Bludhaven // USA:

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^{4:30 AM // Richard's Apartment (near the Littleneck Narrows Bridge) - Three Weeks After the Events of the Sample Post}

The world was becoming quite a place these days. He would have thought that the wonder would have died down, but it really hadn't, especially not in new york: it would take him all 4 limbs to count the number of Reddit posts about various things this Spider-woamn was doing, not to mention some flying metal... thing, and a massive shootout in some fancy-ass nightclub. that last one didn't seem to involve any superbeings, which somehow made it the weirdest news of the last few days. Thor apparently existed in some remote ass Oklahoman town. Locally, there was apparently some sort of bat thing taking out equally freaky villains in Gotham, which made Swift a bit nervous about going over there. He - or it - appeared to have things enough under his control, and Richard wasn't really much of one to intercede with something that freaky...

But then... if he was that scared of some bat, was he really up for making himself known again? He sighed as he finished off his tea, setting it down resolutely. He needed to stop waffling in his own insecurities, get up off his ass, and take advantage of the abilities he had been given.

Bludhaven // USA:

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^{5:23 AM // Melville Park}

Richard was lost. not externally, he knew the city well. It was clear to him with every step he took though, that he had no idea what he was actually supposed to do here. He had decided that there was kinda no point in making a costume or otherwise hiding his identity, both because he didn't sew, and because any half-brained moron could just find some old news reports about his rescue and pinpoint down who he was pretty easily. But beyond that: what was a superhero actually supposed to like... do? Things don't just happen on the regular, and he didn't really know his way around the seedy sides of this town, or of anything... suspicious......

he stopped. he though he had seen something down that alley. he peeked his head back around the corner. Didn't see anything? A trick of the light? He looked back, to the safety of the sidewalk. He looked back, to the alley. Fuck it. Onwards he went, for exactly three steps, before he stopped abruptly again. Maybe it was just someone going into the back of a store that opened early. He shook his head. he WAS going to go investigate. And he was going to do it under the cover of DARKNESSSS

the alley surrounding him was blanketed fully in deep darkness - the dull light from the streetlamps no longer sneaking their way into the area. His vision, however, was perfectly clear. A neat trick he had discovered. He looked around now, everything in clear focus and outline, and saw a raccoon hanging out behind the dumpster.

He huffed, frustrated. a minute or two more of looking around confirmed his inability to find much of anything. He recalled the darkness, and wandered back out of the alley. He'd continue his walk for another half hour or so, making the loop back to his apartment. He needed to analyze the movements of this Bat-man, and figure out how he knew so much. He also needed to keep better track of the news, and of possible superhumans in his area, maybe get into contact with some of them.

Maybe he could start with some of the local business practices. He didn't know much, but he did know that the Desmonds owned the city, and they didn't seem to be doing it entirely legally.

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Iris had yet to meet anything as fast as her, though she had to admit there was some temptation to run over to Metropolis and find out in some form of race. At this speed she had virtually the entire city to herself, she should technically have been heading back to her appartment to change for work. At this rate she was late to work more often than Barry was, and that was saying something. This was all despite the fact that she could cross the city in a couple of minutes on foot. She doubted even the famed and mysterious Batman could lay claim to that one. She'd get the hang of the balancing act in the end, between where The Flash ended, and Iris West began. The truth? She almost didn't want to go back to being Iris West. She had always had this drive to help people, she had tried to join the police but her father had shut that down. Being a reporter came naturally, and it let her help people by giving them the facts.


Now she could really help people. Maybe she was destined for this.

She turned around a corner, and saw a streak of yellow running towards her.



Before she could even react she felt the wind knocked out of her chest as she was grabbed by the figure, lightning crackled around her and the figure that had her in his grip. She tried a series of jabs to his chest but whatever suit he was wearing seemed to be padded, she'd appreciate the sewmanship if she wasn't currently being carried around like a rag doll. She instead focused her attempts on his arm, jabbing at it in quick succession trying to weaken his grip on her.

Whether Iris hurt him, or he was just bored, he let go of her and she went skidding along the street. People all around gasped in surprise, she already noticed all the smartphones pointed in her direction and she winced as she got to her feet, her whole body hurt. She felt like she had been hit by lightning again, and that wasn't an experience she wanted to relive anytime soon. She turned to look at the figure, who didn't seem to be all there. A strange buzzing seemed to sound from him, his face distorted below the cowl. Even with her abilities she couldn't seem to see him clearly, though maybe she had hit her head when he had let go of her.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

Before the man in yellow replied she heard a voice in her ear: "Iris? What's going on? Your tracker indicates you veered waaaay ofcourse and that you took one hell of a fall." She raised her hand up to her earpiece and turned it off, she didn't need Barry speaking in her ear right now. Especially when she was facing a yellow speedster. A man in a yellow mask, Barry had always claimed that a man in a yellow mask had been the one to kill his mother. A man who seemed to move like lightning. This couldn't be a coincidence, could it?

The man didn't respond to Iris, instead he turned and ran away. Not giving up so easily she gave chase. Lightning burning through her and blazing a trail behind her, the yellow of her trail seemed to intertwine with the red lightning that streaked after him. Iris had to turn off her reporter brain that was trying to figure out what the significant of the man in yellows costume being the reverse colours of hers. Now wasn't the time to get distracted.

As she started to catch up to him he turned to face her, seemingly taking the time to regard her. As Iris reached out to grab his shoulder all she met was thin air as he seemed to pick up the pace even more. She grunted in frustration, she was already at maximum speed. Still she dug deep, taking a deep breath she pushed herself on, managing to follow his trail. Eventually she began to see him just before he rounded a corner. She couldn't help but smile, she was catching up. This had to be the fastest she had ever gone and it felt-

Iris turned a corner and found a foot waiting for her to trip her up, she went tumbling down the street. Her arm cracked as it was broken by a dustbin. She screamed. She had lost her concentration for all but a fraction of a second, got too caught up in the moment and almost as if he knew it was going to happen he had been waiting for her.

She lay on the ground, struggling to bring herself back to her feet when he walked over to him and pulled her up by her broken arm. She screamed as the agony spread like a flame throughout her body. When he spoke it was deep, and distorted. It was the voice of nighmares. "You call yourself ehe Flash, you wear his colours. Yet you aren't him, the lightning bolt was never meant for you. You are nothing, the history books won't even know your name. Now tell me, where is The Flash?"

"...so I said to Tm'i and... Oh! Get this. You won't believe this frackin' shit."

Jor P'lmbr settled into the co-pilot seat of the Durango. After coming up from Nok in the cramped confines of a Jast-1 cockpit, sitting in a Jast-2 felt like upgrading to first class. Eighteen hours down on Omicron Ceti IV in a hotel room though? Shit was like going to the damn casinos on Ungara.

While the pilot rambled on, Yim threw a headset on and said, "Flight control, flight control, flight control. This is..."

Frack. What was their callsign again?

The last one had been Delta Vega... something something something Dark Side. Digging through the glove compartment, he found the flimsiplast sheet he was looking for and read the designation. "...Coyote-Two-Nine. Repeat, this is Coyote-Two-Nine, outbound for Talkor. Request clearance to depart."

"So, Tm'i was talking to Dena. You know? The Ungaran chick in finance with the freakin' chest like to here," Jor was saying, with the absolutely obligatory gesture to help illustrate the questionably relevant point of the precise dimensions of that particular part of Dena's anatomical structure. "I swear to gaaaaaawd, she was wearin' this white thing the other day and it was like, the hills are alive, man!"

"Acknowledged, Coyote-Two-Nine. Please proceed out on heading two-one-one mark four until clear of all vessels, then you are free to manuever."

Yim reached up to toggle the comlink. "Coyote-Two-Nine. Roger. Out."

Jor turned his head and belched loudly, clearing his throat before he looked over at Yim and asked, "Where we going again? Talkor?"

Pulling up a datapad, Yim sketched out a quick flightpath and passed it over for review. "Yeah, take us up the Scylla Trade Route toward Asteroid Blue Heaven, then just drop back a parsec."

Jor started shaking his head. "Nah, man. Nah. Are you kidding?" With his finger, Jor swiped upward and then across. "Run up the Styggian Sector to the Milky Way and then it's a frackin' straight frackin' shot, man. Half the time, brah."

Leaning back in his seat, Jor reached over to pull the release on the docking clamp and started easing the freighter away from the landing bay. "So anyway, Tm'i was talkin' to Dena. And she said, get this, she was talkin' to her boss and he said the frackin' board was voting to kill our dental coverage."

"What?"

"I know, right!" Jor exclaimed, as he guided the freighter up into the air. The starport fell out of view, as the freighter began easing overhead of a futuristic metropolis. "And I just put braces on my kid? Frack this, man. We get back from this, I'm doin' it. I'm callin' that MogulTech recruiter back." Pausing a moment, Jor leaning forward as he peered down and checked his instruments. "We good on your side?"

"Hang on a second, we got a light on engine three..."

There was a sudden explosion, but neither man heard the sound. Instead, the sudden drop in altitude was the only thing on the mind of either man, as both raced to try and perform emergency actions.

There merely wasn't time as a high rise apartment rushed toward them, as the orientation toward the ground began to spiral out of control...

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In the greater cosmos, the people are protected by two sides in the interstellar justice system; the Lanterns who investigate crimes and the local authorities who prosecute the offenders. The call came in at five oh-eight, Oa Standard Time. A emergency call on a planet inside Sector 2814. That makes it my problem. My name is Kai-ro. I carry a ring.

---

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The fire spread across five city blocks.

The Durango had struck a residential apartment building, before breaking apart and raining chaos and destruction on the surrounding buildings. The impact alone had caused structural damage and created debris that would have been problematic by itself.

Except the fuel in the Durango had ignited, several components erupting into metal fires that burned with an intensity that challenged a terrestrial fire department under the best conditions.

These were not the best conditions.

Then, to top it all off, the apartment building had collapsed, sowing further chaos and debris across a wide area. By the time that the Green Lanterns had arrived, city and spaceport emergency services were already overwhelmed. As other buildings within and around the crash site began catching fire, the situation was quickly getting out of hand. Omicron Ceti IV was burning.

For the residents in 8497-J, there was no where to go but up. The lower floors of their building had become quickly engulfed in flame, the installed fire retardant system overwhelmed by the intensity of the metal-based fires that was carving a swath across the city.

As their building began to disintegrate, there seemed no choice but to stand and die... and jump.

Some jumped.

...and were shocked when a large, green hand reached out toward them.

The large green construct was connected to a creature who was, for lack of better term, a flying squirrel. "What fresh hell is this?" Ch'p demanded, as the H'lven Green Lantern scooped people from out of the air.

A large green blanket spread through the streets, as a young Tibetan monk -- covered in soot and ash -- worked to try and smother the flames. "The middle of an inferno is sooooo not the time for hell metaphors," the boy muttered.

A sound overhead heralded the overflight of a white Sentinel-class patrol cruiser. Based on Kymellian SmartShip technology, the Green Lantern vessel was isolating and working to extinguish the fire with green energy constructs of its own.

They'd been at it now for over an hour.

Kai-ro couldn't even tell if they'd even managed to slow the fire yet.

Gotham City, Wayne Tower
11: 33 AM

It comes at me out of nowhere.

I nearly drop the glass of water in my hands. I know in my heart that it's not real, but I lose myself to the moment for enough of an instant to where, if I can be honest with myself, it doesn't really matter where this ends and reality begins. I'm rendered 8 years old all over again, with a feeling of overwhelming protection and warmth that I haven't experienced in a very long time. It's practically intoxicating to take in all at once, despite the absurdity of the situation.

I see them. My... parents. Sitting in the living room area of the penthouse.

They're older, as though time has allowed them to continue on and age to a respective point of maturity. My father has gray in his temples, his mustache is entirely white, and he's wrinkled - but still boasting full of life, silently laughing along with a joke my mother must have just told. And she's as radiant and beautiful as ever, even if she appears to be entering her early-to-mid sixties. I know that this isn't possible, that what I'm seeing couldn't actually happen. But I want it so much to be real that I just indulge the fantasy and... watch, taking it in. Imagining the possibilities if life had been different. Been kinder.

They look at me and smile. I smile back, and for that moment, I forget to even tell myself that this is an illusion. The moment is such that I just take for granted that they're my mother and father, and I never lost them that horrible night. But something's already wrong by the time my mother directs me to the couch to join them. A detail is horribly off, and I can't quite place it at first. Until her arm moves in just such a way...

There's a gaping wound in her chest. The same that she suffered on the night she died. My eyes go wide as blood suddenly starts to fill her mouth, her eyes start watering and she collapses from the couch, face-down on the ground. My father rushes to her side, frantic, unaware of what's happening. Ever the protective soul, trying to make sure that everything's alright. I reach out for a moment and stop myself, remembering where I am. What I'm doing.

This is in your head, Bruce. This is not who you are.

But whenever he looks up at me for answers, I still recoil in horror at the sight of his forehead having been blown in by a gunshot. He speaks to me, but there are no words. No sounds reverberating out of his mouth. All that I hear are the ringing aftermath from the shots that took them from me. My father finally falls aswell, mimicking the way in which the police found them by the time that a mugger named Joe Chill had fled Park Row.

"Bruce? Bruce! Bruce, talk to me!"

The light comes on and I feel the hard clasp of Alfred's hand on my shoulder. There are tears streaming down my face, but I'm not crying. I'm just left to my own confusion, looking at the spot where I just saw the corpses of my family. Pools of their blood seeping into the carpet are now gone, replaced with pristine marble floors and modern decorations. I gasp to myself as a jagged edge of glass cuts into the bottom of my foot. Seems as though I had dropped the glass of water and hadn't even realized it.

"Alfred?"

He pushes the glass aside with his cane as he rushes over to me, looking me dead in the eyes. He's got that worried glare in them again. The kind that tells me that I lost sight of reality, again, and that he's done this all too many times. I almost don't want to tell him what I saw, but I know the question's coming.

"What did you see, lad? Was it them?"

I wipe away the tears and sigh, trying to keep ahold of myself. Trying to shake off what this is undoubtedly going to do to me for the rest of the day. It's always like waking up from a horrible nightmare, but it's never actually that. It's something far worse. And I can't bring myself to say the words aloud.

"It's fine, Alfred. I..."



"I'm fine."

Alfred sternly narrows his eyes.

"The bloody hell you are. Here, come sit down. Catch your breath for a moment."

He directs me to the couch and I comply, not wishing to argue over this. These episodes generally don't end with me convincing him that I can take whatever I saw, nor do I ever feel as if it's ever completely resolved by the end. I've just grown tired of this. Tired of the visions, the waking dreams. The memories that never go away, even when I try to move on. My sanity has always been in question, at best. But it's getting worse. I'm starting to feel as if I don't have any control left.

"I heard the glass and feared you had passed out again from shock. Mercifully not the case, I see."

I place my hands together and try to calm myself down.

"It was as vivid as ever. Maybe even moreso. They were actually... they aged, this time."

"Aged?"

My left hand clasps tightly into a fist out of frustration.

"As if they would've in my mind's eye. They appeared how I imagined they would look if they'd lived."

Alfred kneels down to my level and grabs my shoulder again. His look of concern growing into a firm glare, as if I'm lost and he's trying to bring me back. If I were honest with myself, I'd say that he has to try harder than that. That I may be too far gone for him to reach. But I have to push all of that aside.

"But they didn't. And you know that. Whatever you just saw, Bruce, it wasn't real. This is real, I'm real. You're here in the penthouse. Do you understand me?"

I look back up at him, unsure of what to say.

"Bruce. Do you?"

I close my eyes and nod.

"Yes. I'm here, and you're right. They're gone. It's stopped, Alfred."

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Good. That's good, lad. You almost gave me a start, there."

Handing me the morning newspaper, Alfred stands upright and tries not to stare. He's always just as shaken by these moments as I am, if not even moreso. He's just better at hiding it, or so he thinks. I try and occupy my mind with the present by opening the front page of The Gotham Herald and taking a look at the headline. My eyes carefully inspect the words, unable to register them.

"Sal Maroni..."

"Yes, I was to ask you about that before I knew you were already about. Seems as though Mr. Maroni's in the ICU this morning. Trauma to the knee, several lacerations to his face and hands. In a general state of shock. A considerable police presence guarding him."

He glances at me from the side, turning towards the window.

"They're saying it was The Batman who put him there."

At first, I'm surprised to hear that. Unsure of whether or not to believe it, almost. But then it all comes flooding back to me at once. I remember. I remember every last detail, as if I'm seeing it from another perspective entirely. And I crumple the newspaper shut, letting it fall onto the table infront of me.

What I remember the most is the look on Maroni's face.

Gotham City, Maroni's Penthouse Suite
12 Hours Earlier

Salvatore "The Boss" Maroni screamed at the top of his lungs as he was thrust into the open air admist shattered glass. The masked lunatic that had thrown the gangster aswell as himself out of the top floor of the penthouse grabbed onto Maroni hard and produced that same grappling device that had sent them hurtling into an over 50 foot drop towards the pavement. Firing it again, this time managing to snag a stone gargoyle overlooking the adjacent building, The Batman pressed hard into Maroni's back so that they swung into an arch, heading directly for the building just across the street.

All that Salvatore could see was oncoming glass before a very large and leathery piece of fabric shielded him from the impact. He couldn't see them hit the window, but he could feel it, aswell as the hard landing that both men made. By the time the fabric unfurled itself off of his face, Maroni realized that he was on his back, staring directly at his shadowy assailant, who stood above him. Salvatore growled.

"ARE YOU OUTTA YOUR FUCKING MIND?! WE COULD'A BEEN KILLED JUST THEN, YOU---"

The Batman's boot slammed down onto Maroni's chest, causing him to involuntarily keel and roll over in immense pain.

"Quiet."

With his prey momentarily incapacitated, Batman searched the room ahead of them. A set of office cubicles greeted him in the darkness, evident of a local business. The employees had long since gone home, leaving no one but a janitor who had already ran for the emergency exit. But The Dark Knight sneered as the heat signature-detection feature of the lenses in his cowl picked up the image of an additional few men heading up the staircase, guns drawn. Evidently, Captain Flass had managed to round up some of his remaining men to pursue them.

Looking down at Maroni, Batman forcibly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up.

"We're not done."

Maroni wheezed in pain. "What the hell are you talkin' about?!"

Punching the mobster hard across the face with an executed right hook, Batman caught Maroni's body as it fell limp, immediately rendered unconscious. Letting him fall gently, Batman produced a pair of military-grade handcuffs from the back of his belt and dragged Maroni over to a support beam. Propping him up and placing his hands behind his back, the vigilante secured his captive in place, put something into the front of his jacket pocket, and looked towards the door to the spacious room they were in as the heat signatures immediately approached.

Retreating to the darkness on the opposite end of the room, Batman watched in cold silence as the door was slammed open from the outside with a kick. Several of Flass' dirty cops burst into the room, each holding weapons that were far above standard issue for the GCPD. Laser sights, automatic ammunition. The vigilante narrowed his eyes as they searched for any sign of him in vain. Someone had been outfitting Flass' men with the latest in high-tech ordinance. The other precincts didn't have the luxury of such treatment, and it wasn't hard to guess why. Salvatore Maroni had a good majority of the GCPD under his payroll, directly. It was how the mobster had kept himself one step ahead of his rival, The Roman.

"Look! Over there! There's Maroni!", one of them yelled, signaling two of the men to his opposite. "Get him out of here before The Bat comes back! We'll stay here and keep watch!"

As the two men approached, The Batman produced a detonator hidden within his gauntlet. Waiting precious seconds as the cops inched closer to Maroni's unconscious form, the vigilante waited for them to discover the handcuffs.

"Uh, Lieutenant? He's bound to this thing. We're gonna need to..."

Hitting the detonator hard, Batman leaped forward with a roll as an explosion of smoke immediately hit the two cops from within Maroni's jacket. Seizing control of the situation as the smoke coated the entire room, The Dark Knight hit the side of his cowl and switched his cowl's surveillance mode so that the lenses could isolate the smoke and make the room clear to him alone. Immediately slamming his knee into the chest of one of the cops with a rising strike, The Batman spun mid-air and sent four projectiles directly into the hands of two of the other armed officers. He'd taken to calling them "bat-blades", though one of his associates had given them perhaps a more fitting moniker: batarangs.

Landing behind the officer he'd struck, Batman downed that one with a hard elbow and immediately followed that up with a brutal headbutt, knocking him into one of the cubicles. Shooting his right leg out, Batman spun for a hard sweep, sending a second one to the ground fast enough for the officer to hit the back of his head. Opting for a palm strike against an oncoming enemy's jaw, the vigilante simultaneously reigned a flying high kick down onto a fourth officer's face, knocking both to the ground. As he regained his footing, he looked down to his chest and noticed the red targeting lasers start to cross his path.

"THERE... *COUGH* THERE HE IS! SOUTHEAST CORNER OF THE ROOM! OPEN FIRE!"

Dammit.

Bullets sprayed the walls behind him as The Batman somersaulted forward, counting himself lucky as a bullet barely grazed the armor plating covering his right shoulder. Leaping into the air, he kicked off of the wall to the south of the room and produced his grapple gun yet again, firing a line directly into the northern wall. Directing a spin kick into an officer as he attempted to reload his weapon, Batman pulled at the line hard, catching the two leading figures of the group by the chest and waist as the steel cable slammed them into the adjacent wall. As another officer rose from the ground, still partially unconscious, the vigilante grabbed a stapler from one of the nearby cubicles and launched it directly into the man's head, sending him back to the ground.

One remained. And he was firing off into the distance, having already lost the trajectory of his target. A batarang flew from the smoke and forced the weapon from his hands, embedding it into the window with a spiderweb crack. The officer's eyes widened as he looked at his unreachable weapon, failing to notice the figure that approached him.

"Tell Commissioner Loeb. Tell your fellow men. Tell everyone..."



"I'm coming for them, too."

Blocking a punch with his forearm that the officer attempted to make, The Batman ensnared the arm into his grip, spun, and pulled down hard enough to dislocate the officer's shoulder, causing him to scream out in pain. Slamming the back of his reinforced cowl into the man's nose, Batman simply stood in place as he heard the thud of another unconscious body hit the floor.

"What? What in..."

Turning to Maroni, who had managed to slip out of unconsciousness, Batman silently approached the mobster as he attempted to get himself free from his binds. Without much success, of course. Salvatore looked up and saw who was standing over him once again, but with the added effect of several unconscious police officers lining the floor behind the masked figure, revealed by the dissipating cloud of smoke. Maroni recognized each of the officers and could identify them by name, given they were some of his direct informants. Sal stared at the scene in horror.

"Jesus fuck. You took the entire room apart..."

"Yes."

Grabbing Maroni by the throat with one hand, Batman lifted him off of his feet and sneered.

"And I could have left with you, sparing these men any measure of discomfort. But I wanted to send you a message, Maroni."

Maroni struggled, but was clearly scared out of his mind by now, the veneer of malice having long since left him. It seemed as though the message had already been received.

"I won't tolerate corruption in Gotham any longer."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?! Some kinda friggin' Robin Hood?!", Maroni barked back. "You think takin' out a couple of my guys is gonna prove anything to anybody?! This lone crusader act isn't shit compared to what the five families have in store for you! You think you're the only one who knows how to scare somebody?!"

Batman pulled the mobster close, immediately shutting him up. "Do I look scared?"

Deciding to simply shake his head no, Sal groaned as he was dropped firmly on his ass as The Batman turned around. The mobster grew agitated, immediately trying to free himself again, despite knowing that he was handcuffed.

"This isn't over! Not for you, not for me, not for anybody you just hurt! We'll find out who you are and where you live! We'll kill your family first, and then we'll set fire to everything you hold dear! You hear me, you fucking psychopath?!"

By the time he was done, Maroni immediately gasped as The Batman turned back around, holding a particular item in his hand that the mobster never expected: a loaded pistol. Directing it at Sal's head, Batman coldly watched as the tough head of Capo Italiana turned from defiant to subservient in an instant.

"Hey, I was just... I didn't mean anything by..."

Batman lowered the gun to Maroni's knee.

"Sure you did."

BLAM!

"ARRRRGH!"

With blood squirting out of a fresh gunshot wound in his knee, Salvatore violently shook back and forth in unimaginable pain. The Batman placed the pistol back into an unseen holster connected to a plate of kevlar that covered his back. What Maroni didn't know was that the bullet now lodged in his likely shattered kneecap wasn't made of lead, but of a special polymer that was designed to leak a chemical into the bloodstream. The chemical would act as a natural tracking beacon for up to three weeks, ensuring that the mobster wouldn't skip town anytime soon to shake off such a humiliation.

"FUCK! SHIT! FUCK!"

Batman turned.

"Enjoy your evening, Maroni. I know I have."

By the time Salvatore 'The Boss' Maroni's eyes opened up once more, watering from the immense trauma that had just been inflicted on him, The Batman was nowhere to be seen. All that was left was a crowd of useless, unconcious badge-wearing hitmen that Maroni had overpaid to keep him away from situations like this. And all that he could think as he waited for someone to arrive, hearing sirens in the distance, was the strangest thought.

Since when did Batman carry a gun?

Stacy Residence
Queens

The beauty of superhero-ing in the summer is the ability to sleep in. I managed to somehow beat dad home last nigt, but I'm guessing that's because he was already dealing with my mess from the night before. I heard him grumbling about the night at work as he came through the door. When he peaked in on me, I pretended to be asleep. I wasn't far off from actually being asleep, but I definitely wanted him to think I had been in all night.

Being the daughter of a detective is going to make the superhero life exhausting, huh?

I stretch out and put my bare feet on the shag rug that sits under my bed. Surprisingly, I don't feel like I stopped a however-many-ton truck with my bare hands last night. I guess I've got some super endurance mixed up in my DNA cocktail as well. Good to know, even if that's not something I really want to find the limits of.

Emerging into the empty, quiet hallways of our small house, I figure dad is still asleep. Instead of waking him, I creep quietly into the kitchen and start making some waffles. The two of us had tough nights, him more than me, most likely, and we deserve a high carb, low nutrition breakfast. I get an extra thrill when I see we have a half used bag of chocolate chips crammed into the back corner of the pantry.

"Score," I celebrate, tossing a handful into my mouth.

Idly, I flip the TV on to the news, and give a slight squeal of excitement as a story about my exploits from last night. The helicopter footage never gets a great look at me, but it does enough to show what I'm capable of. The moment I stop the truck illicites a gasp of amazement from the news anchor that feels pretty dang good.

"We'll now cut to an interview with the man that the super powered individual saved from certain doom last night," the male anchor smiles a hideously white smile. Like, blindingly white. To the point of being obnoxious. It's like I'm going to turn into a star baby staring at it.

Before too long, the guy I plucked off the motorbike appears on the screen, smiling like a guy with a new lease on life, "I dunno, man! I was just making a deliery when 'woosh'! In comes Spider-Woman and saves me from being street meat! It was like the coolest thing that's ever happened to me! A real life super hero."

The TV cuts back to neon mouth, "Well, there you have it folks. Maybe New York now has it's own Superman!"

"And he's a woman!" his female counterpart adds in.

"And she's not wanted," a groggy voice says from behind me, nearly causing me to fumble the bowl of batter I've been mixing while watching the report. Turning, I find my father, Captain George Stacy, sleepily scratching his beard, standing in the kitchen doorway wearing a beat up pair of gym shorts and an old Police League softball t-shirt. "Last thing we need is a superhero to add to the craziness of this town."

"I dunno," I shrug and pour the batter into the waffle iron, "it's kinda cool."

"I'm going to ignore that since you made waffles," he responds sarcastically as he puts on a pot of coffee. "Though she did manage to save some people while causing mass amounts of property damage...so at least she has that going for her."

Considering my father's normal reaction to superheroics, I'll take that half-hearted compliment as a win.

"She make you have a late night?"

He shrugs, "Not so much her as the robbers. The truck they stole was transporting money from a bank. A mob bank. Meaning someone was trying to screw someone else over. Which means if open warfare hasn't started yet, it's bound to sometime soon."

This new Major Crimes job dad picked up seems to be weighing on him more and more. I get it. Going up agains the Maggia, Kingpin, and the rest can't be fun, but at least it's relatively safe until arrests are made. If a gang war broke out, I'd be worried sick.

After losing mom, I don’t think there’s anyway I could handle losing dad.

"Add in a vigilante and everyone gets jumpy," he taps his finger on the counter as the coffee brews. "Jim's already seeing it in Gotham."

Oh god, he's going to go into his "All it would take is a few bad months to turn Manhattan in Gotham" rant again. I get that he's friends or whatever with their Major Crimes captain, but I think it's nuts to think New York would ever get as bad as Gotham.

"Oh, enough about Gotham," I shake my head and put a plate of waffles in front of dad as he pours his coffee. "Eat and be merry. It's a new day."

My father's eyes narrow, "Are you okay? There's something different about you."

I turn and give him the look. The 'Man, you are crazy" look that I've given him many, many times. It's one of the things I for sure inherited from my mom. That woman could give a look that could melt steel. It was the reason she never lost an argument with Captain George Stacy, who had put more than his fair share of dangerous criminals behind bars. Well, I mean, there were probably a million other reasons why she won the arguments, but I like to think it was because of the looks.

He raises his hands in defeat, "Fine. I won't ask. I did see you were hanging out with Peter the other-"

"Dad! That is enough. Or you don't get seconds," I threaten, waving a whisk in his face and splattering batter on the counter. The man wants me to date Parker in the worst way. Hell, sometimes I've wanted to date him in the worst way. At least when I'm not realizing that could also lose me my best friend. But now, after what happened, that course of action is for sure cut off. There's no way I could look Pete in the eyes like...that after Uncle Ben.

Dad laughs and mimes buttoning up his lip. In appreciation, I slide another waffle onto his plate.



Ditko Luxury Apartments
Manhattan

The two men shuffle from foot to foot anxiously as their boss sits and eats breakfast. Sun filters in brilliantly, illuminating the marble accents of the apartment that cost more than the two mens' families had earned in their entire history upon the earth. The person sitting in front of them was not someone who looked upon failure lightly, and these men had failed. They hired the goons who got caught by Spider-Woman, and therefore the boss did not have their rivals' money.

"W-we're really sorry, boss," one of them manages to stammer out.

The crime lord holds up their hand to shush the man, "It is of no concern. The money was but a trifle, and now we know we have a want-to-be superhero on our hands. Your failure was illuminating. Plus, the money is now in the hands of the police. Our enemies cannot use it either, which was more of the idea all along."

"But boss," the other man winces as the one he's addressing looks up from their meal, "we got a superhero going against us. Shouldn't we call in the big guns?"

The crime lord smiles, "No. Not yet. So far this...Spider-Woman is merely a hindrance. I would prefer to feel her out first. See what she's really capable. Besides, we seem to have lucked out. Someone else is doing our work for us. Once he kills our enemies, we will slip into the vacuum they leave. Now, leave me. I wish to finish my meal in peace."

As the two men leave, the boss sips espresso, savors it, smiles, and says, "Let us see if this spider can manage to escape the trap of the Black Tarantula."

Sasha Bordeaux stood at attention, squinting into the sunlight which reflected off the gentle waters of the Potomac. Her uniform was, as ever, impeccable; not a crease to be found. Her short, black hair was pulled back into a tight bun with not a strand out of place. Around SHIELD headquarters, Bordeaux was a respected -- if not exactly well-liked -- presence. She had a somewhat warranted reputation for being uptight. Even Director Fury, a man so austere as to exemplify the word, agreed with the general consensus that she could stand to let her hair down more often. For her part, Bordeaux stayed the course. It was no secret that she had climbed the ranks quickly, making Special Agent in less than half the normal time, and many saw her closeness with Director Fury as a sign that he was grooming her for leadership one day. If that meant coming off a bit overbearing, Sasha could live with that.

Some twenty yards or so down the landing pad, the man who served as Bordeaux's model of professionalism stood with arms crossed behind his back. Colonel Nicholas J. Fury looked exactly like the reputation that preceded him: tough, unwavering, grizzled. If he had ever been a young man, it was almost impossible to see it. The silvering at his temples and ever-present shade of stubble on his chin were inseparable from the man himself. As he stood, the long tails of his trenchcoat whipped around in the runoff from the engines of the Quinjet that had just landed. He watched with an unflinching gaze as two SHIELD agents disembarked from the craft, carrying between them a silver casket draped in the American flag. After they had presented it at his feet, Director Fury dismissed them with a nod, and the agents carted off the casket towards the hangar.

While the Quinjet pilot continued to throttle the engine down, Fury turned on a heel and started walking back in Bordeaux's direction. Instinctively, she fell into step with him, knowing full well that he would neither stop nor slow down for her benefit. Without so much as a glance in her direction, the Director grimaced through his teeth and asked, "Has the family been notified?"

"Coulson went to speak to the mother this morning," Bordeaux reported. For that, she was grateful. Phil was much better suited to the task of consoling a grieving mother, anyway; he possessed the sort of innate warmness that others often felt Agent Bordeaux lacked. She suspected that the Director was equally relieved.

"And the funeral expenses?"

Sasha nodded. "Already taken care of," she assured him dutifully. Perversely, she briefly contemplated that the service would need to be closed casket. The initial autopsy report had landed on her desk before she passed it along to Fury, and to say the agent's death had been barbaric... Bordeaux quickly put those thoughts aside, seeing no need to dwell on it. Whatever the manner, the reason for the killing had been made perfectly clear. After all, it hadn't been a coincidence that the agent's right eye had been gouged from its socket. SHIELD had a great many resources at its disposal, but for an undercover agent who's just been blown, there's little that even Nick Fury could do for them. Sasha knew it weighed on him.

Once back inside, Agent Bordeaux ventured to speak. "Sir, if I may," she began hesitantly, "what happens now?"

Director Fury paused at the elevator doors. His back was to her, so Sasha couldn't be sure... but she thought she heard him sigh. There was a gentle hum as the elevator slowed upon approach. As it 'ding'ed, Fury turned his head, just enough so that Agent Bordeaux could see the corner of his one good eye. He met her gaze and said, "Now, we need to make a trip. Go tell the pilot to keep the engines warm. Wheels up in ten."

It wasn't in Bordeaux's nature to question orders, so she didn't. She merely watched as Fury stepped into the elevator. Before the doors could close, however, she worked up the nerve to ask, "Should I give him a destination?"



Sasha Bordeaux was growing restless and having a hard time hiding it. As the unmarked, black SUV wound through the mountain pass, its engine quietly humming as it climbed, she sat in her seat and tried to distract herself with passing glances at the forested beauty all around her. Perhaps at a different time, she would have been able to appreciate the unmolested beauty, the promise of "the West" alive and well, but she found herself unable to concentrate on anything but her mounting frustration. Information was everything to a Special Agent, and right now: she had none. The Director had been evasive and distant ever since leaving the Triskelion, burying himself in reports and giving cryptic half-answers to all of Sasha's questions. Most agents would've chalked that up to "Fury being Fury," but Sasha knew him better than that. Until now, she had always been able to get a straight answer... so long as she asked the right question.

To the Director's credit, despite the fact that he hadn't looked up from his documents in nearly half an hour, he still managed to somehow detect Bordeaux's frustration. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he merely turned the page on his report and spoke aloud, "Is there something bothering you, agent?"

"With all due respect, sir," Agent Bordeaux began in a tone that suggested anything but, "we've been driving for hours, and you still haven't told me what exactly we're doing out here."

Director Fury looked up from the file in his lap. His lone remaining eye studied her briefly, betraying neither reproach nor sympathy for his subordinate's annoyance. After a moment, he sat up in the seat and closed the folder. "Tell me, Bordeaux, what do you know of Captain America?" he asked with the restrained insistence of a schoolteacher.

Bordeaux was taken aback. Knowing this was somehow a test -- and determined, therefore, to succeed -- she gathered herself and began reciting what she knew. "He was a propaganda tool from World War II. He and the other 'Invaders' were characters created by wartime cartoonists to inspire hope and sell comic books."

"And as far as public knowledge goes, you're absolutely right," Fury conceded. "But I'm about to let you in on a secret that maybe a dozen living people know: they were real." He paused to give the revelation some air to breathe. "The old stories about a German scientist, an experimental serum, the lone test subject? They're all true."

Agent Bordeaux took a second to process this information. Her reaction was not one of surprise; she had been with SHIELD far too long to be surprised by anything. Instead, she answered curiously, "Then why make everyone believe it was just propaganda?"

"After the war, it was decided that Captain America was most valuable to his country as a covert asset," Fury explained. "A disinformation campaign began, starting with the story that Captain America perished at the end of the war while saving the world from an Axis superweapon. Once the world believed he was dead, it was a simple enough thing to convince them that he had never been alive to begin with. All evidence was destroyed; folks who knew anything were silenced. Captain America became a ghost. And with each succeeding conflict, America unleashed its ghost: each time a different name, a different story. Any witnesses were discredited, made to look like paranoid fools furthering a decades-old urban legend. Americans got to sleep tight while Steve Rogers fought for them."

"Until he didn't," Bordeaux observed.

Fury gave a little nod. "Rogers is an old soul. By the time I met him, he'd been fighting for half a century without end, each conflict murkier than the last. It started to take a toll on him. He couldn't reconcile who he was with what the world was becoming, and he left."

Agent Bordeaux narrowed her eyes, suggesting, "But you're not telling me everything." She thought she detected a hint of surprise on Fury's face, but his features were so damn difficult to read that it was impossible to tell. Even still, she saw fit to press a little harder. As she motioned to the blur of green passing by their windows, she said, "If you're someone like Rogers, you don't come all the way out here because you're looking for a taste of the simple life; he's secluded himself for a reason." Satisfied with her deduction, she added, "Besides, SHIELD doesn't just let people walk away."

"They do when those people can single-handedly topple regimes," Fury countered. "Steve Rogers is not the sort of enemy you want to make."

That made enough sense, Sasha supposed. The next question was an obvious one. "Then, what makes you think he'll be our ally instead?"

"Because deep down, Rogers is like me; he's a soldier," the Director answered.

Before Bordeaux had time to reflect on that, she felt the SUV slowing. For a moment, there was nothing to see out the windows but more trees until the road opened out onto a clearing. There, atop a small hill, was a modest log cabin. The roof was lined with solar panels, and wisps of smoke curled up from the chimney. A lone car was parked in front of the house: an old pickup truck that might've been cherry red once before half the paint chipped off. In the distance, Sasha could make out the shape of a well near the treeline. This place was so far off the grid that she was almost surprised Fury had found it; just another testament to the power of SHIELD surveillance.

When the car finally pulled to a stop, Agent Bordeaux stepped out alongside Director Fury and their two accompanying agents. None of them were visibly armed -- by Fury's request -- but she knew the Director, at least, had a sidearm holstered beneath his trenchcoat. Unsure of how SHIELD and this Captain Rogers left things, she didn't know if he'd need it... nor whether it'd do them any good, if the old stories about Captain America were to be believed. The Director instructed the two agents to stay with the car and began trudging up the gravel driveway. Sasha followed. They hadn't made it more than ten paces before the door to the cabin opened, and a dark shape came rushing out.

Bordeaux's hand snapped to her waist, searching for a gun that wasn't there. For a second, panic kicked in until a shrill whistle cut through the clearing and stopped the shape in its tracks. Now that it had stopped moving, Sasha could see that it was a dog, a chocolate Labrador who glared in a less-than-menacing way at them. With the immediate threat contained, Agent Bordeaux looked past the lab to the figure standing in the now-open doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sporting a thick beard the color of straw, the man who might've been Captain America issued a command, "Scout, here," and the dog bounded back towards the cabin.

Director Fury was the first to break the silence that followed. "It's been a long time, Steve."

"Perhaps not long enough," Rogers answered. After a moment, he said, "Well, it must be important if you came all this way. Go on; say your piece."

"Aren't you going to invite me inside first?" Fury challenged.

Rogers narrowed his eyes. Fury was clearly testing the boundaries, but he hadn't overstepped them yet. Taking a moment to survey the team, Rogers returned his gaze to Fury and declared, "Fine. But only you. The rest wait outside."

The Director agreed with a nod. Agent Bordeaux made a move as if to protest, but Fury froze her with a look. She didn't like it, but she wasn't left with a choice. Arms crossed, she watched helplessly as Director Fury made the trek up to the cabin alone.

---

The Sanctum Sanctorum,
Greenwich Village
NY

Two Weeks Ago

Who would have thought a brownstone in Greenwich Village would have an integral role in safeguarding reality? Strange had probably passed this place hundreds of times and never batted an eyelid at it. Sandwiched between a jazz club and an artisanal bakery, it likely never garnered so much as a second glance from the casual passerby. Yet it housed some of the most lethal mystical weapons in mortal possession and existed as a shield against multiversal incursions. Now it was his home, and he its protector. Two days here and he had yet to scratch the surface. The rooms had a way of changing, almost blending into one, as if their state was constantly in flux. He suspected that it occupied more space on the inside than the external walls should allow for. It was yet another mystery to pick away at, he reckoned.

Two days prior the Ancient One had perished. For two days, the Earth had been without a Sorcerer Supreme. It remains unclear what damage had already been caused by this event.

It was only at this precise moment, after much back and forth, that Strange could bring himself to carry out the Ancient One's final request. He made his way into what appeared to be a study. The walls were lined with musty tomes and ancient adornments that reminded him more of the library of Kamar-Taj than of a townhouse in New York. This was a consistent thread that tied all the rooms he had explored so far. He ventured into the room. In the centre of the space sat a large trunk. Strange was drawn to it, as he was to other objects containing mystical energy. He was still getting used to the extra sensory input his training had afforded him. This came to be especially difficult in a place as filled with magical items as the Sanctum Sanctorum. Resting on the trunk was an envelope. On its face it read Strange, etched in faint calligraphy. His brow furrowed some.

This is it. He paused, in contemplation.

Having produced a letter opener, he began carefully breaking the seal. He took the letter within with his free hand. Bringing a chair to his side, he tried to make himself comfortable, holding the message up to the light to read it.

Dearest Strange,

I hope this message finds you well. As you are no doubt aware, I can not be with you to share this message in person. Circumstances beyond my control have conspired against such luxuries. Please make do with this facsimile.

The Earth suffers each day that the Sorcerer Supreme is not there to watch over it. It is my regret that I will not see your training through to its completion; I hope the contents of this envelope in some small way make up for this failing.

He felt his eyebrow raise with curiousity, his attention brought back to the envelope. After picking it up, he got a sense of its weight as he raised it into the light. The beam from the ceiling light was broken by a circular shadow. From the envelope he removed a small, polished talisman, its backing coarse and worn. He took the chain in his hand, allowing it to slope through his fingers, taking a second to admire the piece before replacing it on the side.

The Mentor's Stone is a source of vast knowledge. See that it is respected and it will respect you in kind.

Strange paused at this statement, mulling over this last sentence for a moment.

I place this chest and all it contains in your capable hands. Inside, the few trinkets that have found their way into my collection over the centuries. These are artifacts of great power, each affording its user unique abilities. Watch over them, protect them and ensure that should you need them they are in ample condition to return the favour.

His hands skirted across the large, intricate pattern covering its lid. Any attempt to wrest the container towards his chair was met with fierce resistance, with not so much as a budge in response.

You are an honourable man, Stephen, with a hero's heart. I entrust these gifts to you, not to burden you with a purpose but to allow you to see out your own destiny. Prove to me that my confidence in you is well placed. A master can ask for no more than that of his student.

Your friend,
The Ancient One

As Strange finished the letter, he found himself overcome with silent reflection. He thought back on the last few days. His thoughts carried a lingering sense of regret. Regret at his loss and the compromises he had to make just to get to where he was standing. He couldn't protect one man, the strongest man he knows, on his own. How could he protect a reality made up of billions? How could he take the responsibility on by himself? All his life, Strange had been marred by insecurity and doubt. It is what pushed him to excel at school; what made him a successful doctor; what drew him to Kamar-Taj to begin with. But for the first time in his life, the next stop on his road wasn't clear.

"Pull yourself together." He heard himself affirm. He would not allow himself to be ruled by insecurity. He endeavours to see out his current task.

"Perhaps the items themselves will present some meaning." He noted, bringing his hands back to the chest. His hands clasped the lid with the precision of a more able man, his spirit seemingly distracting him from the material discomfort. The top swung back to reveal the contents.

A broken axe.

A broach.

A blanket?

After moving the axe to one side, he took the largest item, what seemed to be a cloak, and had a look at it. It was blue in pigment, with an intricate lining. Most surprisingly, the apparently cumbersome appearance was an illusion. In his hands, the item felt weightless. Folding it over on itself, he placed the cloak on the chair.

"What about you?"

The final item was a diamond shaped amulet, decorated with an eye overlaid with a pattern. He noted its familiarity.

"I know this. If I'm not mistaken this matches the pattern on the skylight," he noted, "A sister item perhaps? But what does it mean?"

"The symbol to which your refer is the seal of the Vishanti. It is a powerful protective ward." Strange turned to face the source of the noise. He was not alone.

"Please do not be alarmed." The stranger reassures. Strange smiled as puzzlement turned to understanding. Even in death the Ancient One had found ways to surprise him. In his head, he began to unpack some of the information he had been given.

"I gather that you are the mentor of the stone. Am I correct in that assumption?" He said cautiously.

"The stone and I are one and the same." He replied, motioning to himself. "Think of this crude manifestation as little more than an interface."

He had the form of a bald, slender man, bearing robes that matched the intricate detailing found on the talisman itself. He would not have looked out of place at Kamar-Taj, although his overall orange glow might betray that something was not quite right. The illusion was really let down by the face, losing much to the uncanny valley. There was something inhuman about it.

"The Master requested that I treat you with respect. Allow me to introduce myself..."

"The Ancient One has informed me of your situation, Doctor Strange," he cuts off. "You are in dire need of training."

"Is that what I'm to do now? Train? What would you have me call my teacher?" He asked. The construct appears to pause.

"Wong will suffice."

---

---

---

---

The man in yellow dropped her to the ground as he leaned over her. She tried to get to her knees but he kicked her in the chest and she fell back onto the ground. Moving forward he ripped the cowl off her head, her face was already beginning to bruise from the variety of falls and bashes she had taken in a short amount of time. Iris just couldn't understand this,w hat did this person mean, the Flash was a him? The lightning bolt wasn't meant for her? If it wasn't meant for her then who was it for? He seemed to take a second when her cowl was removed to get a good look at her, memorising every detail or maybe just trying to figure out where she knew him from.

"Iris West. I should have known, you always did have a penchant for sticking your nose where it didn't belong. I have to say though, that this time you went a bit above and beyond what was necessary." He lay a couple of quick blows onto her chest, knocking the wind out of her before she could even begin to retort. "This time, you went a little bit above and beyond. You aren't meant to be the Flash, I haven't worked for years moulding the perfect specimen, changing every aspect of his life to make him what he should truly become for you to come in, and take all that away." The anger in his voice raised the more he spoke, at the end he punched her in the face, her head being knocked to the side as she saw stars. That would be a black eye for sure, her vision now blurred she tried to focus on the figure above her.

"In another time, I'd be known as the Reverse-Flash. I, however, don't want to be associated with this mockery. You can call me Professor Zoom." He raised his hand, as it began to move into a blur. Reaching down to her chest, she took in a deep and painful breath as he reached inside her chest. She could feel him gripping onto her heart, and she knew that this was it. This was the moment she was going to die. Surprisingly the first person that popped into her head wasn't her father or her mother but it was Barry. Some small part of her was expecting him to appear, and him to save her. He had always been there for her, except for now, right at the end.

"You're powerless against me, Iris. There is nothing you can do to me that I cannot do to you tenfold. You'll never catch me-" He started to lean in closer and closer to her face as he spoke. "-never outpace me, never be faster than me." Zoom kept leaning down until his mouth was right beside her ear, speaking at a whisper he sounded more menacing than when he was shouting. "I won't kill you just yet-" He removed his hand from inside her chest, it became solid again while pulling through the costume however tearing the fabric open. As he started to stand back up he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "-after all. I still have use for you. For now." He chuckled slightly as he stood over her broken body, then as fast as he had appeared he was gone.

Finally able to breathe again Iris just began to sob, frozen in place and paralyzed with fear. Eventually she overcame herself, and precariously stood up through the pain. This man was a monster, quite possibly the one that killed Barrys mother and framed his father. She wasn't going to let this stand, she wasn't going to let anyone else get hurt. She took off in the direction fo home, wincing as she ran. Tormented by the promise left by Zoom, the threat looming over her head. "I won't kill you just yet, after all. I still have some use for you. For now."

Castle Doom, Latveria

The six armed guards stationed outside of Ben Grimm’s cell gripped their guns anxiously as another explosion shook the castle. They were right to be anxious. An array of vibranium fastenings had been set up to keep Grimm immobile but that didn’t stop him from raging against them noisily. Even if the castle was under siege, it was the “golem” kept captive inside that they feared more than anything else. It had hospitalised twelve of their colleagues at the crash site.

Little did they know that it was Susan Storm that was the real threat to their health. Masked by one of her constructs, Reed and Sue made their approach. When they were within three feet of the guards, Sue dropped her shield and fired a battery of hard light spheres in their direction. Beside her Reed’s fist swelled to the size of a small car and struck the remaining guards. They were out before they knew what had hit them.

Once they were inside Ben’s cell, Reed fashioned his finger into a key and unlocked the fastenings.

Grimm spat out the gag in his mouth and sent a warm smile in Reed’s direction. “What kinda time do you call this, Stretch?”

“Don’t thank me, Ben,” Richards smiled as he gestured towards Sue. “I’d still be every bit as indisposed as you if not for Susan.”

“Heh, I should have guessed.”

The three of them made their way out of Grimm’s cell and stalked through the subterranean passages beneath Castle Doom in search of Johnny’s cell. A chance encounter with three more guards resulted in the “golem’ dispatching them with a vicious thunderclap and they pushed on through the darkness.

Behind a locked lead door the sound of Johnny roaring with anger drew them in. Ben knocked the door free from its hinges with a punch and they poured inside ready for a battle. There were no guards inside. Only a beaten Johnny Storm, left eye all but clamped shut with swelling, tugging against his restraints while attempting to ignite his powers.

He was mid-”flame on” when his sister noticed his bruised face. “Johnny! Are you alright?”

Reed helped Johnny out of his fastenings and lifted him to his feet.

“I’m fine,”[color=#e06666] [/color]Johnny mumbled through bloodied lips. “But I can’t promise I’m not going to burn that double-crossing son of a bitch Doom alive when I get my hands on him.”

Of the four of them, Johnny had coped with Darkseid’s reign of terror worst. His famous sense of humour and easy charm had all but gone. Now there was only anger in its place. It made him all the more difficult to contain. Reed was worried about him and he was even worried about what Johnny would do if they found their way out of this.

“We don’t know that’s what has happened yet, Johnny. Any number of thing could have gone wrong. Mine and Victor’s calculations could have been wr-”

There was another explosion. This one was louder than the last and where once the castle had shook it now seemed to crack under the force.

Sue gestured to one of the large cracks that had appeared in the ceiling above them. “I think this debate can probably wait until after we’re not at risk of being buried alive, boys.”

Ben cracked his large orange knuckles.

“You want I should smash our way out of here, Stretch?”

“No, this place is already coming down around us. There’s no telling what will happen if we start punching holes through walls. We go out the old-fashioned way,” Reed said as he broke towards a stairway in the distance.

With the help of Sue’s forcefields the four of them crept through the castle’s myriad underground tunnels. At Reed’s insistence, Johnny had used his powers to feel for heat signatures as they travelled through them so as to avoid any more unnecessary violence. Eventually they managed to creep out through a sewage tunnel that lead into a Doomstadt sideroad.

The streets were filled with pink and black-clad soldiers loyal to von Bardas clashing against civilians of all creeds garbed in deep, royal green overalls. At every turn the soldiers were pushed back. They were better equipped and more organised, but the sheer numbers amongst the green masses forced them to retreat.

So momentous was the occasion that Reed, Ben, Johnny and Sue were paid no attention by the swarming green civilians. They streamed through the streets of Doomstadt towards the city centre and against his best instinct’s Reed urged his friends to follow after them. The explosions seemed to halt as they grew closer to it and the last few volleys of gunfire fell silent.

The soldiers set down their weapons when it became clear their cause was defeated. In the centre of Doomstadt they were pelted with rotten fruit by the green-clad civilians but great care was taken to ensure no harm came to them.

In the distance Castle Doom, where the Four had been captive all but twenty minutes ago, loomed over the crowds. The pink banners tousled along its walls came tumbling down and deep green ones were lowered in their place.

The crowd roared and Sue looked to Reed with a confused look. “What is happening?”

On the castle’s main balcony a broad-shouldered man with facial scars appeared. He was greeted with a roar of approval from the crowd. The roars turned to jeers when he presented to the crowd a woman in regal pink.

With a wave of his hand he silenced thousands.

“Lucia von Bardas, you stand accused of betraying the people of Latveria.”

Von Bardas spat in his face and the scarred man’s dismissive backhand in response was met with approving roars from the onlookers.

“I am the people of Latveria,” von Bardas growled from her knees. “I could no sooner betray them than betray my own flesh and blood. You have no authority here, Karadick.”

“I don’t,” Karadick said with a satisfied smile. “But he does.”

Reed and Sue’s eyes met nervously as a sense of mutual dread set in between them. The curtains on the balcony began to part slowly and a figure walked through them. The roar of the protesters turned almost deafening as a handsome brown-haired man lifted his fist to greet them.

DOOM.

Ben Grimm’s rock-like features twisted with confusion and he squinted at the scruffy, bearded young man. “Who in blue blazes is that?!”

DOOM.

This time the chant was so loud that it felt like the entire city was rocking. Richards squinted in the young man’s direction and inspected his features. It had been so long since he had seen the dictator’s face. They had been rivals at Metropolis University long before the two duelled for the fate of the world. He tried to look through the beard at the face beneath it. It was the brown obelisks masquerading as eyes that confirmed his fears.

There was no replicating that kind of ambition.

“That’s him,” Reed said as he felt that gnawing insecurity in the pit of his stomach that only his nemesis could induce in him. “That’s Victor.”

Doom placed a grateful hand on Karadick’s shoulder and then silenced the crowd once more. He stepped forward to address the crowd. His mouth opened to speak but he faltered for a moment. For half a second the obelisks met Reed’s eyes in the crowd. There was no hostility in the look. In fact, Victor offered him a knowing smile and then set about delivering the most important speech in Latverian history.

"You are an old soul, child..."

Two floors down. Left at the seated Buddha. Right past the golden tapestry. Inside the third door.

For as long as he could remember, Kai-ro dreamed of a place inside the temple that he had never been. A wing damaged during the Chinese invasion of Tibet. It was forbidden to pass down those halls. He had never been there.

Except in his dreams.

...had it been a dream?

The memories were so vivid. So real. Hallways that were just as they were in his dreams.

Inside the third door was a room. Empty, except that hadn't always been the case. Someone had lived there.

...had he lived there?

The back corner concealed a loose floorboard. There was a box underneath a coarse piece of canvas. It had been waiting for Kai-ro to find it.

Or had Kai-ro been waiting for it to find him?

He knew what lay inside it, even though he had never opened the box. Not even in his dreams. It was a ring. A single jade ring.

Kai-ro was one of the young monks who was believed to be the reincarnation of a teacher. But which teacher? It was a question that the elders seemed at an impasse to decide, even as Kai-ro grew older.

"You are an old soul, child. The question is, whose soul?"

---

---

---

---

"KID!"

Ch'p and Aya's panicked voices permeated the thick fog that seemed to be suffocating him.

Which, for the record, was not helping matters.

Green light pierced the darkness, illuminating the wreckage as the emerald hued figure pushed himself up. A large slab of concrete and rebar rested on top of the young figure, a collapse of the floors above him having sandwiched Kai-ro between several layers of a building that was teetering on the verse of a complete structural failure.

Except there was a lifesign, buried far within. Someone was still in here.

Someone had to help.

On his hands and knees, the child coughed as he tried to get his bearings. The wind had been knocked out of him, and now he found himself struggling to catch his breath. His vision was blurry. A sense of vertigo washed over him, as he could feel his consciousness start slipping...

Aya's voice interjected inside of his head. Your physiology is still that of a juvenile of your species, Green Lantern. Your ability to maintain this level of activity is not sustainable without considerable risk.

Breathe in.

"In brightest day..."

Breathe out.

"...in darkest night..." As he spoke, he seemed to find a second wind. The Tibetan boy's brown eyes flashed with an otherworldly, eldritch light as they turned a brilliant shade of green. Slowly, the boy rose to his feet. The large slab of concrete falling from off his back as he casually came up from the ground.

How many hours now? Five? Ten? Twelve?

He didn't know. It didn't matter. There was still more work to be done. There were still more people who cried for help.

The boy felt his nose running. Sniffling, he brought his hand up to his nose and saw his fingers stained red as they came away from his face.

Omicron Ceti IV needed a hero.

Instead, it had a ten year old with a gaudy fashion accessory.

Swallowing, the boy tasted the acrid copper on the back of his throat. Steeling himself, he pushed further inside the collapsing building. A sweep of a green hand lifted debris out of the way, revealing the huddled and broken form of an older woman crumpled to the floor.

Cradling the woman in his arms, the child's green aura began to spread across the stranger's body.

She was still alive. She was still here.

Kai-ro wasn't a hero. But maybe he could make a difference.

The boy started to lift the woman up from the floor when he heard the sound.

People breathing.

He turned his head. His eyes connected with theirs. People. Ordinary, normal people. Frightened people. Huddled together in a corner, unable to move. Unable to run. Unable to make a sound.

The building came down on top of them before Kai-ro could even open his mouth.

The Shrine
In The Time Before Time
10,000 BCE

The boy came to the river with the loaded wicker basket in both hands. He was still called boy in his tribe, but he was rapidly outgrowing the name. He stood almost as tall as his father and would one day stand taller than the chief.

“Tobet,” boy whispered under his breath.

In the middle of the river was a raised mound of earth, a sandbar, and on top of the mound a tiny figure carved out of wood. Since as long as anyone could remember, this is where they would come and delivering their offering. The basket in the boy’s hands was filled with vegetables and meats and fur, the best offering that his tribe had to offer.

The boy waded into the cool waters of the river with the basket held shoulder high. He stopped when he was waist deep. The slow and easy current at this part of the river was in no danger of sweeping him away. Looking towards the shrine on the sandbar, he repeated the words the old man of the tribe had drilled into his head.

“Tobet,” he said again, this time louder and with more confidence. “God of the water and the river that gives us live, we present to you this sacrifice. May you take this and favor us with health and happiness, until the next harvest.”

The boy laid the basket into the water and watched as the lazy current started to pull it away. He stayed until the basket had disappeared beneath the waters of the river, which wasn’t long at all. The boy breathed a sigh of relief. Tobet had taken his offering quickly, a good sign that he would favor the tribe this year.

The boy waded to the bank and started on his journey home. This was his first time giving the offering, but it would not be his last. The boy would come back for many years. From boy, to man, to father, to warrior, to chief, to elder, he held many titles over his life. But regardless of his station in life he always came to these muddy banks with a basket full of his best, always asking for Tobet’s blessing in the time to come.

Even when he was stooped shouldered and unable to carry the weight fully, he took his grandson with him to the waters and taught the boy the ritual. And the year after the old man had died, the boy came to the river with the loaded wicker basket in both hands.

---

Boyle Heights
11:34 PM

“James Saint,” said John. “Sounds like he could be the lead singer of a prog rock band.”

“I’ve heard of a Jimmy the Saint,” Ray said from the backseat of Rembrandt’s car.

Along with Rembrandt, they were parked in his unmarked police car just a block away from the 4th Street Bridge. They met at a Du-Par’s an hour ago, John still in the process of waking up while Rembrandt still seemed to be running on the same energy from last night. Ray was… Ray, eating a healthy portion of omelet and pancakes before they headed out.

“Doesn’t matter if it’s not his real name,” said John. “We got no power over him.”

“So that stuff about names having power is real?” asked Rembrandt.

“Oh yeah,” said Ray.

“A half-talented caster gets a hold of your real name and that’s it for you, squire,” said John. “They can make you into their own personal voodoo doll, brainwash you. Killing you is the least dangerous thing they could do. It’s why you have to be careful who knows your name.”

“Ray Browder isn’t my real name. My nom de magick, if you will.”

“You and Ray are the only two who know my real name,” said John. “With the rest of the Good People I… have a nickname.”

“What’s that?” Rembrandt asked.

“Conjob,” Ray said before John could reply.

Rembrandt laughed and shook his his head. “Fits you like a glove.”

Ray checked his watch and started to move towards the passenger door.

“We need to go, John. It’s almost midnight.”

“Just yell if you need me,” Rembrandt said as they climbed out his car.

“Appreciate it, Charlie,” said John. “But I’m afraid if anything happens to us, there’s very little you’ll be able to do.”

John led the way towards the bridge, Ray walking in his wake. He could feel the call as they got closer and closer to the 4th Street Bridge and the L.A. River. It wasn’t as loud as other places of interest in Los Angeles, but it was strong and deep. It was old, older than anything else in the city.

“There’s the gatekeeper,” Ray said as they approached the bridge.

He stood at the entrance to the stairwell that led to the river below the bridge. The pedestrians who passed by never did a double take or even a first take. They couldn’t see him, only John and Ray and the others with the Sight could see through his cloaking spell.

He was dressed in a baggy purple zoot suit, decked out to the nines with a matching floppy hat. He looked directly at them, he knew that they were fellow travelers and that they were headed his way.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said with a slight Spanish accent. “Are you two people of good intent, people of good ideals, people of good character, people of good magic. Are you Good People?”

“Yes,” said Ray.

“Sure,” said John.

“Then you may enter.”

He stepped aside and they started down the stairs towards the river. John could hear soft whispers growing louder as they descended. The words were in a language he could not understand, a tongue that had long since gone extinct. He didn’t know the words, but he knew the cadence. A prayer was a prayer regardless of the language.

A group had assembled in a semicircle on the concrete bank of the river, or what passed for a river these days. A few select torches illuminated the area, but left plenty of shadow for the Good People to hide among.

“I think that’s her,” John said under his breath to Ray.

A figure dressed in all black stood in front of the semicircle, an engraved mask on their face. The clothing was baggy enough to hide their body, but John caught a lock of blue hair around the corners of the mask.

“Welcome,” she announced. “We gather here tonight, on the unluckiest of days in a time of the month were the light of the moon an be of no comfort. We gather here, this ancient place of ritual. A place that people worshiped gods whose names have been forgotten, but whose sacrifices can still be felt and heard. By accepting the call and response of the gatekeeper, you all entered into a covenant to follow the rules and rituals of this gathering. To wit: Any and all grudges, bitterness, or blood feuds shall be put on hold for this gathering. All sales are final, no names are to be used or recorded, and there can be no coin or paper money used for purchase. All the items brought before you tonight all come with a disclaimer: Purchase at your own risk. Bring the first item."

---

"In local news tonight, a Southland homeless man was the winner of last night's giant two hundred million jackpot. Gerald Wilkins was quoted by local--"

Charlie changed the station on the radio and tried to find something worth listening to. He settled on a classic rock station and leaned back in the seat. Constantine and Ray had been gone about twenty minutes. He had no idea how long this auction of theirs would last, but he figured he could get some sleep. He had been running on little to none since the night he and Bonnie were called out to Wilshire Division. He was just getting settled when he saw the man looking at him from across the street.

He didn't seem out of the ordinary. A Latino man in jeans and a t-shirt, an olive drab jacket on. But he was staring towards Rembrandt's car with an intensity that made Charlie pause. The man started towards the car. Rembrandt found his sidearm, keeping a hand on it while he sat up in the seat and rolled down the car window.

"Jimmy the Saint says hi," the man said as he stood in front of the car. This close, Charlie could see the blue glow in the man's eyes. "Jimmy the Saint also says you need to leave well enough alone."

"Or what?" asked Charlie.

"Or he'll take care of you," said a voice from behind the car. An Asian woman came around the side and looked down at Charlie. "He can get inside anyone's mind, detective. He can be anywhere at any time. You're only off-limits because Jimmy the Saint's boss thinks it's bad for business to mess with cops. So call your piss-ant mage friend off."

Both the man and woman raised their hands and snapped their fingers. Just like that, the blue glow disappeared and the eyes of two very confused people took its place.

Thunder rumbles over me and out the front of the garage, engulfing my street in sound. Crashing, banging sound fills my little corner of Queens as I beat away at the drum set I've used and abused for the past seven years. In the years since mom died it's been one of my few outlets. There's nothing like banging on a drum when you're frustrated or sad to really work out the inner demons. Mom had told me back in the day that I should play an instrument. That it would be an outlet for my creativity, and foster my growing mind. Little did she suspect that I'd pick the drums. My parents really loved that.

My mom bought the set for me with the idea that I'd grow into it. Much to the chagrin of our neighbors, I have. I even play in a band with Mary Jane and our friends Betty Brant and Glory Grant named the Black Cats. We're not the best in the world, but we can rock as hard as anyone out there, and I'd put money on that.

Neighbors give me dirty looks as they walk their dogs past the house, clearly trying to be seen showing their displeasure at my display. I couldn't care less, if I'm being honest. They're dogs bark like hell half the damn night, me drumming in the middle of the day is the least of Queens's noise problem.

Putting my head down, I really get into the flow of a beat and don't let up. In the past years, my beats would often be full of rage and raw emotion. Being in a band with a punk rock persuasion certainly helped with that. But today is different. Today the beat is light and free flowing as my swinging was last night in the streets of New York. For too long my mind has been gripped by sadness. First for my mother, then by the changes I went through with the spider, then from Uncle Ben's fate. But now that I'm doing something...trying to make things right, I feel like a huge weight has been taken off my shoulder.

My spider sense alerts me to someone approaching, and I pick up my head to see Mary Jane standing in the entrance of the garage smiling broadly. She nods along to the beat, sending her short, curly, black hair bobbing over her shoulders, her caramel skin glistening in the late morning sunlight. Her brown eyes light up as I stop, "That kicked so much ass. We need to use that in a show."

I smile, "Yea, as long as I can remember it, for sure. Wasn't really doing anything but freestyling."

"Gwendolyne Stacy, for as long as I've known you you've never forgotten a beat," she responds, and she's probably right.

MJ was probably my first girl friend. At least the first that I can remember. We met in preschool, and to say my dad wasn't thrilled with me being friends with her would be an understatement. She comes from a family with a reputation. Her uncle is serving twenty for a drug conviction, and her father had given her mother more than her fair share of bruises. He's the definition of an asshole, but MJ isn't. She's possibly the person with the biggest heart I've ever met, and it wasn't long before my dad was won over as well. I don't know if you can feel proud of how far your friend distances themselves from their crappy family, but I'm damn proud of Mary Jane.

"You want to jam later this afternoon? I can get the rest of the girls together," she asks longingly. It's honestly been too long since we had a session, but I can't.

"I gotta go to the lab this afternoon," I say in an apologetic fashion.

I've been working at OsCorp, Harry's dad's company, as a high school intern. Mostly just jotting down observations and the like for the real scientists. Still, it's pretty cool, and I got superpowers out of the equation. Win-win. Plus I get to hang out with Peter, which is fun. He's way more into the hard science than I am, though, which is why I'm moving on for my senior year.

MJ's eyes narrow and she cocks her head to the side, "I thought you were done with that? Something about a loony bin?"

A chuckle escapes my lips, "My internship runs through the end of the summer. Then I start at the Ravenscroft Institute learning about forensic psychology. It's not a loony bin."

Ravenscroft Institute for the Criminally insane is possibly the best location in the world for helping those that suffer from dangerous mental illnesses. Doctor Ashley Kafka, the head of the institute, is one of the leading minds in reforming those that were often seen as hopeless cases, and next year I'll be learning from her directly. I think it'll give me a leg up in following in my dad's footsteps. If I can understand why criminals do what they do, maybe I can help catch them.

Well, get better at catching them, at this point.

"Okay, well, we need to jam soon. Saturday?" MJ asks hopefully.

"Deal," I nod.



Oscorp Tower
Manhattan

The gleaming, glass elevator opens on the lobby floor of the tower, and I step in with a few other Oscorp employees. The elevator recognizes all our employee IDs and begins traveling to the floors we need to go to. As it smoothly travels to its destinations, I turn and look out the back. The entire elevator system of the tower is along the outside, and made almost completely made of glass, which gives it an incredible view of the entirety of New York City. I always love looking out over the city. Sure, I can literally do that without being inside a building now, but this is still pretty dang great.

Oscorp Tower itself is something of an architectural marvel. Its rounded, twisted structure stretches up into the sky, resembling a strand of DNA before the two strands come to a point at the top. It reflects Doctor Osborn's commitment to biological advancement, and his commitment to the betterment of human life. It's crazy that one of my best friend's dad owns all this, and it's even crazier that I'm working here, at least for a few more months.

The elevator comes to a stop on the floor I'm getting out on, and I politely make my way out. What greets her is a sterile, white, brightly lit lab. Scientists scuttle about in their lab coats, jotting down notes and conversing quietly with one another. I scan the scene and see Peter in front of a subject case, taking down some notes in a tablet.

"Hey stranger," I say coming up behind him and throwing my arm around his shoulder.

He looks up at me with his big, brown eyes over his glasses, brushes his scruffy hair out of the way, and smiles, "You see the news this morning?"

"Pretty cool, huh?" I ask, unable to contain my excitement. "The footage was crazy! I almost wish someone was closer to get some really good stuff. Find anything on YouTube? I couldn't."

His big, goofy smile is almost as big as mine is, "Nah, nothing that's any better than from the chopper."

"Ms. Stacy!" a warm, but powerful, voice calls out from behind me. I turn to find Harry's father Norman approaching along with his head scientist, Otto Octavius. Norman smiles and puts his hands on Pete and I's shoulders, "And Mr. Parker. Two great young minds that will lead OsCorp into the future someday. I can't tell you how happy I am to see two of Harry's best friends working here."

Norman is exactly the kind of many you'd expect to have built a company like OsCorp. Tall, well cut, and I would assume handsome in his time, Doctor Osborn is also a brilliant geneticist. He's clad in an impeccably tailored suit of a deep, navy blue, and it wouldn't be surprising to see him walk into a board room for some gigantic meeting after this. Still, he always treats Pete, MJ, and me like we're equals of Harry. There's not a pompous bone in his body.

"Unfortunately, young Gwen will be leaving us in a month or so, sir," Octavius adds in, genuinely sounding disappointed. He continues in his low, German-accented tones, "I'll only be left with one of my best lab assistants after the summer."

Otto Octavius is not someone Gwen would have expected to get along with so well. His genius is known the world over, and she expected such a superb intellect to be standoffish, or awkward. While he is softspoken, he's affable and kind. He's the leading mind behind nearly every biological project going on in the building, including the spider that ended up giving me my powers. His dream is to meld animal and man, giving humanity abilities that can ease our struggle against disease. I've struggled since getting my powers. I could help his research...but I don't want to become a science experiment myself. Plus, who knows, I could be a freak of nature. Who says the thing that gave me super powers wouldn't kill someone else?

I smile at the two titans of science, "Yea, I think the hard sciences are more Peter's future. Mind is forensic psychology. Well, at least I think it is."

"Ah," Otto brushed his long, grey-brown hair from in front of his face, "the science of the mind is nothing to be ashamed of, dear girl. And Dr. Kafka is the best."

"Working for Otto and Ashley in the span of two years," Norman chuckles, "I might have to watched out. You might be a CEO next."

"I'll let you deal with the board room, Dr. Osborn," I put my hands up, passing on the idea.

"Well, we could certainly be doing worse," Norman turns to Pete. "Young Mr. Parker is the brightest boy I've ever met. I only wish you could rub some of that off on Harry."

"I may be bright, sir," Pete winks, "but I'm not a miracle worker."

Osborn laughs deeply and heartily, "That boy will be the death of me. But he says you're coming over for dinner? I'll see you tonight then. Otto and I have an important meeting to attend."

"Sure thing, sir," Pete nods before motioning towards the specimens he'd been studying. "I better get back to work. Science doesn't happen without effort."

"Right you are, Peter!" Otto beams. "Make sure our little friends are doing well! I'll check in after the meeting."

The geniuses head off to whatever meeting they have, and I turn back to Pete. In the enclosure he's monitoring sit three lizards about four inches long each, with green, speckled skin. They are the first batch in the line of "super lizards", as Doctor Octavius and Doctor Connors, the man in charge of this experiment, like to say. They've had their natural healing factor, what allows them to regrow tails and limbs, kicked up to eleven. The hope is that they'll be able to synthesize the ability and place it into the human body, allowing us to heal from any disease or injury. It's an ingenious theory if they can get it to work.

It also makes me think of what could have been possible for mom if she had only been able to hold on for a while longer, or if the sickness would have happened later in life. It's something I shouldn't dwell on or think about. I know that, but it's always hard not to wonder.

"So how are they doing?" I ask Pete.

"Not bad," he shrugs. "Increased appetite and thirst, but that's to be expected with their cells being supercharged. The docs will have to find a way to get that under control before we move onto the lab rats."

"Yea, the last thing I need is a bunch of mutated lizard rats running around the city," I joke and elbow him in the side.

He looks over with wide eyes, "Oh my god do not even joke about that."

The two of us laugh and get back to data collecting, all the while I'm just itching to get back out on patrol tonight. Still, it's nice to spend a quiet moment with Pete being geeks. It's been a while since we've gotten together and just hung out, instead of talking about what other kind of gadgets Spider-Woman can use out in the streets of New York.

Sometimes, the quiet moments are the best.

---

Trenton, New Jersey
00:42

---

"I don't like this."

"As you've made abundantly clear."

"I mean the guy isn't even in the briefing folder. You know he's not in the folder right?"

"I made the folder Twitch" Bobbi was annoyed, which wasn't really fair. Sure Twitch was antsy, but she should've expected as much; breaking into a veteran's run-down apartment building without reason wouldn't look good from the outside.

"You shouldn't be doing this."

"Yeah, you've said your piece. But I'm here now, and it's happening so I'm going to need you to shut it." Bobbi chewed the skin around her bitten nails and did another search of the studio apartment. The place was barren of personality, nothing more than a toothbrush, half-empty mustard bottle, and spare shirt to prove that anyone even occupied the space. It was enough when paired with the late hour for doubt to settle in. It'd been six months after all. But bad lead or not, it was all they had. Besides, Fortune was personal.

She sat on the bed, did an inventory check, then stood again in favour of pacing. Twitch had taken her advice and remained silent, leaving her alone to reflect on her hostility. She almost began feeling bad enough to apologize when a key rattled in the lock she'd broken.

Bobbi waited, barely breathing as the door opened inwards. Twenty seconds passed, then thirty, she managed a full minute before impatience got the better of her. Fortune was waiting with a pistol loaded and ready, but couldn't have anticipated her reflexes. She went low, ramming an elbow to the back of his knees as the shot went off above her head. He was tougher than she'd expected, and remained standing. All the more reason to keep hitting the asshole.

"Was that a gunshot? Everything okay?"

"I told you to shut up" Bobbi said through gritted teeth as she stood, shoving her victim's head into the door frame. That left him dazed enough for her to throw the gun across the room. She had him in a choke-hold by the time he was aware enough to resist. It'd been some time since anyone had actually challenged her strength, and Bobbi was surprised when his attempt to shake loose actually weakened her grip. She slammed his head again before pushing him into the studio's bathroom. He fell on his knees, leaving Bobbi just enough time to handcuff his wrist to the piping under the sink and take a step back. A few shouts and some panting cooled him off enough to speak.

"Always a pleasure 19." He grinned and motioned to her face, his chest still rising and falling rapidly with heavy breaths; "Mask might hide your face, but that suit" He let out a low whistle. "They really were doing you a disservice with those vests." Bobbi didn't bother hiding her disgust. She'd have to shower after just talking to the man.

"Delanden." Fortune wasn't surprised with her demand, and chose to continue his monologue.

"Say what happened to you buddy, the one I met last time. You know; dark hair, accent." She did hit him then, without restraint. The crack of his jaw on the impact granted her enough satisfaction to pull herself back again.

"You've had your fun. Where's Delanden?"

"Gave you all I had last time."

"Horse-shit. Intel was bad an you knew it."

"Intel was good. So good I sold it twice." The shit-eating grin returned, albeit bloodstained. Somehow that didn't make Bobbi feel any better.

"You're not going to goad me anymore. Tell me where to find Carl or I take you instead. God know's you've built up more than enough felonies to replace the old ones." Fortune spat out a wad of blood onto the tiled floor.

"As much as it pains me to say beautiful, your talents are better spent elsewhere." He sighed when she didn't react, and tried to adjust his admittedly awkward position. "You're going to have five more mercs to deal with in less than a minute. I'd get a running start if I were you."

"Don't believe you."

Fortune shrugged. "What do you think I was doing in the hallway?"

It hardly mattered if he was telling the truth, she could take out a handful thugs. Probably. Sure enough, footsteps could be heard in the hallway seconds after his warning. Bobbi cursed and looked at the apartment again. The fight wasn't her greatest concern; it was Fortune making an escape. She took two steps outside the washroom to retrieve his gun from where it'd been thrown, and stared at him as the footsteps paused outside the door. He smiled back.

"Killing isn't what you do" He reminded her. The door slammed open the same moment Bobbi fired a single shot in Fortune's stomach. It was her turn to smile.

"Better hope I finish quick." She dropped the gun again and turned, drawing her battle staves just as the first two men took aim.

Twitch was screaming her ear off, but Bobbi ignored it. Her hearing was mostly gone after the first two shotgun shots went off anyways. Slow to reload, but some pellets embedded their way into her suit. She set her jaw against the stinging and discharged both staves into the first target. He fell without resistance, and her toys made the others hesitate just enough for her to disarm the second. She followed it up with a hit to the back of the neck.

The final three were still armed, but failed to make it the whole way into the room. Bobbi took cover behind the bed, just as a spray of bullets lodged into the dresser behind her. She thought of the abandoned pistol with mild regret. But Fortune had been right in that at least; she wasn't there to kill anyone. One of the mercenaries took a step forward, and Bobbi spun, throwing the blanket from the bed, and standing in the same movement. She gained enough momentum to bury her foot squarely in the head of the man with the full-auto. The other two were barely cleanup work. Before she could even catch her breath, Bobbi returned to the bathroom.

It was empty, of course. The pipe broken, and the window open. The crazy bastard had actually leapt three stories with a gunshot-wound and broken jaw. Bobbi wasted a full moment cursing before addressing the panicked voice in her earpiece.

"Twitch, Fortune's gone. I need satellite, street cameras, anything."

"Mock there were too many shots, the police-"

"Anytime you want to start being useful let me know." Bobbi leaned out the window and tried to make anything out through the rain and dark. Nothing. With a deep, if not calming breath, she jumped.

---

---

---

---

"What are you going to do Iris?" She winced slightly as he wrapped the bandage around her right arm. She had to call in work sick, thankfully however she healed quickly and wouldn't need to take more than a day off. She was just thankful that when she got home that Barry hadn't left yet. She needed him now, more so than she ever had. The power that this Zoom had over her, he could have killed her at any moment and they both knew it. Then the promise that he would be coming back for her, after she fufilled some kind of purpose for him... she wasn't going to play his game.

"The only thing I can do, I'm going to stop him."

He leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek, she pulled away and closed her eyes. Still tormented by the kiss left by Zoom. Regret crossed Barrys face, and it broke her heart. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the gesture, but after what happened, she couldn't... it was too soon. She couldn't have anyone that close to her. She raised her good hand and touched his cheek. He cleared his throat before speaking. "Well, I'll be with you every step of the way." He stood up, clearing his throat, moving away to go grab something.

She lowered her hand to his, holding onto it as he turned. "Please don't leave me-" Tears welled up in her eyes. "-At least not yet." He smiled at her, that kind hearted smile as he sat down, placing her hand between his.

"You know Iris, it's all my fault-" she sighed, here he went again. Always blaming himself everytime something went wrong, he had such a kind heart but a knack for putting the weight of the world on his shoulders as if he was Superman. "-If I hadn't been running late, maybe it would have been me that would have to have gone through this." Suddenly it clicked, he was right. It was his lab, and Zoom had mentioned working to control someones life. The sociopath that he was likely meant that he had made it hell, and Barry had been through his fair share.

Now tell me, where is The Flash?"

"Barry." She squeezed his hand in hers. "It's not your fault, these things happen. Though I-" She took a deep breath. "-I do need to tell you something." She sat up, wincing as she did so, re-adjusting her robe to ensure she was fully decent.

"Zoom, the man who did this. He was dressed in yellow, and the lightning that followed him... It was red." His hands loosened on hers.

"I think Zoom was the man you saw the night...-" She closed her eyes, head low. "-I think Zoom was the man who killed your mother." His hands fell away from hers, he stood up and covered his face, he ran them up and through his hair as he processed things. Her brain may have been able to process things quickly, but she still felt like the mind of Barry Allen could move far faster than hers.

He turned around, a look of conviction on his face. "Then it's settled." A kind smile on his face, and for the first time when she looked at her friend her heart skipped a beat, there was something warming, calming and reassuring about that smile. Barry moved close to her again, picking up her hand again and planting a soft kiss on top of it. "You really aren't going to get rid of me, I'm going to stick with you through this Iris West. After all-" his smile turned to a cheeky grin. "-We're the Flash." She pulled her hand away from his and slapped him lightly on the cheek.

"Never say that again. That's just stupid." Part of her worried though, what if this wasn't her destiny?

The spire collapsed.

The building shuddered, breaking apart as its foundation gave way. A cloud of dust and debris swept upward, further obscuring the billowing clouds of ash and smoke as the former high rise became flush with the street.

A green flicker.

Rising from out of the column of smoke, the emerald light resonated as it ascended toward the sky. It was a clenched fist, punching it's way out from within the crumbling darkness. In the center of the construct, the boy shielded the woman in his arms.

The green construct peeled away as the boy craned his head back. Aya's voice cued in his mind the same instant that his ring began feeding him information about a massive subspace displacement wave detected moving into the Omicron Ceti system.

A vessel just seemed to appear overhead.

The majestic white vessel with it's distinctive pink starbust immediately identifying it as a hospital ship of the Interstellar Committee of the Star Sapphire, an organization composed of healers and counselors dedicated to the ideal of doctors without borders.

More ships were shooting into orbit of the planet now. Green Lantern Sentinel-class patrol cruisers. A Nova Corps Signifer-class cruiser.

A large Bolovaxian cut an imposing figure through the air, as the Green Lantern known as Kilowog made his way toward where Kai-ro was passing the woman off to a doctor in a pink-and-white uniform of the Star Sapphires.

"Is there anyone else in there?" the woman asked.

The look in the eyes that the boy had briefly connected with flashed through the child's mind. "No," the young Green Lantern answered simply.

An easy answer.

A hard reality.

"There's no one else."

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THREE DAYS LATER

"Startling new video released today amid new allegations that the regime of President Oub'x has used chemical weapons in the ongoing civil unrest between the Oub'x government and the H'lven rebels. The Nova Corps has made no official statement regarding these new allegations, while a spokesman for the Green Lantern Corps stated that the Corps will continue its ongoing investigation into sapient rights violations by the Oub'x government."

"In other news, the Interstellar Transportation Safety Board has commenced official investigation into the terrestrial crash of a commercial star-freighter on Omicron Ceti IV, the casualties from which are now estimated at around 2,900 dead and another 6,000 wounded."

"We go now to our own Saint Walker, on location at Omicron Ceti IV. Saint?"

"Thank you, Jorus. I'm here with Doctor Yrra Cynril of the Star Sapphire. Doctor, could you describe for us..."

With a grunt, the small chipmunk-like alien got up and floated through the air toward the kitchenette.

Omicron Ceti IV was a right mess, but the situation had stabilized enough to where the GLC and Nova Corps were starting to pull back and allow the planet's own civil authorities to handle their shit. Planetary authorities were continuing to examine the wreckage, though the ITSB was taking over the official investigation into the cause of the crash.

The H'lven pulled down a thimble-sized coffee cup, pouring himself a shot of Joe as the diminutive Green Lantern drifted about the interior of the patrol cruiser.

The kid was still passed out in his bunk.

Returning to the small work area, the H'lven sipped at his coffee, paying scant attention to the ongoing news cycle as he tried to organize the various forms and reports that would have to be ordered into field notes. And, eventually, something at least passingly resembling a report about the initial situation that they had arrived into on Omicron Ceti IV.

Especially with that fracking Saint Walker poozer down there, questioning if any of the Green Lantern's actions contributed to the massive property damage.

Just what was that guy's problem, anyway?

Green Lantern Ch'p, there is a subspace communication from the civil authorities of Omicron Ceti IV.

Another sip of coffee. "Patch it through," the squirrel-like alien uttered, lowering the thimble-cup away. Raising his head back, Ch'p raised his voice as he said, "This is Green Lantern."

The face of a young rookie cop filled the screen. "This is Deputy Jorus of the Omicron Ceti Sheriff's Department," the young man said, introducing himself. "Normally we wouldn't bother the Green Lanterns with a routine detail such as this, but the ITSB investigation has pulled away a lot of our detectives."

"What you got, Corporal?"

"Well, sir... we've got a body."

The H'lven side-eyed where the Tibetan monk was still sleeping in.

"I'll have someone right there."