertainment, any problem that could use some of the best scientific and creative minds on the planet. Because it's not about money or the recognition, it's about bringing a better future one step closer every day and-"



Ted froze at the sound of the familiar bellow that rang like the world's most enraged set of wind chimes. A figure that stood like a gleaming, six foot five metallic statue had just come through the doors to the auditorium, flanked by two others. To the right of him was a gas-mask wearing man in a suit of golden metal plating and silvery flameproof fabric, and to the left another in a robotic exosuit of green and purple with an odd, curved apparatus attached to one arm. Ted knew all of them well, not only because he'd put them all in specially designed prison cells, but also because they were all former employees of Kord Omniversal. He wordlessly rolled up his sleeve and started pressing buttons on the arm of the Blue Beetle suit underneath as the metal man went on.

"This is the result of your 'better future' Mr. Kord! Your company made disfigured us, discarded us, made us freaks and outcasts! So now we're going to show the world how your dream ends, by killing you live in front of the world! But we're generous guys, so everyone else can get out! Today, we're just here for Ted Kord!"

A lot of screaming and panic ensued, but to the credit of both the crowd and surprisingly the supervillains, nobody was trampled and they were actually allowed to run out of the hall. Which just left Ted and three very angry, murderous bad guys.

"Y'know guys, I don't exactly feel like dying today. Could we maybe reschedule?" No such luck, the League of Evil Ex-Employees continued to advance on him. That is, until the wireless commands he'd issued to the Hall's lighting via his wrist communicator plunged the hall into darkness. Long years of experience gave Ted the timing he needed to roll aside as an unseen projectile whirred through the empty air where his head had been. He came to his feet and stripped off his over-clothes in swift, well-practiced motions to reveal the skintight Blue Beetle suit underneath and got his cowl on and goggles in place moments later, ignoring his enemies' cries of frustration and alarm. The now suited-up Blue Beetle used his B.B. gun to grapple up to the balcony level of the Auditorium while dropping a little disk at his feet. Then, overlooking the stage, he let out his instantly recognizable guffaw, the noise echoing around the room:

"BWAH-HAHAHAHA!~"

The villains might have interrupted, but the show must go on!

With another command sequence to the little screen on his wrist, a hard-light HoloTed popped up from the little disk and began cowering off to the side, just in time for the lights of the auditorium to flash back on in a perfect shade of Beetle Blue. The metal man's face reflected the light with a look of shock and despair, while the other two masked figures searched the room wildly, all of them in dismay at the sudden illumination and the all-too-recognizable laugh.

"NonononoNO! He can't be here! Not today! Not now! Anyone but him!"

The HoloTed used the distraction to run out a side exit, screaming like a little girl. It was programmed to be a completely accurate simulation of himself, after all. Still running on the same hacked-in program, a big Blue Beetle logo appeared on the auditorium's main projector screen, right as Blue Beetle himself dropped down to center stage with a big grin.

"Well it sure ain't Wonder Woman, Promethium Man!"

Promethium Man started to glow red hot, his rage rising as fast as his temperature as he stormed the stage with a roar. The Big Blue Bug waited until nearly the last minute, then sailed into the air so that the big lug crashed into the wall behind him in a cloud of smoke and plaster. Ted did a few midair flips for good measure before coming down, then stuck the landing, with a smirk on his face.

"Be honest with me fellas! Is the reason I don't get enough respect in the capes-and-tights community because my villains are so lame?"

The silver-and-gold suited villain lit his fists on fire with a whoosh! of igniting accelerant, just as his purple-and-green armored counterpart took to the air and loaded some sort of sphere into the long, curved cup on his arm.

"I mean-" The gas-masked man shot a gout of flame at Blue Beetle and a blue pistol was suddenly in Ted's hand as a blast of wind snuffed the fire out and slammed him into the first row of seats "-what kind of name is 'Firefist' anyways? Was it supposed to be a heavy metal album for nine-year-olds before you turned evil?"

A crash and a tortured shriek of hot metal announced that the Promethium Man was back on his feet, only for Ted to turn and blind him with a painfully bright beam of light from the same gun. " The name 'Promethium Man' has the opposite problem, it's sooo boring." Promethium Man fought through the blindness and pain to charge in the direction of Blue Beetle's voice at the same time as his flying foe flung a beeping metal sphere at Ted. Without pausing, Ted whirled into a perfect bicycle kick that knocked the explosive into the metallic murderer's face and hurled him back into the very same dent in the wall he'd just exited.

Ted landed in a crouch to face the last of his enemies still standing, or in this case flying, and gave him a mock salute "See, you've got it right, Overthrow is a decent name." Overthrow immediately started flinging more miniature explosives from the air, though Blue Beetle nimbly evaded each through a series of aerial cartwheels then leaped almost impossibly high in the air. His fist cracked across Otherthrow's faceplate in a mid-air collision before he could launch another bomb, then the two of them crashed into the balcony seats in a tangle.

Blue Beetle got to his feet first. Hands blurring, he gripped Overthrow's wrist and twisted his arm into a lock that made him writhe and scream in pain before snapping the launching apparatus around his arm. Overthrow managed to scythe out with his feet and knock the Azure Avenger to the ground, but before the power-suited killer could bring a boot down on his neck Ted grabbed his leg and twisted so they were both on the ground. The two rolled apart and stood up across from each other. They faced one another like that for a while, both panting, each seemingly wary and sizing up their opponent.

"You always were...a tricky one, Arnold. But there's one thing...you don't understand."

Overthrow scoffed, voice distorted to a crackling basso by his helmet "What? That a corrupt dog of...the military-industrial complex like you has...righteousness on his side?"

"Heh, Nope! When I grabbed your leg earlier, I broke your jet-boots!"

"WHA-" Overthrow slammed into the ceiling in a burst of rocket fire, then fell back down onto the balcony, flopping like a rag-doll.

Ted chuckled in between trying to catch his breath "Overthrow might be...a decent name...but picking jai alai as your theme makes you...my stupidest rogue."

Blue Beetle shot his grappling hook up into the roof and descended back down to the main floor, still panting, thankful that his outfit prevented sweat from getting in his eyes and with one hand over his hammering heart. Firefist tried to take another shot at him from behind, but Ted just drew a second trick pistol with his left hand and hit the pyromaniac with a sonic pulse that made him start violently vomiting into his gas mask, not bothering to turn around.

"Whoo...not bad for a man with a heart condition, huh?"

The Chicago Police Department moved in after that, along with a horde of reporters.

Not quite the sort of publicity Ted was hoping for today.

---

Ted got out of bed aching after yesterday's rigors of crime-fighting, press coverage and inventing. He'd gotten the Bug running at 90% solar power, He'd be running some new drone designs for space exploration by STARK and Waynetech R&D to see if either of them wanted to bite on collaborations and the heads of both companies along with a few others should be waking up to party invitations by now. No sense having a birthday week if you didn't celebrate, after all.

Still, he couldn't help feeling troubled by the accusations of the supervillains from yesterday. They were right, at least about the fact that he had failed each of them in the past.

Curt Calhoun was a foreman at one of his factories before he became the Promethium Man in an industrial accident that bonded one of the world's strongest and most radioactive materials to his body. True, Ted had been working on a cure for the man for years, but mutations to Curt's DNA and bonding to the metal on a cellular level meant that was going nowhere fast. Ted couldn't imagine how he must suffer, trapped in a cold Promethium body, unable to feel anything.

Firefist was Doctor Lyle Barnes, High-Energy Materials Researcher for K.O.R.D. . At least he was until a malfunctioning experiment disfigured him. He'd blamed the firefighters for not responding quickly enough at first, then blamed Ted once that failed to ease his pain.

Overthrow was Ted's bodyguard, but...well no, Arnold Becker had always been a crazy, paranoid conspiracy theorist. But Ted was at least responsible for the other two. Maybe he could do something more for them now that they weren't a danger to anyone. It was a new problem for this new day.

"HoloTed, gimme the schedule for this beautiful morning, then set my alarm for a quick power nap!"

A voice and a form materialized by Ted's bed, but it wasn't his own grinning mug that faced him.

"Oh little Theodore, still a foolish boy dreaming of saving the world."

The shimmering, chrome-dome'd visage with its precise, clipped Germanic accent belonged to a man Ted believed to be dead for over a decade.

His greatest enemy.

Conrad Carapax.

"It's time to wake up, Ted."

P R E S E N T

---

X A V I E R I N S T I T U T E O F H I G H E R L E A R N I N G

---

Muscle atrophy is when muscles _{waste away}. The main reason for muscle wasting is a lack of physical activity. This can happen when a disease or injury makes it difficult or impossible for you to move an arm or leg.

-Exerpt from a journal of medicine.

What they don't explain is the immense pain that comes with the natural decay of muscles. As he sat there laying in what should be the most comfortable he would be all day, Charles laid in his bed clutching his legs as they rang out in glorious agony. As he went about his daily routine, for which he was able to do on his own power, the constant reminder of the WHY he does what he does continues to rear it's ugly head. Within the hour Charles straightened his tieas he positioned himself more comfortably in his chair reaching over to the pain medication and glass. If he was honest with himself, he hated taking the stuff but with everything he had lined up he would need all his concentration on his work. A sudden loud knocking at the door drew his thoughts out of himself,

"Charles, the plane is leaving soon and we can't miss the meeting with the senator."

Hank, as always, keeping everything running on a ship tight schedule.

"I'm coming Hank, just finishing up here."

In truth the fact he was taking medication for pain was his best kept secret and he planned for it to stay that way.

C A P I T O L H I L L

---

The hallways of Capitol Hill were always swarming with people, under normal circumstances it would be difficult to navigate the seemingly endless maze of hallways corridors and offices. However, when you are considered the greatest mutant rights activist, the world's most powerful telepath and your being pushed by a six foot mutant that could rip you in half both on and off the Senate floor, people tend to move aside for you. While Hank was being cordial enough for the both of them, Charles was in no mood to deal with people today.

His mind was riddled with the thoughts of the humans around him, while not a major issue the dull roar was little more than a minor irritant. They were early for their meeting which was exactly how Charles liked it, he always kept himself ahead of everyone's schedule. It keeps people on their toes. Among the sea of yes men and political kiss ups Hank began giving the run down of the day's events.

"...And besides with everything else we have planned, we just don't have enough hours in the day."

"So who is this Senator Hunter anyway?"

"Nicholas Hunter, senator from Iowa. Virtually unknown until he ran for state Senate in Des Moines in 2003. He eventually ran for governor where he increased state revenue 16% in his first term. A staunch supporter of the anti-metahuman movement, having coauthored the Mutant Affairs Control Act in 1989. He alongside Senator Robert Kelly have essentially paved the way for most anti-metahuman legislation since the late 80s."

A wave of seriousness washed over Charles. His opponent was quite formidable indeed as it appeared that Mr. Hunter was one of if not THE most influential anti-mutant activist. Although he was just as formidable in the defense of the rights of his people as well, so much that when Hank knocked on the door to his office Charles was bold enough to smile in confidence. That smile quickly faded when the one face he never expected to see appeared before him,

"Why hello Charles, it's been far too long!"

"Colonel Stryker, it certainly has been some time. Last time we met, I believe it was at Georgetown University Hospital."

The slight towards his son was received and not taken lightly by Reverend Stryker as a slight chuckle was heard from behind him,

"Come now William, even you of all people could appreciate the irony of the comment."

Senator Hunter motioned for Charles and Hank to come further into the office as he was seen with yet another unforseen individual to a meeting that should have been a one on one meeting. Things seemed to be taking a turn for the worse.