Augustus cut off the radio and shot out of his car, he looked toward his watch and began to fiddle with the expensive piece of technology. Curtis Metcalf had become a fairly good ally since they had decided to meet up and had sort of spruced up his and Rocket’s mean of communication. After twiddling with the watch, a bit, he finally got Curtis to appear as a sort of holographic image.

Well, about time you finally used my wa…”

“Get me patch into the Justice League Immediately!”

Curtis scratched his head in confusion.
“That’s a strange request, is this about that pier incident?”

“What’s stranger is someone found the gas that was stored on the pier, we might have an invasion of mutates going about, and we cannot sit by, nor will we be handle this all on our own, NOW GET ME PATCHED IN WITH THE LEAGUE!”

Curtis had never heard Augustus this panicked. He raised his eyebrow realizing how serious the situation was. However, Curtis was hesitant, he knew exactly what it was without having to hear about it. Something was wrong with this, but still Augustus was right. They needed to get some assistance if Dakota City were to battle these new Mutated forces. He moved toward the comms feed, It had been a while since they had communicated with the Justice League, not because they weren’t active members but more so because Dakota City minus urban crime was fairly quiet. Nobody were superpowered or a major issue…now with what they’ve just seen on TV, It certainly was something to worry about.

Thus Curtis went to work, quickly patching his way into the JLA Comms or at least the one he remembered and went to work.
“Go ahead.”

Augustus too a Deep break and began to speak.
“There has been a recent incident at the Paris Island Pier, a gang bust has led to nearly 200 people killed and about 50 more injured. However, I believe the injured or those that have escape, might have found something they were never meant to. Last Month the police force busted Alva Industries doing illegal testing with Gas weaponry. It was supposed to be sent to STAR Labs for inspection as we feared that the cheminal might’ve been a weapon of mass destruction…”

Curtis was livid at this revelation.

“Alva? And you just decide to tell me no…”

He was interrupted by Augustus’s continued message to the JL.

“However, it seems that…the gas was more than just a weapon of Mass Destruction, we believe the side effects certain individuals in certain ways, scrambling their DNA causing massive mutations to many, some that won’t survive others…well become mutates of a different kind. The problem is that the mass amount affected were the gangs the police were attempting to apprehend, we could have possible super villain increase in Dakota City, and we will need your direct assistance, Thank you.”

Curtis shut off he comms but kept his eyes at Augustus’s face.
“So when were you going to tell me that Alva had returned?”

Augustus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I knew I would’ve told you, I didn’t find out until a few days ago that he had even broke out of jail, I didn’t even know those canisters were the same ones as the ones we found before Curtis.”

Curtis did not let this slide however, he sat back down on his seat.
“So what now…”
“We already know one of the New Mutates, that should give us something to work with, you monitor what you can, let me know if any of these mutates get outta hand, I have to do some…cleanup at the pier, meet with the rest of the city official, I’ll see you and Rocket later.”

J U M P C I T Y

---

"This is Captain Marvel. I'm at S.T.A.R. Labs, but this wasn't a break in... it was a break out."

I hear my comm buzz to life with Billy’s voice as my cycle rumbles beneath me. At his words, I take the next turn to head toward S.T.A.R. Labs. There’s no telling what or who broke out, and the quicker we deal with the situation, the better off Jump City would be.

”I hear ya, Cap. I’m on my way to you now.”

I race down the street on my cycle, avoiding traffic with motions that are muscle memory at this point in my career. It’s a strange thought that I’ve been in the game so long that racing a motorcycle down crowded streets is muscle memory to me, and that I know this city as well as Gotham or Blüdhaven; well, maybe not as well, but still pretty damn well.

I see the lights of the police cars as I close in on S.T.A.R. Labs, and I pull my bike away from the lights and instead park it in a nearby alley, then use a trick from the Bat to slip into the building unseen by the police. I drop down straight into a puddle of something. I bend down to examine the putrid-smelling puddle. It looks like sludge from the landfill mixed with sewage; it smells just like it looks. I pull away and look around. I don’t see Billy where I entered. I pull up the records of villains being held here from the lab’s database. The holoscreen fizzles into life floating over my gauntlet. I cross reference the sludge with the database. I’m not surprised to see the ichor-plastered “face” of Plasmus pull up on my screen.

” Great…” I whisper to myself before opening the comm up, “Cap, I’m in. I found a puddle of something nasty. I checked the lab’s database. Looks like we’re dealing with Plasmus. I’ll track his sludge trail. Don’t let the police get involved. They’re not equipped for this; I saw them on my way in.”

I cycle through my mask’s vision frequencies and lock on to the sludge’s makeup. My vision goes red as my mask’s lenses start scanning for other sludge puddles. Soon a trail pops up along the floor of the lab, and I follow it.

Kent Farm, Hamilton County
30 Miles west of Metropolis

"And you're sure everything's okay there? Nothing out of the ordinary?" I ask into the phone, pacing back and forth in the old barn behind the house, deliberately avoiding the mass covered by a tarp laid out on an old table.

"You should know, you went over the house twice before even asking me to come out here," Conner says from the other end of the line. "Ma says you're panicking. I'm saying that too, Clark."

"I'm just trying to make sure we're covering all bases," I say, trying to convince myself of that as much as I'm trying to convince Conner.

I was attacked by the Atomic Skull....or at least, someone wanted me to think I was being attacked by the Atomic Skull. After putting the irradiated criminal down, I discovered it was actually a robotic duplicate. A decoy, perhaps, or a distraction. After the fight, I came home to the farmhouse and discovered a corpse on our front doorstep.

My corpse. That is, the corpse of a version of me-- my experience with alternate timelines and parallel universes isn't as vast as others', but I've run into other Supermen from time to time, so I'm not discounting anything just yet.

"You've told the League about this, right?" Conner asks. "I mean, this seems like the sort of thing to bring in some detective-types to figure out."

"Of course," I say.

He knows I'm lying-- I haven't told anyone except Ma, Kara, and Conner. He doesn't press the issue.

Whoever did this wants me panicking, wants me scared. And most of all, wants me taking this personally. Whoever it is, they're going to regret getting what they want.

"Okay, well, I'm gonna unpack my stuff," Conner says. "I'll keep an eye on Ma, like you asked. Family's family, and all that."

Conner wasn't thrilled about being asked to take time away from the Teen Titans to watch Ma back in Smallville, but he understands the severity of the situation. While I was tight-lipped about the details, I've tapped other friends to be on the lookout as well-- John Henry Irons is keeping tabs on Lana, Krypto has been quietly following Jimmy, and I'm entrusting Kara with safeguarding Metropolis in the event that I'm indisposed.

Bringing in the League might be useful, but like Conner said, family is family. And until I understand what's going on here, I can't trust anyone outside the family with this situation.

"You let me know at the very first sign of trouble, okay?" I ask.

"Heh, you've got better senses than me; you'll probably see trouble before I do," he says with a nervous laugh. "I mean, ummm.....yeah. I'll make sure Ma's safe. No matter what."

"Thanks; I appreciate it," I say. "And in case anything happens....I'm proud of you."

"....yeah, but I mean, nothing's going to happen, right?"

"I'm going to make sure of that," I answer.

There's a knock on the barn door.

"Dad?" Jon says from outside. "Can I come in? It's important."

"I have to go, Conner," I say as I head to the barn door. "Thanks again for doing this. Tell Ma I love her, don't eat all the snacks in the pantry, make--"

"--sure all my homework assignments are done, and punch the bad guys away from town if a fight breaks out. Got it. I'll talk to you later."

Hanging up the phone, I open the door and see Jon, a confused look on his face.

"What's wrong, son?" I ask, kneeling to look him in the eye.

"You said not to tell anyone about the--....the you-know-what that appeared on the front porch, right?"

"Not until we know more about what's going on, that's right."

"And Mom hasn't told anyone either...."

"I don't think she has, no...."

"....and you've only told Kara and Conner, right?"

".....right....."

"......so why is Batman here?"

I pause for a second, raising an eyebrow. Bruce is an incredible detective, maybe the best there is, but I haven't told him anything about this. Not to mention I've told him, in no uncertain terms, if he's going to come by the farm or near Lois or Jon, he needs to tell me first, especially if it's business.

"Jon," I say, slowly and deliberately so I don't lose my temper, "Where did you see Batman?"

"On top of the silo," he answers. "I saw him for just a second, but then he disappeared. You said he's good at sneaking, right?"

"...right," I say, slowly rising to my feet, my right hand already clenched in a fist. "Go find your Mom, Jon. I'm going to go talk to Batman and see what he wants."

Stepping out of the barn, I round the corner and look out at the grain silo, standing tall on the far end of the field. Sure enough, for a fleeting moment I see the silhouette, black against the deep blue sky. Perched like a gargoyle, horn-like ears and flowing scalloped cloak creating an unmistakable profile, if only for a few fractions of a second before it vanishes.

Blinking, I take a moment to focus my senses. Lois and Jon are my anchors, the two pulses I have in my ears at all times to center me through the endless cacophony being made by the billions of people on this world, but there are a few others that I can pick up at a moment's notice. My mother, of course, my cousin and clone, a few of my more dangerous enemies....and of course, my old friend in Gotham.

Meanwhile, I begin focusing my vision through various wavelengths along the electromagnetic spectrum. Eventually, I find the silhouette again, but again it fades, like a radio station just at the edge of its range each time I get a trace of it.

It doesn't take long for me to pick up on the pulse. He's back in Gotham, no doubt working on a case of his own.

That's not Bruce.

I rush towards the silo, covering the two acres of farmland in microseconds, the world blurring as I charge the ghost-like 'Batman' who's spying on my family.

In those few microseconds, however, the figure vanishes completely. As if he'd never been there to begin with.

The house has already been visited by the body of a dead Superman. Now we seem to be haunted by the ghost of a Batman.

"What in the hell is going on?"

---

"I've scouted out the premises, but I'm afraid my cover was nearly compromised. We underestimated how quickly the new Superboy's powers are manifesting."

"I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing-- more hands in the fight if it comes down to it, yes?"

"I know you don't operate by the same rules as me, but I'm not going to condone the recruitment of children into this mission."

"The boy is in danger, regardless of whether he's 'recruited.' It may come down to this entire universe getting drafted."

"Still, were you able to determine anything about the target?"

"It's like we suspected-- a prime, like the others. Not quite as squeaky-clean as some that we've encountered, but runs a very low risk of joining the other camp. From the information I've gathered, this is an experienced prime as well, including limited encounters with parallel incarnations."

"That's good-- the less we have to explain, the sooner we can get him ready for--"





"....what the--"

"This prime is ours, 'Mister President.' Leave now, while you still can...."

Manhattan

Mal Resnick rolled off the woman with a sigh of contentment. He'd needed to get laid badly, and the whore beside him had been good for that and then some. She was blonde and shapely and had legs that went on forever. The looks were important, but she did more than that; she made Mal feel like her whole world was about Mal and pleasing him.

For Mal, that's what you paid hookers for. Not for the sex, or the looks, or even the leaving; but for the attention. Every other broad he screwed in his life wanted something out of him. Money, drugs, stability, etc. And yeah, the hookers wanted money, but there was no illusions and the high-class ones were damn fine actors that was for sure.

"You were great," he wheezed to girl as he went for his smokes on the nightstand. "Thanks for meeting me on such short notice."

"Don't thank me," the girl said quietly. "Not yet."

Mal didn't understand what she meant by that. He turned away from the nightstand and was about to ask her when he saw it.

Him.

He saw him.

Parker, coming through the goddamn fire escape with the raised window sill in one hand, a pistol in the other.

----

Four Hours Earlier

Parker stared at Graves from across the table. The old man calmly added sugar to the steaming cup of coffee in front of him. Parker didn't say a word, his big mitts in between his own hot cup of coffee.

"How goes the Mal hunt?" Graves asked, blowing on his coffee before taking a sip.

"I think you know," said Parker. "And I still haven't figured out what Mal Resnick has to do with you. You part of the Syndicate?"

"Do I look like I'm part of that group?" asked Graves. "And if I was, I could certainly have Mal Resnick taken care of by someone closer to him than you, Parker."

"So what's your game?"

"What if I told you three things, Parker?" Graves ticked points off with his fingers. "One: Mal Resnick has an attraction to high-end call girls, one of whom is on the way to a rendezvous with him as we speak. That rendezvous is away from the secure building. Bodyguards will be watching the front, but the building has an easily accessible fire escape."

"Then why am I still talking to you?" asked Parker.

"Two: Mal's double cross of you was intentional, Parker. He was in deep with some Syndicate people and your would-be murder would wipe away his debt and then some."

Parker shook his head and looked away from Graves.

"Bullshit. Why would anyone in the Syndicate want me dead? It's ridiculous. I've always been an independent operator. Never pulled a job for them."

"It's not the Syndicate," said Graves. "It's the people behind them. The Vasco Family."

Parker shrugged his wide shoulders. "Never heard of them."

"Yes you have," Graves said with a smirk. "They own this city and half the eastern seaboard. They're behind the Syndicate, they're behind the governors of sixteen US states, they're behind GE. Crooks, businessmen, and politicians all in one neat little package. And they're after little ode you, Parker."

Parker stood up. He looked down at Graves and shook his head. He started towards the door before Graves grabbed him by the wrist.

"Where are you going?"

Parker scowled. "Somewhere the hell away from your crazy ass."

"It's true, Parker. They want you. Not for anything you've stolen from them as a robber, but what you did to them as a Minuteman."

Parker frowned and looked down at the old man.

"Minuteman?"

"That's the third thing, Parker," said Graves. "Croatoa...."

The word seemed to slide from Graves' mouth and it echoed through Parker's skull. It pounded inside his head. He heard drumbeats, he smelled saltwater and heard seagulls.

Atlantic City...

The Seven Minuteman.

Parker's knees buckled and he blacked out.

---

Center City, WA

Tracy Lawless sat in his car and watched the comings and goings at the deli. Mixed in with the usual patrons seeking out chopped liver and sandwiches were hard men who went straight to the backroom and would emerge without having bought anything from inside. Belyakov's Delicatessen served as the base of operations for Center City's ROC contingent. Russian Organized Crime moved into town about five years ago and had been spreading its tentacles ever since.

They started in LA after the Cold War ended and the Russian Mafyia consolidated power in the former USSR, their idea of American colonization. The gangsters succeeded in American penetration where Marx, Lenin, and the KGB had failed. Like a snake, they slithered up the west coast through the big cities until they arrived in Center City. Hyde watched their movements with a wary eye. For now, ROC paid up like the rest of them but they were growing stronger each day. Time would come that Hyde would have to cut them down.

If Tracy's information was good, that time appeared to be now. The names Ricky Fat gave Tracy all matched members of ROC, the number he dialed last night was that of Belyakov's Deli. It appeared to Tracy that ROC committed an unsanctioned kidnapping in Center City. If Tracy knew Hyde like he thought he did, there was only one solution to this problem. But that would come afterward. For now, getting Linda Flynn back safely was priority one.

---

"And you're sure about this, Tracy?"

"As sure as I can be."

Thomas Flynn leaned forward in his chair and spread his arms along the rich wood surface of his desk. Tracy saw the gears in his head turning, he could practically hear what Flynn was thinking. Which is why it was no surprise what he said next.

"I don't want to pay the ransom," he said softly. "I love my daughter, I do... but her stupidity and weakness has cost so much. If daddy keeps bailing her out, she'll keep doing it again and again. She needs to pull herself up by her own bootstraps."

Tracy's neutral look did not betray the thoughts he had in his head. He used to think Sebastian Hyde was a cold son of a bitch, but now Thomas Flynn was the standard bearer when it came to that regard. Teeg Lawless had been an abusive, hateful man, for sure. But if Tracy or his brother Ricky had been kidnapped, Teeg would have moved heaven and earth to get his boys back. He wouldn't leave his sons to the wolves, and he certainly try to justify it with bullshit conservative rhetoric.

"Who runs these Russians?" Flynn asked.

"Konstantin Belyakov. He owns the deli where they congregate at and a half dozen other front businesses in the city."

"Does he work for... you employer?"

"Not exactly," Tracy said with a shrug. "He pays a cut to my boss like everyone else does, but he doesn't work for anyone but himself."

"Tracy," Flynn said slowly. "These people will be calling me within the hour with ransom demands. They want five million dollars that I don't want to give to them... but what if we had something they wanted?"

---

Manhattan

Mal Resnick, nude and fighting for his life, smacked away the pistol in Parker's hands. That was okay with Parker. He needed to do this by hand. After what Graves told him, that was the only way he could do it.

"Parker..." Mal stammered as he tried to take a swing at Parker. Parker blocked the shot and slammed a big fist into Mal's solar plexus. The shot made the chubby little man gasp and fall to his knees.

Parker got his big hands around Mal's neck and squeezed. He imagined that Mal was Javier Vasco, Medici, and anyone of the Thirteen bastards who'd done this to him. Not only had they taken his life away from him, but Vasco had made a move against him in this new life and that brought it all back crashing down.

Mal Resnick let out a little gurgle as Parker broke his windpipe. He let Mal's twitching body fall to the floor. He looked at the naked woman who eyeballed Parker with a frightened look on her face.

"Put on some clothes," was all he said as he picked the gun up off the floor.

"And give me the keys to your car."

For better or worse, Parker was back.

And he was pissed.

Here's how it goes:

You are a citizen of a free nation. Having lived your adult life in a land of guaranteed civil liberties, you commit a crime of violence. Whereupon you are arrested -- "jacked up" in the parlance of the street-- and you find yourself here; in an interrogation room complete with four brick walls, three chairs, and one metal table.

Have a seat, please.

There you sit by yourself for almost an hour until a police detective, a man who is clearly not your friend, comes in with a smile and offers you a cigarette. The detective also brings with him a notepad, a pen, and a digital voice recorder. After you take the aforementioned smoke, he launches into a non-stop monologue that goes back and forth, back and forth, but comes to rest... in a very familiar place.

"You have the right to remain silent."

And you do. You're a criminal. Criminals always have the right to remain silent. You've seen Law & Order, right? Your Fifth Amendment rights prevent you from self-incrimination. If it was good enough for all those greedy CEOs and juicing athletes who testified in front of Congress, who the fuck are you to argue? Let's get some perspective, shall we? A police detective -- a man paid by the government to put you in prison -- is explaining to your dumbass that you have the right to shut up before you say anything stupid. Think about that for a moment. Talking to a detective during an interview is only going to hurt you, he tells you. Yo! Wake the fuck up, and shut the fuck up.

Also think about your right to an attorney.

The man with the too-bright smile that is betrayed by a pair of tired eyes tells you that you have the right to talk to an attorney anytime. Be it before questioning, after questioning, or during any questioning sessions. The man who wants to arrest you for violating the peace of the great city of New York is telling you that you can talked to a person who is a trained professional in legal matters, someone who has read the relevant code... or, he's at least gotten his hands on some Cliff Notes. Either way, he is sure as hell more up on his shit than you are. Let's face it, pal; You just shot a man in the head behind 112th Street Bar. You are many things, but a legal genius you ain't. You're going to need the help of an expert. Take whatever help you can get.

After his long speech informing you of your rights, the detective says that he wants you to be adequately informed of these rights. Right now, there is nothing he wants more than to help you out in this very confusing and stressful time in your life. He also wants you to know, and you can take it from him because he's been doing this for awhile, your right to an attorney isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

He says that once you call for that lawyer, there isn't a thing in the world he can do to help you. Nope, once that bell is rung it can't be unrung and your good friends here at the 18th Precinct won't be able to lend you a hand. The next authority figure to get their hands on your case will be a no nonsense prosecutor from the District Attorney's office.

And God help you if a three-piece suit wearing bloodsucker like that gets a whiff of your case. You'll be halfway to the Attica on a ten to life bid before you can even fucking blink. You ever been to Attica? They say Ryker's is the roughest prison in the state, but my money is on Attica. They'd eat you alive in a place like that.

Your best bet is to speak up. Speak up now.

With that little tidbit, the detective leaves the room and lets you think on it. Suddenly you realize how small this room, how without windows its a lot like a prison cell. That gets to you as you finish off your smoke and wish you had another. The detective returns minutes later, this detective who is not your friend, and smiles at you as he sits down at the table across from you with two cups of coffee.

"I got the coffee right? Two sugars, no cream?"

"Yeah, the coffee's fine, man." You say with a nervous twitch. "But, uhh...what happens if I want a lawyer?"

"We'll get you a lawyer!" The detective springs up from his seat and heads towards the door. "No problem, we got a line of lawyers waiting outside."

A few feet away from the door, he spins on his heels and looks back at you with his hands clasped together.

"But! Maybe you should think first." He walks back towards the table and leans over it. He's crowding you, but not in a threatening way. Kind of like how your mom or dad would get in close when you were a kid. There's a warmness there. This man, this man who has warned you that talking to him is a bad fucking idea, genuinely cares about your well being.

"Like I said, once that lawyer is called we can't do anything to help you. This will be your only time to speak, remember that. So... he came at you, didn't he? It was self-defense."

You look down into the coffee and then back at his face. Swallowing hard, you answer.

"Uh-huh." You say cautiously.

"Wait one minute." The detective says as he slides you a piece of paper that seemingly appears out of thin air.

"Might want to read that first."

The form reads "I do not wish for an attorney right now, and I am willing to answer questions without an attorney present, and I do all this voluntarily on my part."

You sign the paper, initial it to be sure.

The detective looks at you, his eyes dripping with innocence, and says:

"He came at you didn't he?"

"Yeah. He... uh, he came at me," you whisper.

That's it. You're done.

If the detective wasn't too busy taking down your statement and writing an arrest warrant, he'd tell you as much. He'd say something about your ignorance and the fact that you just admitted to killing another human being. He'd also mention that, in all his years of working murders, he's still amazed that his bit even works.

Stop and think. When you came through those doors what did it say on the glass? That's right, Homicide. Who lives in a Homicide Unit? Homicide Detectives, so far so good. And what does a Homicide detective do for a living?

You got it.

You took a human being's life tonight. So, when you opened your mouth, what the fuck were you thinking?

Bar none, the homicide detective is the best salesman on the face of the earth. He sells life sentences in prison to a customer base who has no need or want for them. And he's damn good at it too. Through lies, half-truths, and cajoling he gets the truth -- or enough of it to build a murder case -- from you. And it's all entirely legal. His weapon isn't violence anymore. Now it's his prey's own goddamn stupidity that he has weaponized.

There is a thing in interrogations known as The Out. Every suspect who opens their mouth in an interrogation pictures The Out. The right series of answers, the right amount of charm, the right bit of an alibi that will allow them to stroll out of the interrogation room and head home unscathed.

It is a lie, as blatant as any lie that detectives can use in their interrogations. Once you are in this room, there is no amount of words that can lead to your freedom. Only silence. Only asking for a lawyer can get you out of this room. You go to a jail cell, yes, but you do not willingly sign your life away in search of The Out. The truth is that The Out is digging your own grave. The Out always leads in.

You better get used to these small, cramped spaces, son. You're gonna be calling them home for at least the next thirty years.

---

NYPD 90th Precinct
Brooklyn

"He's in the holding cell."

I didn't need sight to know how the cops at the Nine-Zero looked at me. I could almost feel the chill in the desk sergeant's voice. Cops don't like me. To be honest, most lawyers and judges don't like me either. The media, on the other hand, love me. And that makes cops and lawyers hate me even more.

"What do you want with him, Murdock?" The desk sergeant asked. "He don't look like your type of client."

"I do pro bono work from time to time. Now, are you going to continue to violate my client's constitutional rights, or am I going to have to file a civil rights lawsuit?"

Five minutes later, I was inside an interrogation room with sixteen year old Yussel Goren. He'd been given standard issue prison outfit, his blood stained clothes taken in as evidence. Even with them gone, I could still smell the faint traces of blood. The kid must had been covered in it. All I really knew was that he'd been charged with murder, and he had confessed to said murder.

Rule 1 when I have clients: Never, ever talk to the cops. Ask for a lawyer, but say nothing else.

"Who did you confess to killing?" I asked.

"Neta," he said softly.

"Your girlfriend?"

"No... a girl from school."

I paused to pull out a digital recorder. The cops had their interrogation with Yussel on record, but I liked to record my talks with clients to compare notes. If the kid was confessing, though, I doubt I'd need a copy of his interrogation.

"Did you kill her, Mr. Goren?"

"Yes."

His heartbeat spiked through the roof. And that made me pause. I'm used to clients protesting innocence while they lied through their teeth. As much as our criminal justice system errs, more often than not they arrest the right people. But, this? This is something new.

"How did you kill her, Yussel?"

Hesitation on his part. He shrugged his shoulders, the shackles on his wrist clattering together. His heart rate went through the roof before he even spoke.

"Stabbed her. A lot of times."

People lie. That's the one of the few things that cops and lawyers can agree on. People always lie. Yussel Goren is lying. He's lying about committing a murder he's innocent of.

Why?

Center City, WA

Tracy Lawless' Charger raced down the street towards the Phillips Park. Plenty of families were out and about in the noon hour. Inside his car he had two of Flynn's security guards, wearing plainclothes and masks. Tracy didn't wear one. He wanted them to know who he was. He jumped the curb and rode on the sidewalk. People scattered and ran for cover as Tray skidded on the grass beside a swing set.

He and the men jumped out of the car and headed towards the swing set. Two men by the swings were reaching for something in their jackets, but were stopped when the two guards smacked them across the face with nightsticks. They kept beating the bodyguards while Tracy scooped a young boy up off the swings and pushed the woman beside the boy down into the dirt.

"Tell Belyakov now we have something he wants," he said coldly. "If Linda Flynn dies, we kill his son."

The woman screamed bloody murder as Tracy shoved the confused kid into the backseat. She called for help when Tracy and the other men climbed into the car and sped off with the boy in the backseat calling for his mother in Russian.

---

Brockton, MA
3:34 PM
Parker jumped across the bank's counter, one hand planted on the marble surface and the other clutching a submachine gun. He landed behind the teller's desk with a thump and looked at the three terrified employees.

"The vault," he said without any inflection in his voice. "Now."

He marched the three of them to the vault that sat off to the left of their desks. Behind him, Stiess kept a gun trained on the three unlucky people who had been in the bank when he and Parker came through the door. Outside, their driver Mitchell sat in an idling Altima with Connecticut plates.

Parker walked into the vault behind the tellers, reaching into the back of his pants and pulling out large nylon sacks with drawstrings on top.

"Put all the bills bigger than a twenty in those sacks."

Three minutes later, Parker was running out the bank with Stiess by his side. He slowed down long enough to look up at the camera bolted over the door. Stiess wore a ski mask, but Parker had opted not to. Just like when they had robbed the bank in Weymouth.... and the one in Randolph... and the one in Fall River. The three man stick up crew was on its third state now. They'd torn through Connecticut, Rhode Island, and now Mass.

Harbor Inlet Savings and Loans were the banks they targeted. Not too many of them around, but more than enough to make the people behind Harbor Inlet hurt. With the help of Graves, Parker knew that Harbor Inlet's owners were a subsidiary of a banking conglomerate, they themselves part and parcel of a larger company, and behind that company were The Vasco Family. The people responsible for coming after him.

"Drive," Parker said once they were in the backseat of the Altima. It peeled off down the road and headed north through the streets of Brockton. Stiess started counting the haul while Parker pulled a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket and looked it over.

"Hyde Park," he said. "On the outskirts of Boston, right in the city limits. That's where the next one is."

----

Center City, WA

Tracy Lawless pulled up a chair and watched the little boy eating a sandwich. Six-year-old Anton Belyakov didn't make eye contact as he chewed on his bologna and cheese. Anton's father was Konstantin Belyakov, boss of Center City's Russian organized crime. Kidnapping the boy was borderline suicide and Tracy knew it. But Thomas Flynn wanted to kidnap Anton and Thomas Flynn always got whatever he wanted. It was going to happen whether or not Tracy took part in it, so it felt better that he be in on the job to prevent someone getting killed.

"You'll be home soon," he told the boy. "I know you're very scared, but you're also very brave. You're a big boy, Anton. Your father would be proud of you."

He stood and patted Anton on the head before leaving the room. Two of Flynn's heavies stood outside the room as guards while Tracy went upstairs to Flynn's study. The old man was rocking in the chair behind his big desk with a wide grin on his face.

"They're an hour late with the call," Flynn said jovially. "The cocksuckers are freaking out."

Tracy kept his thoughts to himself and sat down across the desk from Flynn.

"These criminals think they know about hustling," said Flynn. "Tracy, you're talking to the ultimate hustler. They can intimidate idiots, but these sons of bitches wouldn't last a day in the boardroom. The sharks I swim with will cut your goddamn throat."

Flynn's rant was stopped short by a ringing phone. His grin grew wider as he hit the speakerphone to let Tracy listen in.

"Hello?"

"You son of bitch," said a voice with a thick Russian accent. "You kidnap my son?!"

"I kidnap your son," Flynn said in a mocking fake Russian accent. "This is America, Boris. You fuck a man over, you best prepared to get fucked."

Tracy leaned forward and tried to get some control on the situation. The voice on the phone that he assumed was Belyakov cursed in Russian. Tracy spoke loudly over the cursing to try and calm the man down.

"We propose an even exchange," he said into the speaker. "Your son will be returned whenever Mr. Flynn's daughter is returned safe and sound."

"Not an even exchange," Flynn said over Tracy. "I deserve something for my suffering, you Commie. I want my daughter safely returned and a million dollars!"

"What?! I do not have--"

"I don't give a fuck, Boris," Flynn said with glee. "I get my daughter and a million dollars or I'll have my friend here strangle your son to death. I'll be sure to leave the speakerphone on so you can listen in. What do you say?"

Belyakov fired off rapid Russian to someone, either Tracy and Flynn or an unknown party wherever he was. Flynn looked across the desk at Tracy with a big smile and raised eyebrow as they heard Belyakov talking softly to someone.

"Fine," he finally said. "I will have your million dollars and daughter."

"That's what I want to hear," said Flynn. "Meet us at midnight tonight at the Harbor Front. Have the money and my daughter there. If you're late, your son dies."

Flynn hung up and whooped in victory while Tracy sat back down and started to question why exactly Hyde sent him into this situation. The last thing Thomas Flynn needed was help. If anything, the Russians needed him more than Thomas Flynn ever had.

----

11:52 PM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You better be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

Hyde Park
Boston, MA
3:14 AM

Parker lit a match and chucked it into the Altima. The flames hit the gas soaked seats and ignited the rest of the vehicle's interior. He walked away from the burning car, leaving behind almost all of his share of the robbery spree. Steiss and Mitchell hit the bricks after they split the take three ways. Parker stayed behind to get rid of the car.

Four hundred thousand dollars. That's what was going up in flames behind him. Save for twenty grand for expenses and folding money, Parker made sure to burn it all so the cops and the people who pulled their strings knew that all the theft and violence of the last two days was not about money.

He wanted the Vasco Family to know it was personal. He wanted them to hurt.

“So…You were over a friends house?”

“Yep”
“For the entire night?”

“Yep?”

“Studying?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Now why do I not believe that?”

Virgil’s groaned at the response, his father was far from being dumb. He worked at STAR Labs for a reason. He didn’t expect that his father, even after the explanation made would at least partially believe him. It’s not like it was a complete lie anyway. They truly was studying, specifically how exactly his new abilities worked.

“I’m serious, here, I’m handing Rich the phone now."

“Who is Rich?”

Before his question was answered Virgil already handed the phone to Richard. Richard gave Virgil an angry stare, showing his distate for getting him into this. Before picking up the phone and fixing his face.

“H-Hello Sir, Sorry we’ve never met, You see Virgil was having issue with the recent chapter of his biology exam and I wanted to help him out.”

“…Virgil Hasn’t failed Science since he was 7 Years old, He hasn’t gotten under a B Average either…”

Richard stared at Virgil who simple shrugged. He didn’t think that Virgil was a dumb individual, but seeing that he was usually the class jokester and slacker, what he didn’t expect was to see him actually apply himself as his father had apparently claimed. It was surprising to realize, even after their conversation Yesterday. However, his thought process would have to wait, seeing that his father was still on the phone.

“Ah, well practice makes perfect, yeah?” Richard responded. “Besides, no such thing as overstudying, especially when you’re studying with a friend right?”

Virgil’s father stood silent for a second before making a slight grunting noise.

“Allright, I got it. You can give Virgil back the phone now.”

Richard handed Virgil the phone again, Virgil quickly picked it up and gave a grin.

“See, Told you I was over a friends house.”

“Allright, you’re free for now, but if I found out you were doing anything else but that, especially if it involves hanging out with Ebon, you’re going to be a proud owner of a three shoes, two on your feet and one in your…”

“Okay, Got it dad see you today, love you bye!”

He quickly hung up, only to hear Richard laughing. He turned to Richard and crossed his arms in false anger.

“Real Funny Richard, Now let’s get to school before we’re late, I don’t wanna hear dad whine about that when I get home.”

Richard sighed and grabbed his backpack. Virgil merely groaned knowing that he probably left his at school before even going to the pier. So he essentially followed Richard out of the door and on their way to school. However, one thing came to mind as Virgil and Richard left the house and Virgil’s conversation with his father had recently just brought the conversation back up.
“Wait…where are your parents Rich, they never returned last night man…”

Richard said nothing merely giving a shrug.

“Yeah I know…”

Resentment, Virgil knew what it sounded like and that voice clearly held some resentment, which was enough for him to be concerned for his new friend.

“Uhh, Rich is everything…?”

“Yeah It’s cool, Totally cool, we should be at school soon, Should we start looking for Ebon on our way?”

Virgil had nearly forgot about doing that, with everything that had happened last night, he simply thought he would only have to tell his father about that, He looked down at his cell phone time and gave an off nod.

“We’ll look during school, he’s in the same classes as we are anyway, he’s bound to show up in one of them…”

Rich only nodded. Something told him however, that their search will be mostly a fruitless effort.

Center City, WA
2:15 AM

Tracy sat perfectly still in his chair while Sebastian Hyde fumed. Tracy's shirt and pants were spattered with blood, his ears still rang from the shootout. He'd just left the Flynn home where he'd called Hyde and came straight away to his office. The old man drummed his fingers on the desk and stared at Tracy over his glasses.

"You let the whole situation get out of control, Tracy."

Tracy shrugged. "Flynn acted on his own accord. He made it clear he was going to move forward, regardless if I helped or not."

Hyde sighed and lifted his glasses up to rub his eyes. In the reprieve from conversation, Tracy thought about what went down at the soccer field. Two Russians were gunned down by Flynn's men, while all three of them were killed and Flynn was gutshot. A private doctor was back at the big mansion fixing him up. He was certain Flynn was going to make it. His daughter Linda was shaken up, but not hurt. The same for little Anton Belyakov. Tracy shielded him during the worst of the shooting. Anton's father was unhurt in the shooting. The last he saw of the two Belyakov's, they were driving away from the shootout with the lone Russian who made it out alive.

"It's a mess," said Tracy. "But both kids were returned safely. The only ones killed in the whole thing were Flynn and Belyakov's gorillas."

"The money?"

Tracy laid a stack of banded bills on the desk. Five twenty thousand dollar stacks. Hyde's eyes twinkled from behind his glasses.

"That's one hundred grand, Flynn's worth of my service."

Hyde took two of the stacks and tucked them in a drawer in his desk.

"The rest if for you. I give you the lion's share because you've got one last job to do."

Tracy raised an eyebrow while Hyde leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. The old man took his sweet time inhaling the first puff. Tracy wanted to come across the table and shove that cigar down his throat.

"Belyakov and his ilk can't be allowed to live. They perpetrated an unsanctioned kidnapping in my town. Anybody goes behind my back, the cost is death. The rest of the shit stains in this city need to remember that. Send a message, Tracy."

Tracy took the remaining sixty thousand and stood. He walked out the office without another word.

---

Konstantin Belyakov died two weeks later. He and an associate of his sat parked at a red light when an unknown person on a motorcycle rode up and gunned them down with a submachine gun. This was the final act in a two-week bloodbath where Belyakov's organization was picked apart by unknown assassins. A firebombing in his deli killed six known Russian organized crime members. Three more were gunned down over the course of a night, while one man was strangled in a back alley near a strip club. Another was found after jumping off a roof. Several sources claimed he was pushed by a tall, blonde man with scars on his neck.

When Center City Police found Belyakov's body, they also found a message. Written on the hood of the car in the Russian's own blood were the words: DEATH TO KIDNAPPERS. The handful of Russian Organized Crime members in town quickly and quietly left Center City, returning to their West Coast hub of Los Angeles. The message sent to them had been read loud and clear: Center City was off limits. This was and would always be Sebastian Hyde's town.

---

Miami
11:23 AM

The Colonel watched Medici swim laps in the Olympic sized pool. The old man had been very clear that he wanted the Colonel at his mansion at precisely eleven that morning. The Colonel had shown up ten minutes before that, waiting in the car before knocking on the door at the stroke of eleven. The servant who answered the door led him to the pool where Augustus Medici was just slipping into the pool.

That had been over twenty minutes ago, and Medici had made it very clear that he would not discuss business until after he was through with his laps. The message to the Colonel was very clear: he was hired help and would be treated as such. Never mind that it was the Colonel and his men who kept Medici and the rest of the Trust safe. Like all people who had been born into extreme privilege, the Trust took their safety for granted. It gave the Colonel a small bit of satisfaction that he was here to discuss a threat to that safety.

“Parker,” he had said once Medici was out of the pool and drying off. “He’s stepped out of the shadows and back into the light.”

“Are you sure?” Medici asked with a frown.

The Colonel pulled an envelope from his sports coat and opened it up before passing it to Medici. It was stills of security camera footage from banks, the seal of the Massachusetts State Police stamped on the corners of the pictures. In each shot, the rough face of Parker could be seen clearly. Even though the other men wore masks, Parker went without and even seemed to be mugging for the camera.

“That’s Parker,” the old man said as he passed the photos back to the Colonel. “He’s a bank robber now. How exciting.”

“A bank robber with a specialty. He’s only hitting banks connected to the Vasco Family. The file that the state police have on him said that it’s very likely that he burned the cash from the heists. He’s not robbing from hunger. He’s trying to make a statement.”

Medici furrowed his brow. “What’s Javier say about that?”

“A long string of expletives involving Parker and chopping his balls off.”

The old man chuckled. “Sounds about right.”

“I’ve got Roque in New England,” said the Colonel. “He’s running down Parker’s trail with the help of the cops and the Vasco Family’s own security people. The standing kill on sight order is still good for Parker and all of the Minutemen.”

“No,” said Medici. He looked down and rubbed the side of his damp chin before looking back up. “Take him alive. I want to know what he knows. And why exactly he’s come out of retirement.”

“I’ll relay those orders to Roque.”

“No.” Medici placed a hand, still wrinkled from the water of the pool, on the Colonel’s shoulder. He was dripping water on a twelve hundred dollar jacket and didn’t give a shit. And why would he? Twelve hundred dollars might as well have been twelve cents to a guy like him.

“I want you to lead the hunt, Colonel. Like I said, we want Parker brought in alive. That requires precision and temperance, two things Roque doesn’t have in abundance. You’re a scalpel, he’s a sledgehammer. I can have my private jet ready to fly you out to Logan within the hour. What do you say?”

The Colonel forced himself to smile. “Let me pack my bag.”

---

Chicago
3:23 AM

Quarry cracked his knuckles and settled back into the seat of his car. Six hours into the stakeout and he began to settle in for a long haul. The house he was sitting on was a dump, a scorched husk of a building that someone torched years ago. It was the perfect place for squatters and people trying to lay low. Joe Sampson had led him here. Sampson, a mid-level drug dealer with the Chicago Outfit, had engaged Quarry for his services. A quartet of stick-up boys had been harassing Sampson’s men for almost a month, bootjacking drugs and cash and becoming a serious thorn in his side. It took Sampson a hot minute to figure out there was an inside man.

The inside man, Little Roy Lewis, was using the robberies to fund his own drug habit. When Joe found out, he’d called up Quarry and agreed to pay him to close out four accounts. A lot of guys who hired Quarry talked like that. They used vague words like ‘closing an account’ or ‘settling a debt.’ Quarry imagined it was because they didn’t want to use the word kill. It made it real if they said it, and guys like Sampson and all the others thought of themselves as being above it. And, Quarry figured, they kind of were. After all, they were hiring him weren’t they? He’d gotten on Little Roy’s trail that night and followed him across the Southside until he disappeared into the building. That had been a little after nine. And so he waited.

He waited until nearly forty thirty in the morning before he made his move. KGB time, they called it. The old Soviet secret police always committed their arrests and assassinations between four and five in the morning. It was the sweet spot where night was beginning to fade away, but morning was still not quite there yet. Even most night owls were soundly asleep by four AM.

Quarry slipped on a pair of surgical gloves and carried a Beretta with a suppressor attached to the end under his coat. He looped around the back of the building and came through a broken window, slow and quietly. Quarry pulled the gun out along with a flashlight covered in tape, emitting only a pin-sized light to use as a guide. He held his nose when he passed by three buckets that had been used as latrine. It took him ten minutes to find their stash tucked away in a baseboard near the fireplace. It was all inside a gym bag. At least two pounds of heroin wrapped in cellophane. Recovery was very rarely part of his job, but Sampson was willing to pay for it. Alongside the stash, Quarry found nearly twenty thousand in tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills, and four machine pistols. Quarry tucked the money, dope, and guns into the satchel and slung it over his shoulder.

He slowly glided up the rickety stairs like a ghost. Muscle memory kicked in when he reached the landing where the crew was sleeping. Check the corners, clear the rooms, plan your escape, kill as soon as you have eyes on the target. Flashbacks went through his mind, killing a Bosnian national in the 90's with a sniper rifle, garroting an Al-Qaeda cutout in Iraq. Quarry didn’t believe in the stereotype of born killers, but he was a killer now thanks to Uncle Sam. Like a chunk of coal, the government had applied pressure and polished him up to turn him into a sparkly diamond of murderous potential.

The four guys were passed out on piss-stained mattresses. He kept the flashlight beam low and aimed. Recoil shot up his elbow as he fired off four quick shots. The rounds hissed through the room, four bullets exploding the four men's heads. He fired off four more to each man's heart to be sure he was dead before calmly walking out into the early morning air. Quarry tucked the gun into his coat and climbed into the car. He drove six blocks away before burying the gun in a trashcan, and six more blocks before he dumped his gloves in another trashcan.

Blüdhaven | January 2^nd, 2018

---

Best thing about not being a cop anymore? Not having to follow jurisdiction boundaries. Some creep runs off from The Blüd? I follow him, stay tight on his heels until I catch him and turn him over to the local authorities. Doesn’t always paint us masks in the best light, but we do what we do to keep people safe and do what the police can’t to make sure that happens. That’s what brings me out on a cold night like tonight and plants my feet on the rooftop I’m on. That, and the siren going off at one of the hundreds of business in this city that think an alarm is gonna keep crooks from robbing them. In case you’re wondering: they don’t. If anything, alarms make the crooks better. It’s sort of like a symbiotic relationship between the two. The better the alarms get, the better the crooks get to beat the cops, and the better the crooks get the better the alarms get to alert the police faster to stop the crooks. I casually step off the rooftop and fire a grappling cable at the building across from me, swinging toward the blaring alarm.

---
“Come on, damnit! Hurry the hell up before the blues or Nightwing get here!”

“Calm your ass down! We got it, go!”

The door of the van slams shut as the two runners jump in with their bags laden with goods stolen from the jeweler. The alarm went on and on as the driver shifted into drive and rocketed down the alley and onto the main road beyond. The sound of the alarm came back as they ran a red light three blocks away.

“Damnit! The blues picked up our trail!”

“You just worry about driving and getting us the hell out of here!”

A squad car flew through the confused traffick at the light, in pursuit of the van full of criminals. The policemen called into the station to confirm they were in pursuit and had the suspects in their sights. A streetlight caught the metallic surface of a gun muzzle a brief second before a bullet sailed through the air and hit the hood of one of the squad cars, causing the driver to swerve slightly, but she managed to maintain control. Her partner was quick to lean out of the passenger window and return fire, aiming for the van’s tires. His shots hit high and missed their mark, but sent the criminal back into the van to seek cover for a moment before returning fire. The gunman’s bullets whizzed past the policemen and struck the hood, but the sudden firefight definitely slowed the policemen’s pursuit.

“I’m calling in back up. This is too much,” the driver shouted as her hand found the radio strapped to her shoulder. She pressed the button down to yell into the microphone when a lucky shot from the van hit the passenger-side tire and sent their squad car into a lightpole. The driver got clear of the wreckage and pulled her own piece in time to see the van crest a hill and vanish from her sights. She shoved the gun back in her holster and returned to the car to pull her partner free of the wreckage. He was out cold. She pressed the button down on her radio and requested medical aid at her position and gave the station the direction the robbers were headed in when she crashed.

“Good job, kid! Helluva first job, huh!?”

The older runner in a skimask thumped the younger on the back. He was still holding the pistol in the same position as when he fired it. The thump on his back caused him to lower it then drop it to the floor of the van. The two other men didn’t seem to notice and were rejoicing in losing the squad car.

“We’re almost out of city limits. Then we can lay low and split our earnings.”

As the van crossed over the bridge and out of city limits, one of its tires were hit and burst. The skidded off the road and spun around until it came to rest against a tree. The driver was the first out, rubbing his head and holding a pistol before him, looking around. As the back of the van opened, a shadow fell upon the driver from above.

---
I jump down from above, hitting the first crook with my knees and roll back to my feet. I kick his gun away from him as he rolls over and looks up into my face.

”How about making this easy on both of us and just staying down?”

My answer came in the form of one of the other crooks coming out of the van and aiming down his sights at me. Lucky I hear the door creak and dive forward out of instinct as the guy fires off a few shots. I let one of my sticks fly right before I hit the ground and roll. It hits home and knocks the pistol out of the thug’s hand. I’m on my feet and running him down before he can get his hand on his piece again. I sweep his legs and end it with a good taze from the end of my remaining escrima. The one I hit from above is back on his feet and fires off a shot before I can turn. The bullet whistles past my ear. Too close. I dive behind their van as he fires off more shots. I hear him approaching the van and slip under it to the other side as reaches the hood. That should confuse him.

“What the - ?”

Perfect. I love when they play their roles right. I toss down some smoke pellets at his feet and launch myself into the cloud, switching my mask’s visuals to thermal. I knock his gun from his hand with my escrima and then crack him in the bottom of the chin with it. The smoke around me clears to reveal another one in a skimask, holding a gun and shaking in his boots. He drops it with one look from me and throws his hands up.

---
The kid dropped the gun and threw his hands up to surrender. The guy with the sticks was standing over the other runner from the job. He looked at the gun and back at the criminal, then leapt at him.

12^th November, 2017
_{Alpha Flight Headquarters}
^{Toronto, Canada}

"James, put the news on..."

James MacDonald Hudson was sat watching the TV as his partner Heather walks in. The headquarters had been unusually quiet and he'd been trying to occupy himself. Smokey and the Bandit blared on the screen. He looks at Heather, scrambling with her keys, phone in hand.

"What's up?"

"News, Mac," she snaps, dropping her keys off on the side as she continues to check her phone. He turns over to CBC.

"--the Department of Damage Control have been on the scene since the fire had been quelled. A reminder to anyone in the area to remain indoors and to allow law enforcement officials to do their jobs." A montage of images of the attack on the UN building shows as the broadcaster goes silent.

"What the hell's happened?" James asks, eyes following the images. Heather rests on the sofa beside him, finger scrolling against her phone screen.

"Assassins stormed the Atlantis-Lemuria talks - King T'Chaka of Wakanda is among the casualties. Can't be sure exactly what's happened - information's coming in from everywhere."

"Jesus." He stops, running a hand across his neck.

"That's not all." She hoists her phone infront of his face. Some of the amateur footage taken.

"What am I looking at?"

Heather zooms the picture in. James could just about make out an orange blur near the wreckage.

"Is that..." The TV changes in his peripheral vision, distracting him, before he can process this new information. The montage stops on the screen and it returns to the roving reporter.

"This is the scene at the UN Headquarters, New York City, where just minutes ago it was learned that Deadpool, Crossbones and Cheshire have been placed under arrest, just some of the high profile mercenaries now being held in police custody following the attack. With me here is Thomas Eiling - he was in the building as the events unfolded." To the reporter's left was a man wrapped in a reflective blanket. He was visibly stirred.

"Thomas, please, tell us what you witnessed." The survivor looks up, the camera zooming in on his face.

"It's all a blur. I remember ducking into the office to get some paperwork - I could hear the gunshots as I started to leave and started to panic. I could hear the explosion and instinctively tried to get shelter under the table. But then the smoke came and I..." He takes a moment to cough. "I was out for God knows how long. I was pulled out by one of the uhh, the heroes. He dropped me off with the emergency services over there." More footage plays, showing a man emerging from the smoke, another, the interviewee, strung across his back. It was unmistakable, with his tan and brown costume, facial horns, the man was Logan.

Hudson's jaw drops a peg as he tries to work out what he's seeing. Almost instinctively he shuts the TV off with the remote. He had specifically warned Wolverine against going stateside - now he was embroiled in this. James was in half a mind to launch the remote.

"That sanctimonious, piece of..."

"I know, James... I..."

"What the hell is he playing at?" James gets up.

"Where are you going?"

"For a drive." He snaps, making towards the door. His car keys stay hanging from their place on the wall as he passes them. He was going to need something a bit more heavy duty. Time to road test the Vindicator.

---

13^th November, 2017
_{The Poseidon Hotel}
^{New York}

That night, Wolverine slept soundly. As unremarkable as this sounds, for the ex-Weapon X, to whom sleep seldom came easily (and never quietly), it was a blessing. Perhaps the stresses of the day had taken their toll, or weighed upon him too heavily to leave those horrors that waited restlessly in his savage dreams a chance to rear their ugly heads; perhaps it was the rough, cattle-grade hotel mattress which took him back to the comfort of the wild times, and beds made from rock and debris, or the harmonies of the clean-up crews and ambulances jetting about outside that kept his active brain preoccupied like flashing sheep. The result was a mutant at peace, with Logan lay lifelessly for much of the night.

The radio shakes him awake as the clock strikes ten and he's brought back to the turmoil. He pauses a moment, eyes ajar, the slick bed covers clinging to his matted fur. He peels them off him with a thrash of his arm, using the momentum to lift his other arm to the off switch of the radio. His first thought is understandable. His eyes skate around the room looking for any liquor. No luck. With a lengthy sniff he confirms it - not a drop in the room he hadn't already helped himself to. He considers going back to sleep but decides against it.

With some more effort he's upright on the bed. He finds his feet and ambles to the en-suite, his gait somewhat slurred by his sleep-drunk brain. He find his leather jacket in a heap on the floor. He pats it down for a few seconds, reaching inside and slipping his hand into the pocket holding his cigar case. He fumbles about and pops the lid off, pulling a chubby Corona Gorda from its housing with little grace. In a second, he's to the end table in the bedroom. There was something there, covering his lighter. A note:

"Use the window. Sprinklers.", read the note, affixed to his zippo. It was scrawled on wet paper that had recently dried. Northstar's handwriting.

He shrugs, releasing the paper from his lighter. He goes over to the window. They were placed in the heart of New York. Logan could see people down on the street level running about the place. No more smoke, from the looks of things. They wouldn't question a little more, he thinks. He unlocks the window and raises it a tad. It only takes a small gap to be made for the winter air to charge through. Logan barely felt it anymore. He leans through and lights up.

The rifle shook. One half of the country she now resided in called it an assault rifle, the other half called it a semi-automatic rifle. Politics were funny things. The spent round flew as she opened the chamber, secured it, and reached for the long barrel brush. A good sweep, the chamber snapped shut, and she readied another round. The 5.56x45mm round hit the 600 yard target a hair off center, and she repeated the process--nine more times. Although that was the last shot that hit the 600 yard target anything but dead center. The greyish-purple rifle was something she had put together herself using mostly parts of an AR-10 she'd picked up from a construction manager for a job to re-model the pool area for a resort hotel she owned. To ensure the rifling ran smooth, you worked it out. Ten shots was more than enough, in her own experience.

When you're waiting on galactic transactions, you've got time for the little things, or so Helena Bertinelli was finding out. It was the first time in her life that she didn't have twenty plates spinning at the same time. The result of having to let go of business details to lieutenants, both legal and illegal. Other billionaires might party, or vacation, or chase some wild hair. Helena trained, and she did so the only way she knew how: fanatically. Melee, ranged, automotive, workouts engineered to make her as explosive and quick as possible while she considered genetic re-engineering, or some of the cellular energy enhancers that were so cutting edge they weren't illegal, they "didn't exist."

At night the Huntress stalked petty criminals. The largest "bust" she'd made was a large apartment she came across, believing she'd run across a human trafficking den. It was just a sex shop, the consensual kind--though that she didn't find out until she broke one of the girl's nose. Oops. The Huntress kept some women from being raped, kept a couple from being robbed as they walked home late from a bar, and saved two NYPD cops from a drugged out freak with a .44 pistol shoved in his pants. It cost the freak a few fingers, but the NYPD didn't seem to care about that after she approached from shadow, and high above, to explain her actions.

The cops cursed her as a metahuman. It bothered her, but the Huntress wasn't talkative enough to correct them. She glared, she stalked, she pounced. "I did it. You're welcome," was all before she was gone quicker than she'd appeared in the first place.

She heard the man approach, but she heard no internal alarms go off. The rifle might have had something to do with that. A quick look of bright brown eyes peeking just over the black matte frame of purple aviators and she noted the injury. Whatever it was. The man's gait was wrong, and you can't fake pain like he showed just when he took a few steps towards her after her last shot. It wasn't an easy read, and was more art than hard science, but it was a read she was certain of. What kind of man walked out of the back building of an outdoor gun range, shooting perches separated by concrete and earth, concrete finished black the floor for everything but the bad "wood" flooring in the front office.

"Who taught you that?"

He's amused. A crooked smile slowly stretched over her pale red lips, glossed but otherwise naked. The rifle was set down, and her body opened up to the tall man. Italian? She thought he looked like it enough to entertain him for the moment. "My uncle."

He chuckled at it. The kind of chuckle that sounded like it wasn't used a lot, seemed to her. "What kind of uncle did you have lady?"

Her eyes swayed this way, then that, before back again to the Italian man with the height and the mystery injury, and even more mysterious origin coming from the back building. Illegal deal? Special order? Bit of both for a friend of the range? She knew better than most all it took to get guns was money and the right projection. NRA loving Christian conservative just wanting to protect freedom and really sell it? Doors open at any gun show across the US.

"An interesting kind." The crooked smile had twisted into a grin by the time she finished that answer. "I'm Helena."

"Fair enough, I guess." The chuckle came again, sounding like it came easier to him to her ears than the one before did. "Pete."

"Are you a liar, Pete?"

The grin hadn't budged from those glossed lips, small and subtle, but unfading even in the face of the transformation before her. The chuckles were gone for Pete. Something snapped, clicked, whirled and came to the man's mind. She had figured there was a primal cunning to the man, murderous and as capable as the US military could make someone as talented as this one. It reminded her of other snipers she'd met, even some assassins. Government created, their true skill determined by genetics and God's gifts, not training. Needed both, her uncle was fond of reminding her when she dared slack on the training.

You've got the blood, girl. Do you have the rest?

Her life was vengeance and murder. It wasn't a fanatical obsession, it was a daily ritual. She ate on carefully engineered diets, her only hobby was business, her life's purpose the Huntress. There was little pleasure. Only the routine, the training, the planning, the preparing. Deep down Helena had a feeling Frank Castle knew what that was like. Maybe in another life they could talk about that.

Finally, convinced to see just who the fuck this woman might be, he answered: "Not usally, no."

"Interesting qualifier, Frank."

His jaw set, his eyes narrowing just-so along the corners of his eyes. Anger came in look, tone, and posture. He felt threatened. Helena had to remind herself not to laugh out loud. She didn't need him shooting at her. "I know you? Who the fuck are you shooting like that, knowing my name?"

The grin long ago retreated, and nothing filled it's place. "People know who you are."

"The only kind of people who know my face--"

"--careful, Frank. I'm not them. I just have an interest in people capable of inflicting impressive amounts of damage."

This time, it was Frank Castle doing the grinning. A fact that left Helena feeling hesitant for a beat of her heart. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"Helps to be prepared, even for the unlikely. Like a face to face with the Punisher."

The second quickest thing she saw him do was turn and leave. The quickest thing she saw him do was smile.