The boy was much too young to make sense of politics, but parades? Parades he understood just fine. Today, Al-Doha held the largest parade that the boy had ever seen! The streets were lined from end to end with spectators, many of whom were waving flags as the Quraci national anthem played over unseen loudspeakers. A convoy of vehicles drove by: first the jeeps, then the humvees, next the tanks. (The boy liked the tanks the most.) Then, at last, came a simple truck; the crowd cheered the loudest as this last one approached. The boy had to balance on the tips of his toes to see the man standing in the back of the truck, his pristine white uniform reflecting the late morning sun as he waved to the crowd.

The boy's brother was positively shaking with excitement. "There he is! Do you see him?" Karim was a few years older and thus more aware of the day's significance. He could remember the disgraced President Marlo, a man who no one seemed to like and yet who won re-election after re-election all the same. He had heard the rumblings at school of a young reformer by the name of Kattuah who would restore Qurac's lost pride. Kattuah awakened something in the Quraci people: hope. And when the night of the election came, it had been Karim who stayed up with their parents to watch as the final votes were tallied. A victory for Kattuah; a victory for Qurac.

The boy knew nothing of this, but he certainly thought that President Kattuah looked impressive enough. With his shiny, white uniform; his thick, black hair; and his large, square mustache, he looked like every schoolboy's vision of a strongman, a conquering hero come home at last. Despite his ignorance of the day's importance, the boy found himself swept up in the contagious enthusiasm all the same. He tugged on Karim's arm and convinced his brother to raise him up on his shoulders to get a better view. No sooner had he climbed up than the President's motorcade passed by. Although Karim would later deny it, the boy swore that the President had smiled directly at him.

*     *     *

Before, the news had been something to avoid. Yet ever since President Kattuah's induction, the boy's parents had taken to leaving the television on during supper time. The reports made little sense to him, but the boy could tell that everyone was very excited about the direction of the country. Karim had tried to explain it once. "Kattuah is not a lapdog like that coward Marlo," he said, "He will stand for Qurac." The boy didn't know what 'standing for Qurac' meant, but it sounded very important and like a very good thing to do.

Tonight, the President stood at a podium and addressed the world at large. Flanked by his generals, he spoke of a "discovery" that would forever change Qurac. He said that Qurac was done being pushed around, and that from this day on, Qurac would put itself first. The boy didn't realize that Qurac hadn't been put first, so it made him glad to hear that the President was apparently handling it. His excitement paled in comparison to his parents', however; at the dinner table, they held each other and laughed... though the boy could not remember hearing a joke.

*     *     *

Karim had not unclenched his fists in hours. The boy stood by his brother on the street, the same street which only months ago hosted a grand parade. Now, the humvees driving down the road were not Quraci; they bore instead a different flag... one with stars and stripes, one that even the boy recognized. (For who in Qurac had never seen it before? Indeed, who in the world?) It was a different sort of parade, the boy realized with childlike acuity. Only now, the men with guns were not there for show. Indeed, the boy's parents had spoken of fighting in the nearby hills. In the quiet of night, the sounds of gunfire had echoed across the city.

"They have no right," Karim spat under his breath. The boy half worried that his brother might try to fight one of the foreign soldiers. He certainly had the look in his eyes. Instead, he only repeated, "They have no right."

To the boy, the answer seemed clear. "Then, why doesn't the President stop them?" he asked with naive sincerity.

"No one stops them," Karim answered through his bile. "They take what they want."

The boy thought on this. "Perhaps someone should take it back," he offered.

*     *     *

There was blood in the water, and the sharks came. Al-Doha had become a warzone. Every week, a new faction moved in, seeking what had already been taken; the factions fought, and there were bodies in the street. Before long, the boy's parents were among their number. They had no one but each other now. Karim kept them safe as well as he could, stealing food and finding shelter from the bombs and the fighting. Each night, the boy wept until sleep took him. What he didn't know was that Karim waited until he was asleep to cry, too.

One day, as they made their way across Al-Doha's streets, they saw a crowd gathered at the steps. Atop them, one of the many invaders held a dirty, beaten man by the scruff of the neck. It took the boy some time to realize that the man was none other than President Kattuah; his once-immaculate uniform now ran with spots of brown and black and red. The other man on the steps was shouting something, but it was hard to hear him over the cries of the assembled crowd. The boy didn't wish to watch any longer, but Karim was rooted in place.

With a wave of his hand, the man summoned forward one of his soldiers. The soldier presented a scimitar in an intricate scabbard, a golden tassel hanging from the end of its handle. When the man drew the weapon, its blade shimmered in the afternoon sun. The crowd grew louder, and the boy felt others pushing past him towards the steps. The man raised the sword and brought it down; the boy's view was blocked, but he heard a loud gasp followed by wails and crying. Karim was shaking.

The crowd advanced on the steps, and there was a smattering of gunfire. The boy realized that the armed men atop the steps were firing into the crowd at the advancing mob. Terror washed over him, and the boy had to tug with all his might to get Karim to move. They ran away from the massacre, neither stopping nor slowing, even when the gunfire stopped.

*     *     *

The boy (who was no longer much of a boy) had not seen Qurac in years. It was no longer safe, Karim had told him, and the boy had agreed. So, they fled. It was an easy enough thing; no one cared about the passage of two young boys in this part of the world. At first, it had been hard learning to live away from home, but the boy knew nothing remained for them in Qurac. Their parents were dead, the great reformer was dead. Qurac offered nothing but misery. Living abroad presented its own challenges, but at least they no longer feared for their lives. They found something approaching peace, if a bitter and angry peace.

They had even joined the army. Not their army, of course, but able-bodied men were welcome most anywhere in the world. The boy appreciated the structure in his life, and Karim... Karim sought vengeance. "The Americans swung that sword," he was fond of saying, "the minute they violated our sovereign borders." The boy did not disagree, but nothing had changed since they were children; no one was strong enough to stand up to the Americans.

Or so they thought.

Some time into their service, the brothers were approached by a man with no name. This man told them of a secret program designed to level the playing field for the rest of the world. He appealed to their thirst for revenge, promising that if they joined, they would never suffer another indignity at the hands of the foreign menace again. It had been an easy sell. Both brothers immediately accepted the recruitment and resigned their official posts.

*     *     *

The program was even more rigorous than the brothers could have imagined. Although they had once been part of a sizable cohort, the brothers had watched their numbers dwindle until only they two remained. The boy knew that before long, he would be alone. Even now, he could hear Karim's labored breathing, his pained moans in the bunk below his. Karim had once been the strongest man the boy had ever met; yet his body rejected the treatments, like so many others before. Soon, it would collapse in on itself, and the boy would truly be alone.

The boy was called forth for another treatment. So far, he had shown none of the symptoms of Karim nor the countless other failures. In some ways, the boy almost wished the treatment would kill him; it might spare him another round. As he was strapped into machine, the boy felt his pulse quicken in anticipation of what was to come. The assistant came and stuck the dowel rod in the boy's mouth. His teeth sunk effortlessly into the divots left there from all the sessions that had come before. A cold sweat broke out as the doctor approached, looking placid as ever.

"Remember, my son, change is only ever achieved through pain," the doctor spoke almost kindly.

The treatment began, and the boy's muffled screams filled the facility.

*     *     *

"His name is Abdul al-Rahman," Fury reported as he handed Captain Rogers the relevant file. He continued, "He's a Quraci national, been living the past fifteen years or so abroad. Bounced around a lot during his exile. Served everywhere from Iran to Bialya with his brother, Karim. That's how he ended up on our radar." He paused a moment to let Rogers flip through al-Rahman's service record. "A few years back, they dropped off the grid. We thought they were dead. At least, until Abdul showed up again at the head of a small army."

"Al-Muhararin," Rogers read as he landed on the relevant page. He looked up, translating, "The Liberators?"

The Director nodded. "They're a group of Quraci expats seeking to reclaim the homeland. See, Qurac's had a rough quarter-century. In that time, they've been occupied by no less than six hostile foreign groups; most recently, the Taliban," he explained.

"You counting us among that number?" Rogers asked, a barb on his tongue.

Fury declined to answer. Instead, he said, "Now, we don't know what happened to the brother, but when Abdul re-emerged, he came back... changed."

That made Rogers look up from the dossier. "Changed?" he repeated. "Changed how?"

"Changed like you changed," Fury told him. Seeing the incredulity in Cap's eyes, the Director said, "I know. I wouldn't have believed it myself, either; but we had a man on the inside, and he confirmed that al-Rahman is a Super-Soldier." He sighed and sat back in his seat. "Somehow, somebody succeeded where countless others have failed. By all reports, he's every bit as fast and strong as you were in your prime."

"But who?"

"We don't know," the Director admitted, a phrase he wasn't accustomed to saying. "Just as we don't know who's bankrolling this little operation. But believe me: we're going to find out." He held out a hand to accept the file back from Captain Rogers. "First, we'll have to introduce you to your team."

Rogers raised an eyebrow. "My team?"

"Yeah," Fury answered. "What do you think, Cap? You still play well with others?"

---

---

Music


Iris had to refrain from screaming most of the way. As they passed through the mountain it felt different to when she had phased by herself. The vibrations didn't change, and they didn't keep speed unlike when she did it. Which meant that however he had done it it wasn't through the same energy source that she was connected to. She had to worry though, this power cosmic that this 'Surfer' seemed to have access too had her outclassed. The current issue was that there was a plane in her way.

Rather, she was in the way of a plane. He had launched her at a high enough speed that she was going to smack straight into it's windscreen, and while that would obviously be a bigger problem for her than it would be for the plane she couldn't imagine it wouldn't be the best thing for the pilots on their final approach to have a speedster turn to mush.

Focusing on the energy within her, her entire body started to shake as it sped through the air. Faster and faster as the plane got closer and closer. She closed her eyes as she approached it. The pilots and passangers merely saw a blur of red pass through the plane. Iris didn't even have time to register anything within the plane. From the stewardess she phased right through to the kid that screamed in panic as he saw the blur moving down the aisle between chairs. Phasing out the back of the plane she opened her eyes, turning her head as best she could she saw the Surfer watching her.

She wasn't going to let him take her for another ride. She was going to get down on her own. She remembered a story of an air hostess who fell out of the back of a plane and survived due to the angle she had hit the mountain. Spinning her arms to manuever herself she angled herself at a nearby mountain and started moving her legs as if running in thin air. It was a weird sensation, running with no resistance. She 'tripped' slightly as her foot caught onto something but through spinning her arms she corrected herself. It was probably just a pocket of hot air that had knocked her off course slightly.

She had to make this before the Surfer caught her. She had to take the fight out of the air and back to the ground where she had some control.

Los Angeles
3:01 AM

“You’re seeing this?”

“Of course I’m seeing it” Constantine said as he lit up a fresh cigarette. “Anything you can see, I can see.”

Charlie Rembrandt drove him and Constantine up the 101 through the heart of the city. Traffic was relatively light, but still busier than it should have been for three AM. Rembrandt was able to keep a steady seventy-five miles an hour in his cruiser. K2 had been left behind at Constantine’s apartment, salt laid on the doors and windows to kept his soul trapped inside the building.

What unnerved Rembrandt were the faces. Men, women, and children all lined the sides of the highway and stared at the passing cars. They were all dressed in 30’s and 40’s style clothing. The car was going too fast for Rembrandt to make out, but he could feel waves of melancholy and sadness rolling off of them.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Slow down a tick,” said Constantine.

Rembrandt moved into the right lane and slowed his speed down to fifty-five. He could make out faces of the people watching traffic. They were all Asian with tear-streaked faces. One of the men, dressed in, dressed in a suit and tie, had a red, white, and blue striped pin on his lapel with the words “USA” in bright, bold letters.

“We’re near Little Tokyo, yeah?” John asked, blowing smoke as he spoke. “It's the ghosts from the internment during the war. Thousands of them packed off to camps for their so-called protection. Money and property seized, many of their homes bulldozed to make way for this lovely freeway. That type of trauma gets remembered, even after everyone’s dead. The scars run deep.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Rembrandt. He sighed. “I already had to deal with seeing South Central burn again. Now any time I get on the 101, I gotta see this shit? How the fuck do you deal with it, Constantine?”

“Booze, cigarettes, and humor as deflection,” said Constantine. “You’ll get numb to it eventually. They’ll be bloody street signs before you know it. This place is unique, though. Los Angeles has a lot of damage for such a new city. Besides you’re dealing with the Sight better than most. Plenty of people....”

Constantine trailed off. He blew smoke out the window and watched the passing ghosts of Japanese prisoners with indifference.

“Plenty of people don’t take the change well,” he finally said.

---

Hollywood
3:45 AM

“Back the fuck up, motherfucker”

The bouncer eyeballed Rembrandt’s shield before looking at him and John. A crimson neon sign above the building’s front door announced the location as BLOODBATH. The bouncer wore red pants with a red button-up shirt. Charlie saw the ends of tattoos around the man’s wrists, implying full sleeve tats.

“LAPD,” Charlie said again, this time with more force than he had before. “I’m here to see Lance.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the bouncer stepped aside. He let Rembrandt pass by, but held out a meaty forearm when Constantine started to follow.

“Show me your badge or you can get fucked,” the bouncer spat.

“I’m more than just simple LAPD, lad,” Constantine said with a grin. He reached into his pocket and produced a business card. From his vantage point, Charlie saw that it read ‘Rusty Joe’s Plumbing' with a San Fernando address and phone number. “See?”

“Oh, shit,” the bouncer said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“I’ll overlook it this time,” said Constantine, winking.

“The fuck was that?” Rembrandt asked once they were through the front door.

“A simple spell. He sees the card and it says whatever works to allow me access. I’m apparently someone very powerful.”

The two men went through a dark corridor that led to an empty dance floor. A few workers were busy cleaning up for the night, paying no attention to either Rembrandt or Constantine.

“Help you with something?”

They turned and looked up. A skinny black man in black pants and black turtleneck sweater looked down at them from the top of a staircase above the dance floor. Charlie could see a strange aura around him, the color of copper. He squinted and furrowed his brow in recognition at the man’s face.

“Lonnie Sledge,” said Rembrandt. “Used to be chief of Compton PD.”

“That was another life ago,” said Sledge. “Now who the hell are you?”

“Charlie Rembrandt,” he said holding his badge up. “LAPD, Robbery-Homicide."

"Name rings a bell," said Sledge. "Used to work Hollywood. What does RHD want with me?"

"I’m looking for Lance Rawlings.”

“Who’s your friend?” Sledge said, nodding towards Constantine.

“DI Constantine,” John said with a smirk. “On loan from Scotland Yard.”

Sledge sucked his teeth before turning around and disappearing into the club’s second floor. Rembrandt turned to look at Constantine.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “Lonnie Sledge is bad news. Under his watch, Compton PD got shutdown by the FBI for corruption. They could never tie Sledge to anything, but there were rumors about him working with and for street gangs.”

“A bobby on the take? Say it ain’t so.”

“What was up that with color around his body?”

“He’s a familiar,” said Constantine. “You ever seen Dracula? The little bloke that acts like Drac’s slave? It’s kind of like that, but more intense. He’s linked to a magic user willingly. He gives the mage power by the link, and in return he gets… whatever the mage has promised him, usually some kind of reward unobtainable by conventional means.”

“Gentlemen.”

The man who emerged at the top of the stairs wasn’t tall or heavy or anything that could be described as physically threatening. He was average all the way around. But both Constantine and Rembrandt both could feel his power as he walked down the stairs towards them. His aura, like his expensive suit and shoes, was blood red and it seemed to throb like a pulse. The pulse seemed to come from his necklace. A plain golden medallion with a large crimson diamond in the center. Both men could hear the thing speaking to them. Whispers and muted screams of countless voices, all overlapping to make a low din throughout the room. Sledge followed in his wake, his copper aura oozing and mingling with the man’s crimson one.

“I’m Lucas Rawlings,” the man said with a polite smile. “Everyone calls me Lance. What can I help LAPD out with tonight?”

“Kirsnick Kemp,” Rembrandt said, pushing through despite the noise coming from the necklace. He noticed that Rawlings had focused in on Constantine, not bothering to even make eye contact as Charlie spoke. “He was murdered tonight. I was told that he worked for you.”

“That’s correct,” said Rawlings, finally pulling himself away from leering at Constantine. “I’m sorry to hear about his passing. He was a great artist. Troubled, but great.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts tonight, sir?” Rembrandt asked.

“Yes,” said Rawlings. “I was at a fundraiser for the African-American scholarship endowment at UCLA. I was there until the party broke up at two this morning. I’m sure if you speak with Mayor Garcia, Chief of Police Irving, or Lieutenant Governor Scott they would all remember seeing me there.”

“I was his driver,” said Sledge. “Per Sledge Security standards, I keep a GPS tracker log of every trip done at Mr. Rawlings’ behest. For billing purposes. I’d be happy to turn those over once you get a warrant.”

“Right,” said Rembrandt “Can you think of any enemies Kemp might of had?”

“Take your pick,” Rawlings said, his eyes drifting back to Constantine. “He feuded with half the industry over Instagram and Snapchat. I warned the boy that running his mouth would get him killed. And look where that got him. I’m sorry, detective, but who is your friend?”

“He’s a fellow detective,” said Charlie.

“Really?” Rawling asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because he looks to me like John Constantine, former frontman of Mucus Membrane.”

“Got it in one,” said Constantine. “I didn’t realize that a man of your… standing, would be aware of a bunch of grubby punks from Liverpool.”

“I have eclectic tastes,” Rawlings said, licking his lips. “Just because I produce hip-hop music doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy other genres. I am curious why a washed up punk rocker is here with a LAPD detective on a murder case.”

“I have eclectic tastes as well.”

“I bet,” Rawlings said with a twinkle in his eye. “Gentlemen, if you need anything else please contact my attorney. Mr. Sledge will escort you out. Have a good evening and if I can be of any help finding who killed K2, do not hesitate to ask.”

Sledge led them out in silence. He opened the door and watched them leave without a word. Constantine waited until they were back in Charlie’s car before he began to curse.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swore repeatedly. “I think I just fucked myself over.”

“What do you mean?” Rembrandt asked as he pulled out on to the street.

He saw the ghost of the insane German axe killed again, Krazy Karl, running down the road and screaming at the top of his lungs about god’s love in German. Rembrandt drove through him, his spectral form losing its shape as the car passed through it. He emerged on the other side whole, still running on its loop and no wiser that anything had happened.

“Rawlings is more than a bloody tinpot mage,” Constantine said as he reached for his cigarettes. “I should have fucking known based on everything else, but he’s what they call a blood mage. You felt the medallion, yeah?”

“Of course,” said Rembrandt. “I could fucking hear it”

“The medallion is a channeling item. Rawlings captures people’s souls and consumes them. The kid K2 is full of shite about a lot of things, but he was right about what his boss does to enemies. Those screams we heard? Those were his victims. Everyone he steals, he’s able to draw on their power… did you see the way he was looking at me?”

“I couldn’t tell if he wanted to fight you or fuck you.”

“He wants my soul,” said Constantine. “It works both ways, Charlie. That rentboy of his, Sledge, was left in the fucking dark, but Rawlings could see me, I mean really see me, the way we could see him. He knows what kind of power I have and he wants it.”

“Fuck,” said Rembrandt. “I didn’t mean to do that, John. You know that.”

“It’s okay,” Constantine said, looking into the car’s rearview mirror. “Maybe we can use it to our advantage. Have you noticed that car, Charlie?”

“The one following us?" Rembrandt looked in the mirror as well. "I saw it. It picked us up once we were about two blocks away from Rawlings’ club.”

“Good," said John, a smile forming on his face as the gears in his head began to turn. "Let them follow… I think I may have a plan.”

_{Star City, Sherwood Florist, Near dawn}

---

---

The night was all but over when Dinah finally made it back to the florist. It had seemed like a good idea at first, operating out of the faux medieval-style tower that had once functioned as both her mother’s shop and the family home. Mom had left it to her and Sarah in the will, and with lil’ sis at college, and the shop long closed, there was never anyone about to clock the unsociable hours Dinah had been keeping. It had been convenient, having a place to bed down that she didn’t have to pay for. Rent prices in Star - even after the earthquake hit - were prohibitive, and her being a jobless millennial didn’t exactly endear her towards mortgage officers or prospective roommates.

All that said the real reason Sherwood had initially been such an attractive base of operations was the fact that it was placed firmly in the Orchid Bay. Distance from the Glades had seemed like a good thing. It would give her some space think, to breath. Somewhere all the problems facing Star’s most downtrodden neighbourhood would seem smaller, less immediate. God, what an idiot she’d been. She realised now that it didn’t matter where she went, didn’t matter how many miles she covered, a part of her would always be down in the Glades, sunken in the filth and the grime and the hopelessness. Its corruption had stained her bone deep.

All she’d done was ensure that her nightly commute was a lengthy bitch.

She let herself into the tower, thinking that all she wanted to do now was grab a cold beer, take a hot shower, then hit the sack. Her legs were sore from tramping up and down deserted alleyways all night, while her throat ached like someone had drawn a cheese grater along the inside of her neck. Slowly. And repeatedly. An unwelcome side effect of using her Cry earlier that night, and just one more reason for her to keep its use to a minimum.

The tower’s ground floor had once served as Sherwood Florist’s shop floor, and signs of that ‘lofty’ purpose still lingered, even now, almost five years since a flower had been anywhere near the place. Shelving units were plants of all kinds had once sat proudly still dotted the floors, now covered by off-yellow dust sheets, ironically blanket in thick layers of dust. A circular cashier’s desk was placed in the middle of the floor, a bank of four ancient till machines placed at the four compass points hovered like old forgotten relics, seemingly waiting for a gentle touch to coax them back to life. The shop, once one of the busiest florists in the city, had become a mausoleum, her still refuge from the city.

Or at least it was supposed to be, and yet she could clearly remember shutting the basement door before heading out earlier that night, and yet now it was hanging wide open.

Dinah’s mind began to race while her heart picked up the tempo. Nobody was supposed to be here but her. Sarah wouldn’t have come back – she hadn’t liked being in this room when it had been fresh and vibrant, and those days were in the distant past now – and there wasn’t a reason for anyone else to have come … unless, of course, they were here for her.

She hadn’t made the dent in Star City’s crime problem that should would have liked, had hardly done anything more than rough up a few Vertigo dealers and break a couple legbreaker’s legs. Could that have been enough to blip up on someone’s radar? She didn’t think so. Then again, what did she know about organised crime? Maybe this was just the way the criminals did business. Meet any infraction or insult with total retribution.

Dry mouthed and sweaty palmed, she made her way down the basement stairs, flicking the light switch as she passed. If there was somebody down here, they seemed to like the dark. Dinah didn’t mind it herself, it wasn’t like she was scared or anything, but it would be stupid to go stumbling into shadows that might be hiding trained killers. Or that’s what she told herself, anyway.

What was once a storeroom had become the Dinah’s vigilante sanctum. Ok, it wasn’t all that impressive to look at – yet – but she was starting to get quite attached to her chamber of secrets. The walls were covered with maps of Star City, pictures of known drug dealers and gangsters, a few posters from her mom’s punk days, even a flier from one of Ted’s later fights against some up and coming amateur called; Battlin’ Jack Murdock.

A huge wooden desk dominated one quarter of the circular space. It was one of the few pieces of furniture already down here when she first started using the space a few weeks back, but she couldn’t remember her parents ever owning it. Her busted laptop sat there, unlikely to get used anytime soon. Dinah wasn’t all that computer-literate, as Sarah would put it. She preferred dinosaur copies, hard files, that kind of thing. In keeping with that there were boxes of her dad’s case files dumped around the room, forming haphazard towers and patchy walls. Quentin would squirm at his daughter’s devil-may-care attitude towards filing, though she had never seen the problem with organised chaos. She always managed to find what she was looking for eventually. Standing in that basement now, with any number of killers potentially skulking in amongst the hiding places those files afforded, she suddenly realised the wisdom of dad’s system.

She took a couple of steps into the room, eyes open and suspicious, ears straining for any tell-tale sound. The rasp of a blade being drawn, the cock of a gun, hell, even the clenching of a fist would be nice. Somehow the silence seemed so much worse, so much more dangerous, than any of the above. It was a blank white page on which she could illustrate her own horror, and right now they were a lot less welcome than reality.

“I should warn you,” she said aloud, her voice remarkably steady. The way she was feeling, jittery and fearful, excited and anxious all at once, she never would have put money on sounding ‘steady’. “I’ve had a long night and wasn’t in the best of moods before all this. If you come out now, I’ll con –”

She never got the chance to finish the sentence before the guy made his move. Call it paranoia. Call it dumb luck. Call it a sixth sense. Call it whatever you damn well please, but he struck, and somehow Dinah was ready for it. Before she realised what she was doing she dropped into a crouch, balanced delicately upon the balls of her feet, feeling rather than seeing the fist that tore through the air where her head had moments ago vacated.

Instinct honed through endless hours of training and sparring kicked in, her body acting without conscious direction, doing what it needed to do to keep her in the fight, to make sure she was still standing at the end of it. She stepped back tight into her assailant, real tight, so close she fancied she could feel his breath on the back of her neck, one arm grabbing onto the wrist of his extended arm, while the other simultaneously snaked up and over the back of his head. He realised too late what was happening, and before he could stop her she was throwing him over her shoulder. He flew for a heartbeat, before crashing into a stack of her dad’s case files. Papers exploded outwards like doves in a John Woo movie.

She followed in quick, eager to end this before it had a real chance to begin. In the moment she used to close the distance she studied her foe. He was big, she realised that even as he lay on his back. Maybe 6’ 4”, with viciously wide shoulders and hands the size of tennis rackets. He was dressed all in black, a balaclava covering his face, an almost stereotypical bad-guy goon. Inspection over, she continued with the fight.

A quick step forward eased into a spin, that moved effortlessly into a pirouette, that ended in a flawless hook kick. She’d been complimented on her long legs plenty in the past, but it was only moments like this that she was truly thankful for them. The hook kick was a tricky manoeuvre to pull off, powerful as a locomotive if it landed, but difficult to connect with, and a damn mess if it missed. She was confident though, with the bad guy on his ass, that she wasn’t going to miss.

Then again, she’d been wrong before.

The assailant was fast. Faster than she wanted him to be. In one flowing move he sprang to his knees, got a guard up – a philly shell, she noted – and rolled the kick of his shoulder. Suddenly she was the one off-balance, and he punished her for it, a straight jab, right in the gut. He shouldn’t have gotten much power from it, not from a crouch, but to Dinah it still felt like getting kicked by a mule. She had to back off, get some space, otherwise this was going to end badly.

She conceded a few feet, but he was quick to follow her. Damn, but she hated being the one on the defensive. She threw a couple jabs, but he threw up a high guard and knocked them aside with contemptuous ease. Those forearms of his were knotted with muscle as thick and unyielding as old, weathered oak, and it was easy to imagine her hits were costing her more than they cost him.

He knew what he was doing, that much was clear. A real pro. Whoever had paid for him was really getting their money’s worth. Suddenly she realised she couldn’t wait for him. If she kept backing up he would just walk her down, and if it went to a straight slug fest she didn’t like her chances. She didn’t wait for him though, surging forwards herself. Give no quarter, take no prisoners. So what if he could fight, so could she.

And she had to bet that she could do it better.

A vicious exchange of blows followed, punches and strikes raining almost too fast for the eye to follow. Dinah dodged what she could, blocked what she couldn’t, using her palms and forearms to guide aside the hits she didn’t want landing. She managed a few counter-punches of her own, but if her opponent felt them he didn’t let on.

Somewhere along the way she felt a smile tugging at her lips. Yeah, that’s right, an honest to goodness smile. God, but this was living. When was the last time she’d had a chance to let loose like this?

Of course, like all good things it couldn’t last, and this time was no exception. For Dinah it came to a screeching halt when she recognised that right jab the masked man kept throwing, aiming to keep her on the defensive, to let his size and reach do all the hard work for him. She’d seen that jab a million times growing up. Heard a man she thought of as a father extol its virtues time and time again. All of a sudden, she decided that this had gone on for long enough. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now.

She stepped in quick, feinting in a low body blow. The assailant hunched in tight, not so much dropping his guard – he was way too experienced to fall for a weakass trick like that – but lowering it just enough to leave the opening she wanted. Viper quick her hand nipped forwards, clutching a handful of her opponent’s black mask and yanking it clear.

She leapt back, leaving the old boxer blinking in the bright, harsh light. Her arms folded tight across her chest, but her wide stance and splayed legs signified that she wasn’t done fighting yet. Not by a long shot.

“What the hell are you playing at Ted!?”

^{4:19 p.m. PST | July 5th | Los Angeles, California}

The drive back into the city had been largely uneventful. L.A. traffic on the infamously congested 405 being what it was, Daniel found himself with plenty of free time to reflect. As KROQ-FM offered the light crooning of Adam Levine, the teen's mind turned over the events of the previous hour. It was unbelievable, he thought, how just two days ago he was nothing but a barely in-shape slacker, putting off college preparations and grinding the days away playing mindless video games. Now, here he was basking in the euphoria of twisting steel and crushing concrete in his bare hands.

Granted, Dan knew they weren't really his hands, nor was the power now within him truly his, but he saw no reason to let that stop him from making the most of things, and having a little fun while he was at it. Having that raw strength at his beck and command, after all, had to afford him some possible way to profit. Money wasn't a concern for him given his father's successful career, but the fame he could find after just a few displays of strength... the notion was certainly enticing to the young man. Daniel figured a little glory was the least he was owed after being forced to indefinitely share his body with a demonic entity.

He had been racking his brain for the latter half of the drive on how to achieve that without putting himself in danger. Astaroth had stressed repeatedly that there were otherworldy forces who would eagerly and gleefully slaughter Daniel to get to the treasure sealed within. Presenting himself to the public to garner fame was too high of a risk. Hiding his identity would be fine, but that apparently wouldn't prevent his demonic aura from being traced according to Astaroth. Which left him with needing to limit his time in the hybrid form to stay safe. Unfortunately, that didn't leave him with many options. Seeking the limelight didn't work quite as well when you had to run off every so often to change back to scrawny human form.

And then there was the other issue. Daniel somehow doubted that the demon preaching about safeguarding his precious trident would approve of public grandstanding, especially not for the express purpose of thrillseeking. Dan's eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. A habit he had already developed. Intellectually, he knew there was nothing but his own face there to see, but it just felt less awkward addressing Astaroth that way. It was as close to eye contact with the demon as he'd get, Daniel figured.

Not that there was much to address at the moment. Despite his best efforts, Dan had only managed to get a single, brief response from Astaroth since leaving Garden Grove. Shortly after pulling out of the abandoned, half-constructed building lot, Daniel had asked the demon why he had remained silent and offered no instructions during the quick abilities test when earlier there had been a promise made to assist him in training.

Astaroth's only comment on the matter had been: "I must observe you, first. You will return to that spot again over the next several days and continue testing your limits so I may determine the best course of action. Only then will I actively prepare you to defend yourself against the inevitable attacks that will come your way." After which, he had remained silent for the rest of the drive.

Dan shook his head. There was definitely no way he could go about using these new powers for fame and glory without angering the demon, he thought. And while Astaroth had been fairly softspoken and easy to deal with thus far, Daniel had no doubt in his mind that pissing off an ancient being from Hell that permanently resided in his body was a bad move. Especially as Dan needed his cooperation and help if he wanted to survive this new reality.

Sighing in defeat, he reached over to adjust the volume on the stereo. If Daniel couldn't profit from this experience, he could at least distract himself for the moment from the disappointment by enjoying his favorite radio station.

"That was Maroon 5's latest hit single, 'Girls Like You,' featuring Cardi B." The radio host said, preparing to transition into an incoming commercial block. "Oh, man, let me tell ya. After yesterday's display in Gateway City with that crashing 747, I think Adam Levine should dedicate that song to this Wonder Woman. Strong, beautiful, and easily saving the lives of a few hundred people in as much time as it takes me to get dressed in the morning. Forget about Superman, ladies and gentleman," the host continued. "Of all these powered individuals and hero types rising up the past few months, I think I'm going to be following our very own Californian hero the closest. I'd love to know all of your thoughts, though, so tweet at me your own opinions on Wonder Woman. Next up, we have—"

Daniel tuned out the voice, silently chastising himself. Here he was trying to figure out the best way to utilize his new abilities for profit, and he hadn't even considered the most obvious choice. The rise of vigilantes and masked heroes the past six months had taken the world by storm. 'Cape Culture' as it had been deemed was all over social media; fans discussing and debating every new persona that popped up at exponentially increasing rates, new accounts formed purely to document and follow the exploits of each popular 'hero.' Dan himself had frequented several sub-Reddits dedicated to Superman and The Flash, and he often found himself scrolling through his Twitter feed to check for any more rumored sightings of that Spider-Woman in New York. So why the notion of trying his hand at vigilantism didn't immediately spring to mind the moment all of this happened he was unsure. But, what Daniel did know was that if he wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, there was one surefire way to go about it.

Now, he just had to figure out how to get the devil in his head to go along with it.

---

---

Unknown SHIELD Facility

"Shoot him, NOW!" Agent Sitwell roared, still reeling. His head was pounding after he'd been ragdolled by the twig-armed teenager, but he couldn't let that slow him down; Jasper knew that, despite his age, this kid could and would kill him in a split second if given the chance.

All bets were off now as the trio of armed SHIELD agents standing in front of Sitwell lifted their sidearms and opened fire. Deafening cracks reverberated in the tiny, metal room, muzzles engulfed in flame as lead poured out from their guns onto the captured metahuman. And they kept firing. And firing. The twists, snaps and pops of nine millimeter hollow point rounds exploding against metal caused Sitwell's ears to ring.

The ringing didn't stop, even when the gunfire did. A series of dry clicks proceeded three magazines hitting the floor, the agents quick to go for the replacement each carried on his belt.

Sitwell pushed himself up off the ground by his forearms, rising on shaky legs. "Did...ya get him?" There was a sour taste in Jasper's mouth. He kept his gaze away from the kid, knowing that the image of his body filled would holes wouldn't leave his brain for months. No matter the threat he posed, it didn't change the fact that it felt- and looked- utterly wrong.

An ear-piercing shriek filled the cabin, like a Glock shoved into an industrial blender. That sickeningly inhuman stuff lathering Jaime Reyes's flesh twisted and writhed like an anguished animal. From the living metal came the chunks of shattered bullets, squeezed out from it's pulsating mass. They clinked against the floor one by one, dozens of ineffective rounds rolling along beside the fallen monstrosity.

Jaime's palm hit the ground.

'Jaime Reyes.' That voice, deep and warm, played in his ear. It possessed a resolve that could make mountains flinch. 'You are in mortal danger.' It repeated, serene and unaffected by the pounding it had just taken. 'Let me help you.'

The child was shuddering and shaking, his every muscle tensed near to the point of snapping. Jaime could feel his throat constricting, his mind warped by fear and shock. He couldn't believe what was happening to him. It was some kind of fever dream, or...or a nightmare. None of this could be real.

But it was real. He'd felt each and every one of those bullets smack against him. It didn't hurt through the alien material covering his fragile form, but Jaime could not deny that he had felt each shot. Jaime let his mouth drop open, his voice broken by fear, barely above a ragged murmur, but it came all the same.

_{"Help me."}

And Jaime blacked out again.

---

Gunfire, screams, and the sound of ripping metal echoed inside the kill box as the Scarab attacked. Eldritch shrieks of the damned poured forth from the living metal monster inhabiting Reyes's body.

Sitwell threw his broken shoulder against the interrogation room's closed door, blood splattered on his face. It might've been his, or it might've been Jameson's; he didn't know. He half ran, half hobbled away, his hand running up to grasp his communicator as his voice echoed over the emergency channel.

"We have a rogue metahuman on deck four, near the interrogation room! I repeat: Rogue metahuman, deck four, by the interrogation room. I need a heavy containment squad down here yesterday, damn it!" Jasper had dealt with superpowered freaks before, but this was the first case where it had gone so wrong. He knew the docs were full of shit when they said the Object was gone; those scanners had to have been faulty.

He held his pistol tight in his grip. It was a revolver, chambered in .45 Colt. He'd tossed away the more standard Glock after it failed one too many times to put down the type of shmocks he had a tendency to run up against. More than a few metahumans and mutants had gone down under Sitwell's sights.

This was the first time he'd seen it do absolutely, less than nothing against a target.

---

Jaime let out a low, sickly groaned as he wobbled, threatening to fall over. His eyes fluttered open, dizziness still clinging to his mind like a wet blanket. He knew this feeling well- it was the same one that had overcome him right before he woke up to this nightmare. "Ugh...Ese, you gotta warn me before you do-"

His whining was cut short when he caught sight of three dead men laying on the floor around him.

Then he threw up.

A clank resounded as he fell onto metallic palms and knees, bile flooding forth from his opened maw onto the floor. It smelled like feces and urine, coalescing with burned gunpowder and gore. It was the most disgusting concoction of odors that Reyes ever had the displeasure of experiencing. Not to make mention of the mauled and mutilated human cadavers that assaulted his eyes alongside it.

'You appear to be malfunctioning.' The Scarab commented, his voice tinged with concern.

That concern went unanswered. "Dios mio! What the hell did you do?! Did you make me kill these guys?" Jaime still wasn't over the fact that he was talking to a seething blob of alien armor, but neither that thing nor the agents that attacked him were giving Reyes any time to process what was going on. They were all expecting him to just roll with the punches and go along with it, but he was having a hell of a time just keeping himself from passing out.

'They were a threat to us. Lethal force was necessary in order to neutralize that threat.' The explanation flowed smoothly from the nonexistent tongue of the voice in Jaime's head, as if it made the most perfect sense in the world. Reyes almost puked again.

"Oh, fuck you, those bullets were bouncing right off of us! You didn't have to do any of this!" He protested. Something was beginning to replace the fear and shock now that the guns had stopped firing and he was given even a second to think. It was beginning to be overshadowed by anger. "What, were the people in the museum a threat too?! Explain that one, amigo, 'cause that's how we ended up in this mess!"

'I don't understand the question. What people are you referring to?'

"The ones you slaughtered right after you fucking crawled down my throat. Creepy ass...goop...Y'know what? No. No, get off me. Get the hell off me! I am done now! Take me fucking home!"

There was a pause, and for a moment Reyes feared he'd pissed off the murderous flesh machine. But that baritone voice appeared once more, speaking right inside his head for only Jaime to hear.

'I apologize if our bonding was unpleasant. However, you are incorrect; we have both been offline for several hours immediately following the bond. This is normal, as your body needs time to adjust to my interfacing with it. It is impossible for us to have attacked anyone- on top of that, I would never commit such an act. It would go against my primary directive.'

More silence followed, though this was from the boy. He knew they'd slaughtered those people- he could remember bits and pieces of the incident, and the SHIELD guy had talked about it like they'd seen it all on camera or something. Yet, as Reyes listened, he felt a deeply disturbing trust in the voice. Like it couldn't possibly lie to him.

Khaji Da continued. 'Escaping this place should be our primary concern. Then we will decide whether it is safe to return you to your nest. Your concern for the lives of our attackers is noted. Though I do not understand it, I have amended my combat protocols to reflect your concerns. Be aware, however, that this will affect combat effectiveness and may endanger our lives if the enemy employs deadlier armament.'

Jaime finally let out a long, disgust-laced sigh. He was frustrated beyond belief. "This is just...this is crazy. I'm going crazy." Shaking his head, the teenager was forced to go along with more of the insanity. His only other option was to pray to God SHIELD would help him get this thing off of him. Reyes knew that he was better off not trusting the shadowy government agency that hadn't existed until six months ago. INFO Bugle had taught him that much. "Fine. You're the expert here, ese. How do we get outta this place? Whatever...this place is." A black site? Was he in some kind of testing facility?

'Agent Sitwell hasn't gotten far with his injuries. He should know where the nearest exit point is. My bio-scanners have pinpointed his location- it should be appearing on your map momentarily.'

"Map? I don't have a-" A transparent blue image, like a hologram right out of Star Wars, popped up in the corner of Jaime's vision. "Oh. Map. Got it." A ping appeared on the three-dimensional plain, pointing out the exact location Agent Sitwell had retreated to. It looked like he was in another room just around the corner. "Your...uh...'bio-scanners' pickin' up anything else, amigo?"

'Expanding my net.' Khaji Da responded, processing the request. Several more blips appeared on the same level, though they were significantly far off from their current position. 'Sweep of the area complete. You have eight more organics on the approach. Time of arrival is roughly eight minutes based on your natural foot speed.'

---

The broom closet's lock clicked shut. It was cramped inside- filled with every manner of highly toxic cleaning chemical known to man, as well as more brooms and mops than he could shake a stick at. Sitwell did his best to steady his breathing, quieting his pounding heartbeat.

Things had not gone according to plan, that much was sure. The kid wasn't supposed to be dangerous anymore- the docs had assured him of that.

'If I get outta here in one piece, I swear to God I'll ring all'a their necks. Poindexter bastards.'

Jasper kept an eye on the door and tightened his digits around his weapon, the revolver's grip slick with sweat. He cocked his head to the side. He thought he'd heard something. It was faint, and distant. 'Footsteps, maybe...?

A sharp creak came from the other side of the door moments before he watched a sharp dent form in the metal. Then a crash from the other side, and the dent snapped open as a closed fist appeared through it. The sound of grinding, tearing steel was hell on Sitwell's ears, even as the closet's threshold was torn from it's hinges and tossed away like yesterday's trash.

Standing on the other side was the short, imposing figure of an alien in blue and black armor. Eyes of unfeeling yellow seemed to stare directly into Jasper's soul. He brought his revolver down, popping off a single shot at point blank.

It bounced off of Jaime's head, doing no more than make the boy flinch. Well. Flinch, and then tear the gun from Jasper's hands and toss it over his shoulder. "Why does everyone keep shooting me?!" He moaned incredulously.

The SHIELD agent gave an undignified scream when Reyes grabbed him, dragging him out of the janitor's closet. "Lemme go!" He shouted, just as he was dropped to the floor directly onto his butt.

"Alright...So I just ask him where the door is?"

Sitwell blinked, glancing around. "Ex...excuse me?"

'Unless we can find schematics for this structure, yes. Interrogate him.'

Jaime looked at the fallen man hesitantly. "T-tell me how to get outta here." He stammered.

The look on Jasper's face was some mix of terror, disbelief and confusion. "What? Why...Why would I tell you that?"

"Cause I gotta get outta here, man! You locos are gonna kill me if I don't."

"We won't. Just surrender yourself to me and I can- I can make sure that you get the help you need."

"Oh, yeah, because you seemed SO concerned for my safety when you SHOT ME IN THE FUCKING FACE."

'Your interrogation skills leave much to be desired, Jaime Reyes.' The voice in his head sighed. 'Allow me.' Jaime watched with stomach churning disgust as his arm transformed right before his eyes. His hand receded into his body as his second skin twisted and swam, a construct like an infected, living cannon replacing it. Spindly, insectoid spines kept the weapons platform stabilized as the rest of the arm appeared to pulsate and breathe like a living organism.

Jaime was jerked forward by the Scarab, the cannon pointed into Sitwell's face. It gave an animalistic whine as the interior began to glow a deep blue, radiating heat.

Sitwell gulped, his eyes drawn to the gun in his face. "Right. Exit. Can do." He squeaked.

KNOWHERE //

"Just move yourself
And glide like a seven-forty-seven
And lose you're self in the sky
Among the clouds in the heavens 'cause"

Only one day passed by since the confrontation with Zynsalak took place in Yanus. In the hopes of getting answers, they were left with more questions than ever before. Hopefully, more questions will be answered whenever Rocket finishes repairing the black box. Peter Quill decided to look into the data from the flash drive while Rocket was still working on the box. On the other hand, Kraglin was keeping the Milano afloat while it was going to Knowhere. He sat there alone while Groot was most likely staring at a window. After spending ten minutes on the box, Rocket went to the dining area to grab something to drink. That was when he saw Quill working on finding clues.

He was finishing up looking into the first part of the logs when Rocket entered and headed for the fridge. "You want something to drink?" the raccoon asked while holding a bottle of alcohol for himself.

"Sure."

Quill closed the logs and got up to grab himself a bottle. He earned a break. Rocket drank the bottle empty and threw it in the trash can, where it landed on. He was impressed with himself for making the long shot. Quill closed the fridge and asked Rocket about the black box.

"Oh, that thing." Rocket sighed. "Zynsalak was right about it having some damage, but he wasn't specific about it. Since we are going to Knowhere, I need to gather a few parts in the black box."

"Alright, that sounds like a good idea." Quill responded and started to drink the alcohol.

"By the way, how is the hunt going?" Rocket asked with a smirk while pointing at the device on the table.

Quill laughed sarcastically and said, "It has been a pain in the ass. I found nothing of worth. I might give up by the end of the week. I won't be surprised if the information that we want was wiped clear."

He finished the bottle and threw it away. "I should check on Kraglin and see if we are almost there." Rocket waved goodbye and watched as Quill left for the bridge. Quill made his way to the bridge and heard nothing. It was unusual at first, but he saw Kraglin placing another bottle on the ground. He was done with his sixth bottle of rum. It wasn't an impressive feat. Quill clearly remembered the time that he drank fifteen glasses before passing out.

Quill slowly approached Kraglin while picking up the bottles off of the floor. "You know it would be good for everyone else if you didn't drink all of the boozes."

However, there was no response. And soon enough, he saw Kraglin pass out on the job. He was kind enough to make sure that the Milano was on autopilot. Quill rolled his eyes at Kraglin before leaving for the kitchen to throw the bottles away. Once he was done with that, Quill returned to the bridge and sat down on the seat near Kraglin. The best feature of the Milano was it's ability for someone else to pilot it. If one of Quill's "visitors" wanted to fly his ship, he would give control over to them. That easy.

Once Quill had control of the Milano, he turned the autopilot off and began flying the ship to Knowhere. Both Yondu and Kraglin tried to teach Quill how to keep a spacecraft afloat, but he wasn't able to get the hang of it. Not to say that he was terrible, but he could use some work. Regardless, he flew to Knowhere and landed in one of the hangers after talking to flight control.

After landing his beloved ship, Quill left Kraglin to sleep alone in the bridge. He soon saw both Rocket and Groot near the ramp getting ready to shop for parts. Groot waved at Quill and said, "I am Groot."

"Hi, Groot." Quill addressed Groot while waving and then walking towards Rocket.

"You know what to get, right?" Quill asked the raccoon.

Rocket rolled his eyes and responded sassy, "Of course, I do. I have repaired dozens of things before this black box. You just worry about that rock."

"It isn't a rock, dude. It's-."

"I don't care!" Rocket interrupted Quill before he could start. "Just find out if it's worth something and sell the thing."

Rocket and Groot soon left the Milano to look for parts while Quill went off towards a place that he knew. There he would find one of Yondu's assets that he still used after leaving the Ravagers. The asset in question knew well enough about mysterious artifacts and rare items. That issue was whether he was in Knowhere or not.

Danny was special. There was nothing else like him in this crazy world. He wasn’t a mutant or a metahuman or whatever else the media was calling the people with powers now. He wasn’t even human. Danny was a brick with a mind of his own; well he started out as a brick, and now he was a whole school with several secret floors underground to house the growth of mutants and metahumans in need. No one, not even him, knew how he came about. The Professor had found him one day years ago when he was looking for a location to build his school. He hadn’t expected to find Danny or have his school built in less than a day. Thanks to Danny’s ability to construct buildings around the singular brick he called his main brick, though, the Xavier Institute for Gifted Children was built ahead of schedule and was soon occupied. It was a strange sensation to have people living inside of you, to say the least, but Danny had gotten used to it. So used to it that he was able to notice an extra pair of footsteps on the drive by the gate.

---------



Deep below the school proper through a secret entrance in Professor Xavier’s office rested Cerebro: a device designed by Hank McCoy and Xavier to significantly increase his telepathic powers and help him to find mutants and metahumans alike. Having this technology would aid them in their goal, but it came with the risk of falling into the hands of people aiming to do harm. In the underground chamber housing the device, Xavier sat with the headset uplink strapped around his head, Max and Hank standing just behind him. Before the trio a holographic globe hung in midair, dotted all over with yellow, blue, and white dots.

”Filter out the non-mutated and powered humans.”

At Max’s prompting and with a mental push from Xavier, the blue dots across the globe vanished.

”Amazing. How are you able to track the metahumans without mutations?”

”Charles actually came across it. Cerebro allows him to expand his powers out and find those with mutations such as ourselves and filter out baseline humans. In filtering out baseline humans, Cerebro wipes those without any sort of alteration to their DNA off the map, but metahumans aren’t quite baseline and are somehow exempted from the filtering system.”

”Impressive. What are the red dots mixed in amongst all this?”

”Hank and I believe they are non-humans. Look here,” at his words the globe zoomed into the United States, where several of the red dots were located, ”After filtering out baseline humans not exhibiting mutations, the metahumans still show on the map because of not counting as base humans any longer. Cerebro picks them up as having something off with their genealogy but without a mutation. These red dots appears after all of this, but Cerebro doesn’t even pick them up as human. Look where they’re located.”

”Ah… Metropolis and Gateway City. The Superman and Wonder Woman on the news?”

”Precisely.”

”Interesting…” Max trailed off as he looked at Charles for the first time in the midst of his excited questioning, ”Charles. You look terrible. I’ve told you, it’s too much of a strain on your abilities and health. You have to train Jean to use Cerebro herself.”

”I’m inclined to agree with him, Charles. You’re capable and brilliant, but with your health in such a poor state and with you focusing the majority of your powers on dampening Jean’s telepathic abilities using Cerebro can be too much of a strain on you. I was hoping the headband I constructed for Jean would let you focus less on the dampening process with it doing part of the job for you.”

In that moment Charles looked defeated as he slumped slightly in his chair and set the Cerebro headset back on the console. He rubbed his eyes for a long moment before he spoke.

”You’re both right of course. I will increase the frequency of Jean’s private lessons to control her powers and begin training her to use Cerebro.”

Max reached a hand down and gripped Charles’ shoulder for a moment. It as getting more and more difficult to see his friend look so diminutive.

”Uh… fellas. There’s someone at the gate. Someone I don’t recognize.”

At Danny’s words Charles placed the headset back on his head and zoomed further in on the United States to pinpoint the school. Even without filtering out base humans, no one appeared at the gate.

”Raven…”

Max had pulled up the security camera footage on a nearby console. There stood a redheaded woman with scaly blue skin adorned in a skin-tight sleeveless white top, ankle-length skirt, and long gloves that ran up past her elbows; her forehead and waist were adorned in small skulls. She stared straight at the camera, her eyes glowing a faint yellow and her mouth creased in a wicked grin. In the next moment before Charles or Hank could reply, the woman’s skin shifted, the scales turning and flipping until a blonde woman in an NYPD uniform stood in her place. She winked at the camera before turning and walking off. The three men stood in stunned silence for a long moment; none of them seemed able to speak.

---------



The explosion rocked the street as debris fell to the street below. People screamed and ran for their lives with their arms covering their heads. The pieces of the building and shattered glass lurched and slowed, some faintly outlined in yellow and other pieces in pink. A silver blur flew under the falling debris and snatched up several individuals. As the last of the pedestrians disappeared into the silver blur, the debris fell to the ground. Pietro skidded to a halt at the end of the street with the little girl in his arms. He set her down and turned back toward the now-in-flames building.

”The people outside are safe. We need to get into that building. Beast Boy, Terra, Jubilee make your way up through the hole the explosion tore into the side. Cyclops and Je - Miss Marvel, you’re with me through the ground floor. Move!”

As the words left his mouth, Quicksilver took off toward the burning building, becoming a blur of silver once more. The rest of the team sprang into action. Beast Boy ran up onto a car and then launched himself into the air, shifting in midair into an eagle and flapping up toward the opening surrounded in fire. Terra reached out with her powers and ripped a hefty chunk of earth free from the pavement and used it to shuttle herself and Jubilee up after Beast Boy. Still concentrating on the circle of earth under her, Terra reached out and ripped a small patch of earth from it and moved it toward the fire in the opening and began crumbling it dirt. She moved the dirt around the opening and used it to douse the fire enough for the three of them to clamber through. Inside was chaos; they could eard distant and muffled cries for help, and most of the office floor was engulfed in flame. After she and Jubilee wre safely on the floor, Terra crumbled the remaining patch of earth and began dousing flames with a swarming cloud of dirt.

On the ground, Quicksilver zipped toward the front door. Seeing Quicksilver take off from the other end of the street, Cyclops took aim at the doorway and let loose a barrage of controlled eye blasts to clear the doorway. Flames shot out of the open building front and threatened to spread. Miss Marvel reached out with her mind and concentrated on the tongues of flames shooting out of the doorway and pushed. As Quicksilver neared the doorway, he watched this all in slow motion as the flames stopped from a moment and seemed to waver before moving to either side of the door to allow him passage inside. Still holding the flames at bay, Miss Marvel looked over to Scott.

”Go help Pietro get any survivors out. I’ll hold the flames back best I can.”

With a nod, Cyclops ran for the doorway and inside to help with the rescue.

---------

”Why would she reappear now?”

Charles, Hank, and Max sat in the observation deck situated between the conjoined training rooms as the simulation continued down below. It was a day of more tests for the field team to see how they performed in a simulated stressful environment. Charles sat in his floating chair near the window overlooking the team, and Max paced a bit as Hank watched the monitors as always.

”She’s taunting us. She knows the next move for us will be the field team,” as he spoke he gestured toward the window and the team, ”This is her way of telling us she knows and showing us she’s still out there planning God-knows-what. She’ll be less brazen then I was before.”

Hank listened to the two but was ultimately more focused on the monitors and gauging the team’s performance and how their suits were holding up after tweaking them since the last set of tests.

”We will need to be even more cautious then it would seem.”

Max was quiet for a moment, opening his mouth to reply and then shutting it before giving his friend a firm nod.

---------

The team sat before their three mentors in Professor Xavier’s office after running their rescue simulation. Their suits had held up, and the results were promising. They had managed to stay focused and collected during the simulation, though it was still a simulation and not the real thing. The three aged mutants were explaining to them the event concerning the rogue mutant, Mystique, and due to that coupled with much thinking on their end they had decided Max would be joining them in the field indefinitely. Pietro was the most affected by this news. His father was stepping on his toes, afraid to let the reigns loose, to let him prove himself a capable leader; though, he kept his thoughts to himself for the time being. The television set had long since become white noise in the background of the meeting until an alert came across the screen and pulled the attention of the whole gathering.

“... massive hurricane rapidly onto mainland of Florida. This phenomenon is unprecedented. Not only is it not the season we usually see such massive storms, but the storm itself only just appeared on radar minutes ago out of the blue just off the coast. Authorities say they’re doing what they can to evacuate as many people as possible, but with how close this surprise storm already is they have advised everyone to stay indoors and do all they can to whether this storm. More safety information can be found at the website appearing on the lower half of the screen - “

”This isn’t a natural storm. We have to go. We need to help those people.”

Max and Charles shared a look and then both turned to Hank.

”I would like to tweak their suits a bit more, but from the results of the tests we’ve already run they are performance-ready, as are they,” he gestured toward the field team with a blue-furred paw.

With a reluctance, Charles nodded to Max and his students.

”Very well. Suit up. Danny, please prepare to transport them where they need to be. Be careful, please,” though he spoke to the group as a whole, his eyes seemed to linger on Jean for just a fraction of a second more.

The sun shines bright as I swing through the skies of New York, the late summer air whipping through my hood. Life is good. No, life is way more than good. Life is goddamn terrific. I've put the Enforcers behind bars, sending the Silk Cartel scuttling to regroup itself. Meanwhile, my frienemy the Punisher has killed Silvio Manfredi. I don't agree with what he's done, but that move has put the other crime families of New York on notice. The two of us have put the mob on edge. They're being nervous. They're tentative. That means my dad and the other cops can take more and more of them off the streets.

I hate to be overconfident, but I'm just gonna say it.

I'm winning. We're winning. The good guys have taken the high ground in New York, and I'm gonna make sure it stays that way.

Picking ner-do-wells off the street has never been easier than it is now. The past few days I've put a fair share of pushers, muscle, and made men in jail. Of course, having the combined force of the NYPD after me isn't helping all that much. Dad was livid the night I put the Enforcers away and embarrassed his crack squad of metahuman hunters. The showdown I knew was inevitable once he was given his task force happened far earlier than I ever expected, and it's turned Dad's job into something personal. I've been debating telling him what I am, but the idea that it will shatter our relationship strikes terror into me. I could not handle hurting him like that.

"Hey, babe," Peter's voice comes over the comms and a big goofy grin comes across my face. Things with Peter have been just as good as the crime fighting has been. Every moment with him reminds me how dumb I've been to put this off. It sounds corny as hell, but I do miss him when we're apart, and having him be a part of my mission makes my sappy, little heart happy. I am so lame. This entire situation is the lamest, most basic situation possible, and I can't help but love it all the same. "You on your way?"

"Yea," I respond, flipping through the air lazily and absentmindedly. Swinging has become like a second nature to me. It's like riding a bike, except one trillion times more awesome, and I look badass doing it, if I do say so myself. There's even a Twitter hashtag for people who catch me in the act, and crazy-old J Jonah Jameson is paying people for the best ones. Granted, I should probably watch out for that. If I get people following me, I could lead them home, which would not be fun. "I'm swinging over now. Just had to stop a few purse snatchings and an armed robbery."

"Glad you're keeping busy," he chuckles. "But previews are about to start."

"I'll be there in a sec. Just need to duck into an alley and change."



Hammerhead stands in the ruined mansion of Silvio Manfredi, surveying the canvas of death it has become. The blood of men that Hammerhead had knew for years had been spilled in this foyer. Silvio himself, the man who had been his benefactor and mentor, had been killed in cold blood by a madman who thinks he is the law. What the Punisher is, in reality, is a mad dog let off the leash. His pig handlers didn't see the mania in Frank Castle, buried under the visage of a good cop, until it erupted from the surface.

Silvio himself isn't innocent in his own death, of course. He knew he was taking a risk when the hit was ordered on Castle's wife. Yet Silvermane went ahead with it because he was afraid. His fear had been his downfall in the end. Fear of prison and losing his empire. Yet it was lost either way.

There is a lesson in that.

Behind Hammerhead, Flint Marko wanders around the large entryway trying his best not to look at any of the streaks of blood and viscera that had managed to stain the floors and walls. Flint is one of the toughest SOBs Hammerhead knows, but he never could take the sight of his friends getting hurt. It is an odd trait to have in a mob tough guy, but it is one of the things that makes Marko who he is.

"We can't let this pig get away with this," Marko growls, his anger righteous and understandable. "We need to get everything we have and throw it at him. He's just one guy. A guy who can be killed."

Hammerhead has been considering the proposition himself, but realizes it's a terrible thing to undertake.

"Frank Castle is a rabid animal, Flint," the one gangster says to the other. "Silvio's greatest mistake was poking him with a fucking cattle prod. If we do the same, we're gonna end up with our brains blown out on some goddamn expensive marble as well. Me personally? I'd rather let Castle lie. We didn't have no part in putting his lady and his kid in the ground. The way I see it our smartest move is to let the mad bastard kill someone else now. Let him be someone else's problem for now."

"But we need to avenge Silverman!' Marko waves around the room, presenting the terrible scenes like some sort of macabre carnival barker. "That son of a bitch came into this home and killed the men we called brothers. We can't let that go unpunished."

"We won't," Hammerhead sighs. "But we need to be smart, not go off half cocked. We got more than just the Punisher to deal with. We got Spider-Woman and the bastards from South America on our ass too. We need to come up with a plan."

From the doorway, loud, heavy footsteps rumble through the large atrium. The two men turn to see a monstrous, mountain of a man taking up the entirety of the double doors. The light streaming in from the entryway outlines him, his rotund, yet strong presence is like the moon when it eclipses the sun. His voice, a deep, booming baritone fills the room, "Well said, Mister Hammerhead. Well said."

The two mobsters nearly bow their head in reverence as the man takes a few more steps into the house. Neither of them had ever considered they might be this close to the Kingpin of Crime. He rarely made appearances, only ever talking to the highest of the high in the crime world. As the sight of him became clear, Hammerhead had to awe at him. Standing even taller than Hammerhead, and even more muscular than Marko, the Kingpin is the definition of intimidation. The suit he is clothed in is white, making him seem like a fallen angel of war, and the cane he carries is like a war club, adorned with a large diamond at the handle.

He admires his own reflection in the large stone before bringing his attention back to the two other men, "That kind of sound thinking is why I'm putting you in charge of what's left of the Maggia. Our operations are in disarray, to say the least. We need all the level headed leadership we can muster."

"But, Kingpin, sir," Hammerhead averts his eyes from the crime king, "how are we even gonna keep up? Spider-Woman and all those freaks are out there."

"I believe I can be of service on that front," a voice from behind the Kingpin announces.



"Gentlemen," Otto Octavius grins with devilish intent, "it is time we gave New York a better breed of criminal."



MJ, Harry, Peter, and I walk out of our showing of NITE OWL AND THE SILK SPECTRE, with me shaking my head profusely as we do, "I mean, do they have to make the Silk Spectre costume so revealing? There's absolutely no way that is piratical or protective in any way for a battle. How do bare thighs and knee high boots even begin to help when fighting super villains?"

"I know right?" MJ agrees. "Meanwhile, Nite Owl gets to parade around in full on battle armor and an armory. This is what happens when movies are made by boys and their lizard brains."

"You wanna talk about impractical costumes yet the two of you drool over Superman," Pete laughs and plants a kiss on my cheek. "That guy wears a cape and a t-shirt for crying out loud!"

"Yea, and Spider-Woman has a hood on her costume," Harry chuckles along with his best friend. "How is that helpful in the slightest?"

The desire to punch my friend is strong in that moment, but that would probably make things a bit too obvious. I can see Peter's eyes get wide at the comment, as it was one he had during the design of the suit himself. It's probably the thing we've fought most about since I told him I was going to become Spider-Woman. But I've got a rebellious streak. Always have, always will. And incorporating the hood into the costume just felt right to me.

"Well, she seems to be doing a pretty good job, hood or no hood," I shrug at Harry. "Let's see you clean up the streets of New York."

"Psh," Harry waves me away. "I'd just have my dad outfit me with some kickass tech, and I'd do it in no time. Maybe I'd even catch the Spider and get a reward from the police."

"Yea, but then you'd be a vigilante and they'd arrest you too, darling," MJ tussles his hair. "And we can't have that, can we?"

"Not when we're all about to graduate and kick some ass in college!" Harry pumps his fists excitedly.

Right. That. There was a time I would have been over the moon about going into senior year and leaving all this behind. Now, however, I'm not so sure. I'm never going to be able to leave Spider-Woman behind. She's a part of me just as much as my normal live is. Needing to spring to the rescue of as many people as possible at any moment kind of restricts my choices on that front. Plus, I'm not sure I could bring myself to leave New York considering all I've done up to this point.

"Yea, I cannot wait to be done with Midtown Hi-" an explosion above draws my attention and cuts my halfhearted excitement short. Looking up, I see a church burning a few blocks down. My instincts want me to get closer, but I can already tell my friends want to move in the opposite direction. I'm caught between both sides of myself, frozen by indecision.

Shame boils up in my belly as the firetrucks roll by and begin to fight the blaze. I merely watch as the flames flicker and reflect in my gaze. Peter says something to me and tugs on my arm, but all it sounds like is static to me.

I'm not supposed to watch as things get done. I'm the one who's supposed to be saving the people.

Turning, I leave with my friends, not speaking another word on our way home.



My phone vibrates across the scratched wood of my desk, dancing over the carvings and doodles I've done during years of homework-induced boredom. I may not be a super genius like Peter, but I'm smart enough to get bored with how little challenge high school throws at me. Maybe it's why I threw myself so hard into music, and then into catching criminals with my neat-o super powers. Something to really challenge me is what I've always been looking for.

I snatch the phone and find a text from Peter.

Hey. You okay?
Been better. Not psyched I had to stand around while
the fire burned tho. Not my MO
I know. Sorry. It's not fair
No, but I also have to be smart. Something to learn to
live with, I guess
Well, I think I have something to make you feel better
Pete, I'm not coming over
Haha. Very funny. Not what I meant
Mhm. Suuuuuuure ;-p
Whoever blew the place up posted a video.
WAT!? GTFO of here
Yea, check it out.

I click the link as soon as it comes over the text thread. Once the video loads, I'm greeted by images of flickering flames, pictures of wildfires, and famous fires throughout history. San Francisco and Chicago stand out, and they're mixed in with others I can't place. After a few moments, they are replaced by a black mask and large, insect-like, flaming eyes. Over where the mouth would be on the mask is some sort of respirator. With the shot in extreme close up, that's all I get detail-wise.

"Citizens of New York," a heavily modified voices rasps forth, "tonight, the cleansing fire has come to your city. I have burned one of the temples of the old gods. A moldy, old chapel dedicated to the creators of the world. For generations we were told that these beings watched over us. That they would solve our problems. Protect us. Comfort us. But now gods walk among us every day, like the legends of Greece and Rome. Modern day avatars of Gilgamesh, Hercules, and Achilles perform their feats of strength for us to marvel at and worship. What happened to the gods we worshiped? They have forsaken us for replacing them with our new idols. Because the churches, the corrupt and lecherous institutions of old, have forasken the gods. For that, they will burn in righteous fire, as will the filth and the false gods that pretend to be our salvation. And when that day has come, the true gods will reward us."

"Follow the Fireflies."

"Well," I say to myself, "that's not creepy at all."

Time. The construct of a finite existence obsessed with its own mortality. Before your world was formed, before your star gave light, I fought as you do now. I was the First Lantern. And once, so very long ago, I thought that I could change the universe. But now, if I scream and if I shout, it is to keep the universe from changing me. My name is Ganthet. I forged the ring you bear.

---

---

The squat, dwarven figure sat on the edge of a rickety dock.

A large dog of some yellow Labrador breed lay stretched out behind where the man sat, it's tail occasionally twitching as it dozed. The man's trousers were rolled up so that his feet dangled in the cool waters. The brim of a wide, straw hat cast his face in shade, as the white haired figure sat under the light of two suns.

A simple fishing pole was propped up in his lap. It's line indicated in the water by a cork that listed lazily as it drifted across the surface of the lake.

He hadn't caught anything in more than a hundred years. And still he returned here. To this place, to this moment, to this plane of existence. For what purpose? He didn't know. It was merely where he belonged.

The yellow lab suddenly raised it's head. The tail moved back and forth a moment, as the canine's ears seemed to shift forward as the animal fixated on what had caught its' attention.

Then it barked.

The wizened figure frowned deeply. Setting aside the fishing pole, the squat figure gingerly picked himself up from off the dock. As he turned, the blue-skinned man raised a hand to the level of his eyes so that he could peer up into the sky.

There was a shadow descending from above.

The Slyggian appeared, donned in the uniform created by a ring of Oa. It had been some time since he had been exposed to one. The sudden proximity seemed to touch an old wound. The presence nipped at his senses like a limb that had gone numb and was now experiencing a phantom, pins-and-needles pain as sensation now returned.

...no, it wasn't just one ring.

Using the same hand that was shielding his eyes, the white-haired figure removed his hat so that he could better appraise the green construct that floated alongside the Slyggian that approached him from the air.

The Green Lantern landed just a few feet from where the short, white haired alien stood. Dropping to one knee, the Slyggian clutched his ring hand to his chest as he bowed his head and said, "Guardian, I am..."

An uncharacteristic streak of anger flashed through the man. "I know what you are," the fisherman uttered flatly, interrupting the Slyggian. With a dismissive wave, the man added, "I want no part of it."

The Slyggian's oblong head came up to look at the dwarven figure. Using one hand, the four-armed alien indicated the green capsule floating there. "No part in saving even one life?"

The man seemed to bristle at the implication. "Do you think us omnipotent?" the wizened figure snapped back in retort. "Go," the man uttered, as he started to turn back toward the lake. Reaching up to place the hat back on his head, the blue-skinned figure paused to add, "Mourn elsewhere. That child's life and death has naught to do with me."

As the man turned and walked away, Salaak seemed to be thinking a moment. Calculating. Finally, rising up from the earth, the Green Lantern said only, "I know about the book."

The old man stopped in his tracks.

It seemed that Salaak had gotten his attention. Extending out his ring hand, the Slyggian remarked, "I ask you to remember who you are."

The sky turned black. In an instant, in the blink of an eye, the world around them became a hellish storm. The yellow lab gave a yelp as lightning and thunder rolled across the skies. And from everywhere, a voice like that of GOD Almighty snapped.

The force of will staggered and disoriented the Slyggian. Taken aback, the Green Lantern needed a moment before he could continue. "I know that you've forgotten more about this universe than I will ever know," Salaak offered, as he again extended out his hand. "I know that you've saved this universe more times than anyone can count. Now the universe needs you to do it again."

The old man turned to look back at the Slyggian.

"Help me, Guardian."

The old man looked back toward the lake, as he said, "I am no Guardian..."

"Help me save the Lanterns," Salaak urged, interrupting the god-like being. "Help me to save the Guardians. Help me save the life of just one small child."

The old man remained quiet, even as his head was bowed.

When he finally looked back up, he turned his head toward the Slyggian and gave a heavy sigh. "You can..." he began, before trailing off for a moment. "...bury him here, if you like."

Salaak's hand fell back by his side.

The old man started walking back toward his dock, as the sunlight broke through the clouds that were now parting. Pausing his step a moment, the man spoke without looking back. "Your universe and what happens in it is no business of mine."

Placing his hands in his pockets, the old man just walked away.

Iris had to refrain from screaming most of the way. As they passed through the mountain it felt different to when she had phased by herself. The vibrations didn't change, and they didn't keep speed unlike when she did it. Which meant that however he had done it it wasn't through the same energy source that she was connected to. She had to worry though, this power cosmic that this 'Surfer' seemed to have access too had her outclassed. The current issue was that there was a plane in her way.

Rather, she was in the way of a plane. He had launched her at a high enough speed that she was going to smack straight into it's windscreen, and while that would obviously be a bigger problem for her than it would be for the plane she couldn't imagine it wouldn't be the best thing for the pilots on their final approach to have a speedster turn to mush.

Focusing on the energy within her, her entire body started to shake as it sped through the air. Faster and faster as the plane got closer and closer. She closed her eyes as she approached it. The pilots and passangers merely saw a blur of red pass through the plane. Iris didn't even have time to register anything within the plane. From the stewardess she phased right through to the kid that screamed in panic as he saw the blur moving down the aisle between chairs. Phasing out the back of the plane she opened her eyes, turning her head as best she could she saw the Surfer watching her.

She wasn't going to let him take her for another ride. She was going to get down on her own. She remembered a story of an air hostess who fell out of the back of a plane and survived due to the angle she had hit the mountain. Spinning her arms to manuever herself she angled herself at a nearby mountain and started moving her legs as if running in thin air. It was a weird sensation, running with no resistance. She 'tripped' slightly as her foot caught onto something but through spinning her arms she corrected herself. It was probably just a pocket of hot air that had knocked her off course slightly.

She had to make this before the Surfer caught her. She had to take the fight out of the air and back to the ground where she had some control.

The Surfer coldly stared as the metahuman struggled to maintain control. He did not dare interfere with the outcome of the scenario as The Flash displayed a unique gift to avoid the seemingly certain death - the manipulation of the density of her own material body. It was an impressive feat for one who had seemingly only just began to develop their abilities, but it was beginning to dawn on The Surfer that this test was giving him far less idealistic results than his master would have hoped for.

Since the discovery of the meta-gene in the human populace, there had been a grand debate amongst the stars. What place, if any, did Earth have in the hierarchy of systems? There had been whispers among the dark that beings of supreme power, from The Guardians Of Oa to The Kree Empire, had been made aware of this phenomena through their own series of spies. They did not take this world seriously enough to take action, but they did intend to keep their eye drawn towards the insignificant blue dot that inhabited this system in the event that it's significance were to change.

That was why The Surfer had been tasked with this challenge. His master saw a grand opportunity to utilize these beings, should they remain underestimated by the controlling forces of the cosmos, for the gain and good of the universe. A universe that his master believed would seed it's own destruction with enough given time. If these metahumans were to serve as The Surfer himself would, there would be peace brought to a galaxy left to it's own devices.

But The Flash was one mere example. And she was almost as if a child learning it's first few steps. This great speed had been bonded to Iris West for a shorter period of time than it would logically have taken the planets of faraway systems to align, much less develop on their own. If she were the representative of the best that this world had to offer, with her power tapping into energies far outweighing any metahuman The Surfer could feel surging with life on the primitive world around him, then her display of power was... only serviceable.

And given the relative prematurity of these so-called amazing beings having taken their place in the evolution of what the humans called mankind, there was a chance that this test would not ultimately end in the Earth's favor. Not that it's continued thriving or assured self-destruction mattered personally to The Surfer himself, as he was simply honorbound to a more interested party.

But this was beginning to feel as though it were a mere game. Not a test of which the fate of an entire planet and it's race of dominant species relied on for survival. The Surfer knew in his mind that he would have to strike at The Flash even harder. Faster, more intently. To provoke a more direct attack and be judged against the vastness of The Power Cosmic.

Moving fast enough to appear as a mere blink of existence, The Surfer reappeared before The Flash as she continued to advance through the air. She looked horrified as her approach threatened to collide with the being, but he rendered himself intangible. Iris West no sooner passed through The Surfer's form as he re-solidified, turning to face her as she still continued mid-air.

"VERY WELL. YOU HAVE DISPLAYED SOME MEASURE OF WISDOM IN THE FACE OF PERIL. THIS IS TO BE COMMENDED."

The Surfer's hand began to glow with an unknown source of fiery heat, however, as his tone turned from cold, distant and precise to one of intermediate hostility.



"BUT YOU HAVE YET TO UNDERSTAND THE NATURE OF SACRIFICE, AS ALL WARRIORS SHOULD. ALLOW ME TO DEMONSTRATE."

With glowing eyes that matched the fury of his fist, The Surfer turned towards the plane that had once threatened to end Iris West's life as it advanced towards the far distance. With a casual raise of his arm, The Surfer shot out a beam of intense light and directed it towards the right wing of the plane's metal structure. It seperated from the craft in an instant, sending the plane hurtling downward. Even as he could hear the distant screams of the now imperiled passengers, The Surfer coldly glanced back as The Flash as she was still trying to save herself.

"RISK YOUR LIFE BY PREVENTING THEIR DEATHS, OR SAVE YOUR LIFE BY ENSURING THEIRS. IT MATTERS NOT. A SACRIFICE SHALL BE MADE THIS DAY."

With his board at the ready, The Surfer flew past The Flash and disappeared into the distance to observe her next course of action.

---

---

---

---

---

Music


Iris' feet made contact with the top of the mountain as the bolt struck the wing of the plane. She skidded to an unceremoniously unbalanced stop. "NO!" Panicked her heart race increased as adrenaline and cortisol flooded her system. The plane was on decent but still going at a fair speed, now it wasn't on a straight flight plan but had began to tumble and twist as the shock from the explosion and the lack of two full wings changed it's aerodynamic profile. Turning to run away, essentially, she ran down the mountain.

Using the descent to aide her acceleration she was barely half way down it when a sonic boom reverbarated throughout the badlands, the sound amplified by the mountains. The sound likely heard by everyone in the Gem Cities. A trail of snow in her wake as she outraced the avalanche she had caused. Turning in a wide arc at the bottom of the mountain she kept pushing herself faster and faster. Had this not been such a stressful situation she would likely have been impressed at just how fast she was going right now, as this was no doubt the fastest she had ever travelled.

Running up another mountain her speed started to decrease the moment she started climbing, and yet she kept pushing on. Digging deeper than she ever had, lives depended on her going as fast as possible. As she hit the tip of the mountain she shot herself into the air. She wasn't entirely sure what she would do when she reached the plane, but Iris was sure she'd figure it out once she got there. Maybe she could phase out with other people and then rinse repeat with as many as possible or somehow cushion the fall of the plane.

Truthfully as she was passing through the air, again, she wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do. She wasn't Superman, she wasn't Wonder-Woman. Hell she wasn't even Spider-Woman. She was The Flash, key was in the name it was all about speed. Speaking off, she was loosing speed too fast. Far too fast, she had stopped ascending and started to descent too soon she was never going to reach the plane. "Damn it, no! NO!" Spinning her arms she tried to give herself a boost in the air, but it was futile. It was all she could do to steer herself in a way that would give her a reasonably painless landing. Looking at the plane as it continued to fall all she could feel was a pit in her stomach.

She had failed. They were all going to die, because of her.

^{20 YEARS EARLIER}

Say what you will about their cuisine, H'lven brandy was not for the faint of heart.

The tall, lanky form of the pink-hued Slyggian moved over to the cupboard. Four arms made the species impressive bartenders, as Salaak decanted an aged H'lven liquor into two tumblers over a few cubes of ice. Then, picking up the pair of glasses, made his way over to where an Ungaran house guest was staring out the window.

"Wupi for your thoughts," the Slyggian offered, extending the brandy out toward the violet-hued man. Taking a seat on the loveseat next to the stargazing Green Lantern, one of the Slyggian's hands ghosted across the space between the pair until his hand laid across Abin Sur's. Even as the Ungaran Lantern turned and accepted the offered brandy with the one hand, the fingers of his other interlocked with Salaak's three.

They'd just enjoyed a drink in silence for a moment. At the time, it had seemed so brief. Reflecting back on it now, Salaak felt as though it had been much longer. A moment he remembered. Just sitting there, without a world to save. Without a crisis. Without anything else, save each other.

"If something happens out there..." Abin said, breaching the quiet that had settled over the room. As the two looked at one another, the Ungaran continued. "...something to me that is, promise you'll take me back to Ungara."

For his part, Salaak wasn't certain that he understand the request. Was this a jest? Smiling, the Slyggian asked, "What brought this on?"

It was then that he realized that Abin Sur was serious. "You wouldn't understand," the man uttered softly, his hand tightening around Salaak's even as he looked down. "...just, say that you'll..."

A flash of emerald light sparked from Salaak's ring, as a green construct of a H'lven suddenly appeared in mid-air. "This is Green Lantern 1814.2 requesting assistance."

The Slyggian swirled the brandy around in the glass, before finally setting it down on the table and giving a sigh. Turning, the four-armed alien leaned his oblong head up against the Ungaran for a moment before he said, "I have to go."

---

---

---

---

The Slyggian sat on the ground, staring up at the night's sky.

Before him, the fire was burning brilliantly. A pyre constructed to hold the body of the human child as the flames reclaimed the body and released the spirit back to the beyond.

To be honest, Salaak had no idea what the human beliefs or funerary practices were. In a time before Slyggians had arrived at the Atomic Age, they had cast off their superstitions. Religion held no meaning for his people, yet the practice of burning their dead in order to release their memory continued. It wasn't superstition, it was just... Slyggian.

As he watched the embers and smoke ascending, Salaak's eyes were drawn upward to the stars and he thought about a time on Oa that would never come again. A tale of two people living their lives in between one crisis and the next. The prime of their life, spent chasing drug czars, or the slave traders, or the arms dealers who tried to live as gods of war among the criminal underworld.

The jade ring was played between the fingers of two of his hands. Outwardly, it was unremarkable. Visibly indistinct from the one on his own finger. Yet, he knew it was different. He knew it was unique.

He knew whose ring it was. The band was imprinted with their hopes. Their dreams.

...and their love.

Getting up, the Slyggian moved closer to the funerary pyre and dropped to his knees. He'd never prayed before. He didn't even know who he was praying to. He only knew that none of this had unfolded as any of them had wanted. He felt the weight of so many mistakes and wondered how people attained any sense of forgiveness late in life. Everything he had worked to achieve seemed undone by everything he'd done in effort to achieve it. So many friends now gone. B'Shi. Tomar-Re. Ch'p. Abin Sur.


The Slyggian had just sat there for hours.

He had fallen asleep as the pyre had died down. The remains of Green Lantern Kai-ro were now just bits of blackened bone, soot, and ash. Floating silently over the still form of the distraught Slyggian, Ganthet voyaged to the dying fire with a simple wooden box in one hand.

As he opened the lid, the bits and pieces that yet remained began to gather themselves in the air. "A child," the exiled Guardian uttered, as he watched the ashes begin to gather in the small box. Turning, the Guardian turned his attention toward where the Slyggian lay.

The ring that Salaak was clutching to his breast slid out from under his hands, to float over where Ganthet was closing the lid on Kai-ro's funerary urn. The ring landed atop the lid, the singular object of the Guardian's tranquil fury. "Why, damn you?"

Levitating up into the air, the jade ring seemed to come apart into a diffusion of emerald light. Within the fragmentary pieces of the device, he saw a small child. Innocent, wide-eyed, imaginative. "In brightest day..." He saw an Ungaran warrior. Brave and bold. "In darkest night..."

Wait.

The child and the Ungaran Green Lantern. The ring didn't seem to recognize them as being different people..? What kind of error in logic had...

No. Not an error. Why did a human have an Ungaran soul? Tapping his fingers atop the funerary urn, the Guardian found himself even more disturbed by the inner workings of this ring. "You've a defective matrix but that doesn't expla..."


The funerary urn fell from out of his grasp.

Her face. Her touch.

She had done it. She had reversed the power cycle. Kai-ro hadn't recharged his ring at the Central Battery, he'd depleted it. It was something only one of the Guardians would even know was possible. And there were only a few capable of that level of sabotage.

His feet hit the ground, as Ganthet dropped to his hands and knees. His chest was tight. Tears streamed down his face, falling down to the earth where they mingled with the child's ashes.

Was this what the Guardians of the Universe had reduced themselves to?

Reaching up a hand, the man pulled his long hair from out of his eyes as he raised his head up. Reaching down, he began to mix his tears into the ash and dirt until a muddy paste began to form. A spectrum of light surrounded the white-haired sage, as his hand plunged down into the muck.

And from that ash and tears, he drew out a book.

Brentwood
2001

2001 Music

Lonnie Sledge looked down into the pristine water of the swimming pool. The pool and its upkeep probably cost what Lonnie had made over the past decade. Shit was Olympic-sized with a red marble finished. Of course it was red. You could take the boy out the ghetto, Lonnie thought to himself, but you sure as hell could never take the ghetto out of him.

“Sup?”

Lonnie turned and saw Lance Rawlings coming out the back door of his opulent mansion, music thumping loudly from deeper inside the house. He was wearing a red bowling shirt and matching cargo shorts. He had a thick Cuban cigar wedged in between his fingers and a gentile smile on his face. And of course, as always, that goddamn medallion of his was swinging around his neck.

“Lance,” Lonnie said cordially enough. “See you done come up in the world over the past year.”

“I realized my potential,” said Lance. “That ghetto shit was getting old. There’s no future in it, so I branched out. I was already dabbling in the music scene as security. Management seemed the obvious next step.”

“And it’s worked out,” said Lonnie, waving towards the pool. “Obviously.”

“Compton and South L.A. is a hotbed for hip-hop talent, chief,” said Lance. “N.W.A. was the start, but they ain’t the end of the story. I tapped into talent and made the right moves.”

“I’m sure your necklace helped,” Lonnie said with a laugh.

The laughter died in his throat when he saw the stone face of Lance Rawlings. Without a word, he flicked the butt of his cigar at Lonnie’s feet.

“Something I can help you with, chief?”

“Don’t call me chief anymore,” Lonnie said with his finger raised. “It’s been over a year since I was chief of anything and I don’t need the reminder.”

“So,” Rawlings said with a sneer. “What the fuck do you want, chief?”

Lonnie licked his lips. He didn’t realize how dry they were until he ran his tongue across them.

“I just figured, since things was going good for you now, and since we’ve know each other from around the way--”

“Why is it,” said Lance, pulling a fresh cigar from his breast pocket. He smelled it before putting it in his mouth. “Any time a nigga brings up words like ‘back in the day’ and ‘around the way’ it’s because they want something? No motherfucker ever stepped to me and said ‘hey, Lance, since we known each other from back in the day, here’s a million dollars.’ Okay, so we know each other from around the way. So the fuck what?”

“I just need help,” Lonnie finally said. “You know how things ended with me and Compton. No severance, no pension, no chance to join the LA Sheriff’s like the rest of my department. I gave that city twenty-five years of my life and I didn’t get shit in return.”

“What about your business?” asked Lance. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a cigar cutter. “Sledge Security or whatever. I heard of the street that’s where your ass landed.”

“Nobody wants an ex-cop with my reputation working any jobs for them. And, let’s remember, it was you that got me dirty--”

“Shut your goddamn mouth.”

The voice that came from Lance’s mouth seemed to be at least two or three octaves deeper than usual. Lonnie felt his knees tremble when he saw the stone in Lance’s medallion glowing and pulsating an angry shade of crimson.

“Nobody forced you or your motherfucking department to ever take my money,” Lance spat. “You were given a choice, and you chose to sell yourself out to the highest bidder. Don’t blame me because you didn’t like the outcome.”

“Look,” said Lonnie, taking an instinctive step backwards towards the pool. He held his hands out in an attempted gesture of peace. “I’m… sorry. You’re right, Lance. I made my bed and now I’m laying in it. I’m not asking for a handout. Like all those kids you used to use, I’m asking for a chance to earn.”

Lance brooded in silence, first cutting off the tip of his cigar and lighting it up before he spoke again. He blew a long column of smoke from his mouth and right into Lonnie’s face.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do, chief. I’m gonna give you another choice, a lot like the one I gave you all those years ago.”

Lonnie nearly jumped back into the pool when he saw Lance’s eyes. They were glowing bright read, the same color as the stone in his necklace. Tendrils of pure crimson energy were being projected from the stone, twisting and slithering in the air towards Lonnie. Lonnie tried to move, but his legs wouldn't cooperate with his brain's commands.

“Option 1: You leave here and our business is done. You never see me again, you never speak my name, and you live the life of a sad, washed up old po-lice who never gave a good goddamn about anything other than filling his pockets. The other option? You go to work for me. And when I say work, I mean whatever I want. You bring me coffee if I ask, you fuck my old lady if I ask, the word ‘no’ is literally no longer in your vocabulary, nigga. And it’s going to be more than just an agreement. You’re gonna be bound to me for the rest of your life--”

Lonnie flinched and screamed as one of the tendrils snaked its way into one of his nostrils. It felt so smooth and dry, the exact opposite of how he thought it would feel. He tried to pull away, but the thing was rooted inside his nasal passage and kept him anchored on the spot.

“I will own you,” said Lance. “And I don’t mean how I used to own you. This ain’t just a wad of cash, nigga. This is some real Kunta Kinte shit. My life is now your life. You kill for me, you die for me. Bound by magic to be the ultimate ride or die nigga. In exchange, you will never have to worry about money or anything material ever again. Your children and grandchildren will always have enough. What do you say, chief?”

“Yes,” Lonnie cried out. He had only half heard what Lance was saying. He just wanted this thing as far away from him as possible. “Whatever you say!”

A shock of electricity ran through Lonnie’s body. He spasmed as the tendril in his nose trashed. When it popped from his nostril, Lonnie flew backwards and fell into Lance’s expensive pool. When he floated to the top, he saw Lance standing at the edge of the water, the cigar in his mouth and a scowl on his face.

“Welcome to the family,” he said, flashing gang signs with his hands. “Now get out my pool, nigga. We got work to do.”

---

East Los Angeles
Now

The rain was starting to come down hard, but that didn’t stop Lonnie from slowing down the big SVU on the side streets of East LA. They tore past graffiti tagged walls, bodegas, and Chicano bangers dressed in yellow trying to get away from the middle of the night downpour. Rain in LA was a rare enough sight that nobody ever really prepared for it.

“Slow it down,” Lance said from the backseat.

Lance’s personal bodyguards Country and Pooh Bear were also in the car, both of them muscle-bound, tatted-up, and dressed from head to toe in red. Although they never spoke about it, there was a mutual acknowledgement between the two of them and Lonnie that they were in the same boat. Somewhere down the line they made the same deal with Rawlings and would be by his side until the end of their lives or the end of his, whichever came first.

The police car they were following was beginning to slow down as it reached wherever it was going. Lonnie had never worked for LAPD, but he knew all the local law enforcement landmarks to know they were firmly in the barrio and that Rembrandt wasn’t planning on reporting back to the PAB downtown anytime soon.

“This man, this Constantine was unexpected,” Lance said to mostly himself. Lonnie had learned a long time ago not to interrupt Lance while he talked to himself. “But he’s a pleasant surprise. Fuck that little nigga K2. Constantine tries to hide it with cloaking spells, but I can smell a powerful mage.” Lance wiped drool from his lower lip. "I can taste that shit."

“How do you wanna play it, L?” Pooh Bear asked from the shotgun seat beside Lonnie. “We all strapped. Ain't no thing to just run up on this motherfucker.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lance said.

From the rearview mirror, Lonnie watched Lance spread his arms palms out. His eyes started to glow red and the amulet around his neck levitating in the air. Lonnie looked straight ahead. The cop car Rembrandt was driving was halfway down the block and approaching a green traffic light. As it went through the intersection, an empty four-door sedan raced through the intersection t-boned the unmarked car. The impact sent the car flipping sideways through the street until it landed on its roof. Lonnie slowed as they approached the wreck of the car.

“Now go collect my property,” said Lance.

The SUV skidded to a stop, Lonnie jumping out along with Pooh and Country. Lonnie watched while they opened up the crumpled passenger sidedoor and got the British man out of the car. He looked half out of it and his face was scratched and bloody. While Pooh and Country roughly shoved him into the back of the SUV, Lonnie opened up the driver’s side door. Rembrandt hung suspended by his seatbelt, his eyes closed. Like Constantine, his face was bloody and bruised. He checked his pulse and found it steady.

“What about the cop?” Country asked.

From the backseat, Lance looked at the car as Lonnie stood up. They made eye contact and Lonnie slowly shook his head.

“If you kill a cop,” said Lonnie. “We’re gonna have every law enforcement agency in the Southland bringing heat down. Too much heat for even you to magic away.”

“Fine,” Lance said after a long moment of consideration. “Just get back in the car and get us home.”

Doing as they were told, Lonnie and the others hurried back into the car and hauled ass down the street. Lonnie was getting on the 405 when he heard the British man’s moans from the cargo area in the SUV’s rear.

“You have royally fucked up,” he mumbled. “Take it from me, squire, I am an expert in fucking up. And this one takes the bloody cake.”

^{10 YEARS EARLIER}

They met in secret.

A planet on the edge of Sector 2684. The Rann-Thanagar War raging on the other side of the sector kept Odym relatively untouched by either the Nova Corps or Green Lantern patrols, as their time and resources were invariably expended working to contain the crisis unfolding between Rann and Thanagar instead.

It felt like conspiracy. Salaak didn't like it. It felt like they were the criminals. Disabling the trackers inside their rings. Muffling the ability of the ring to record their actions.

"The only others who knew about that raid were the Guardians," Abin remarked, as the powerful Ungaran paced back and forth in abject frustration.

Ever the voice of reason, the Slyggian had tried to broker the opposing viewpoint. "We don't know that for certain. B'Shi could have been made when she visited the house..."

"That's precisely why we involved Kilowog and B'Shi in the first place," Abin blurted aloud, incredulous as he whirled around to face Salaak. "Their sector was all the way on the far side of the galaxy."

Salaak merely bowed his head with a sigh, as Abin walked up to place his hands on the Slyggian's shoulders. "I tell you this not lightly, but because you must hear me... we are betrayed."

"And what?" Salaak asked, peering up into the taller Ungaran's eyes. Reaching up with two of his arms, the Slyggian placed his hands over top of Abin's arms. "Are we supposed to go to the Council with, what, exactly? Suspicion? Naked accusation?"

Now it was Abin's turn to let go a heavy sight. Squeezing Salaak's shoulders, the Ungaran leaned forward so that his forehead rested against the Slyggian's own. They stayed that way in a shared moment, before the Ungaran let go, turned, and walked a few steps away. His back turned, Abin turned his head and said, "You will go to Oa."

Salaak opened his mouth to speak, but found he had no words.

Abin had made up his mind. They were going separate ways.

"Appa's wanted you to take over as Clarissi for some time. We can use that..."

"I'll be right under their eyes!"

"Exactly," Abin remarked flatly. "With you under the microscope, the traitor can't hurt you without risking exposing themselves. Meanwhile, my being absent is a loose-end. Let them focus their energy on trying to tie that up."

The Slyggian peered down at his hands, playing with the ring on his finger. "Ch'p is never going to understand... He'd never believe such a thing about one of the Guardians," Salaak uttered, before looking back up to ask, "Where will you go?"

"Earth." The answer had come faster than Salaak had anticipated. Abin Sur had already put thought into his plan. "It's a planet in Sector 2814. One I doubt that the Guardians have even heard of."

The two were silent after that. Seconds ticking by, before Salaak said, "As I recall, you once asked me to make sure your body was returned to Ungara."

"Superstition and religion," Abin uttered in reply. "Nothing more."

"Your people believe your soul passes to the next generation."

"Ever since we discovered space flight, the birth rate on my planet has declined," the Ungaran noted, a certain melancholy lingering on his voice as he'd said it. "For every one of us who leave and don't return, there are fewer and fewer in each generation."

"So if you die on Earth..."

The man at last turned to face the Slyggian again. One last time. With a shrug, Abin Sur said only, "Good luck, Green Lantern."

And, with that, he took flight.

Salaak never saw Abin Sur again.

Until that day when a human had appeared on Oa wearing Abin Sur's ring. And the moment that Salaak had seen him, he knew.

It was true.

---

---

---

---

The Slyggian awoke with a start.

Hovering before him, the Guardian known as Ganthet was weaving a brilliant construct of blue and violet light, in which a humanoid shape was starting to form. A large book, not unlike the Book of Oa, hovered before the Guardian, as the god-like alien seemed to be pulling the humanoid form together from the air and ash.

First the skeleton appeared. The toes and fingers at the extremities, as the arms and legs slowly formed toward the center mass of hips, ribs, and -- lastly -- the skull. Then the ligaments began to overlap and attach. Followed by layer upon layer on sinew and muscle, as the organs began to appear.

It was like waking up to find GOD creating Adam right in front of him. For a moment, Salaak just basked in the sheer awe of the power that the Guardian wielded. Rising up to his feet, as the Slyggian squinted and peered into the cocoon of light, he saw the skin beginning to form as the body was nearly complete.

The face of Kai-ro appeared, still and serene, as the physical form was re-made. "What changed your mind?" the Slyggian asked finally.

The Guardian merely gave a scoff. "You wanted me to read from the book. Well, I'm reading from it," the squat, blue dwarf uttered flatly. Then he looked downcast, and sighed as he said, "And you have no idea what a terrible weapon this is."

Ganthet's hands came down to rest upon the pages. After a moment, the Guardian closed the tome. "One of many things I wish we could go back and un-make," he said, as the book seemed to wink out of existence. Returned to whatever otherworldly vault that he had drawn it out of.

Stepping closer toward the cocoon of light, the Slyggian marveled at the sight. Within, Kai-ro was suspended nude. He seemed tranquil, as though merely sleeping. The chest would rise and fall in evidence that the organs were animated, yet, there seemed no life in him.

"Will he be all right?"

Ganthet produced a pipe from out of the air, bringing it to his lips as he began packing some material inside of it. Finally, after he'd lit the pipe and taken a slow puff, the Guardian pulled it from his mouth as he offered, "Healing the body is easy. The mind, the spirit... we can only wait and see if the light of hope and love can reach him."

The Guardian puffed on his pipe, lowering himself down to the ground as the yellow lab appeared and rub up against him. Easing himself down so that he was seated on a fallen log, the Guardian just watched the cocoon. And waited.

It was a long time before either spoke again.

"We must confront Scar."

The Slyggian would be lying if he said that he liked their chances. Showing up on Oa with Ganthet certainly improved them, but the evidence was hardly enough for an open-shut case. "It won't be easy," Salaak remarked.

What would Abin Sur do?

Did Kai-ro know? No. Even if they were the same person, they had two very different lives. Two very different outlooks. Abin Sur had been a warrior. Kai-ro was a monk. The Ungaran had reveled in passions that were sometimes barely restrained, and then through force of will alone. The human was reserved. Quiet. Shy.

Abin Sur wouldn't pick his fight on Oa. And neither would Salaak. "There's something I have to do first," the Slyggian said, turning toward the Guardian.

He was preparing to take his leave.

Taking a slow drag on the pipe, Ganthet kept his eyes on the cocoon. "You go to Scylla."

It hadn't been a question.

"How did you..."

"The boy's ring," the Guardian supplied in answer. It was there. All of it. Kai-ro's death. Ch'p's death. The sabotage by the scarred Guardian. The deletion of a Green Lantern from out of the Book of Oa, an act that only one of the Guardians could perform.

Ganthet had seen it all. So he simply said, "Good luck, Green Lantern."

The Slyggian merely gave a nod. "To us both, my Guardian."

---

---

Unknown SHIELD Facility

The klaxons blaring in the distance were a grim reminder of where Jaime was, if the bleak steel walls weren't enough. He was trapped in the center of a labyrinth of nearly identical hallways and rooms, being pursued by men who sought to end his life for a crime he didn't commit. The only thing that gave him even the slightest chance at getting out alive was the alien that had forcibly bound itself to Reyes's body. He didn't know what the creature was or what purpose it came to earth for: part of him wondered if it was best he never knew.

Right now, as he pressed the barrel of a cannon against the back of a agent of the federal government, the only thing Jaime was worried about was getting out alive.

"Hurry up, ese! Which direction? Which way?!" He snarled, trying to mask his anxiety with aggression.

Jasper Sitwell came to a screeching halt at the intersection of hallways, his gaze slipping over to the signs drilled into the walls, though Jasper didn't need the reminder. He knew this place like the back of his hand. "I'm...I'm thinking, damn it." The man hissed back, his dull hair slipping down his face as he heaved in another, tired breath. "Give me a moment."

Something searing and slimy touched the small of his back, shoving Jasper hard enough to make him stumble forward. "I don't have a moment!" Jaime reminded. "Your soldiers are gonna show up and blow me full of holes any second now if we don't get moving."

With a weary nod of his head, the agent pointed down the left most hallway, beginning down it at a jog. Reyes pushed him forward, upping the pace. He didn't have time to waste with Sitwell dragging his feet.

"Listen, kid..." He started, his jaw quivering as he tried to find the right words. He had to find a way to convince Jaime to stop. "Nobody wants to hurt you, okay? You're just a kid, but that thing you're wearing-"

"Do you think I want this?!" The teen snapped back. "What, do you think I woke up this morning all 'Do you know what I wanna do today, I wanna go have an alien crawl down my throat and force me to murder a much of people! That sounds like a fucking blast!'"

"Then let us help you!" Jasper turned, his gaze soft and his heart pleading. "SHIELD can get it off of you, but we need you to cooperate with us."

'He is lying, Jaime Reyes.' Khaji Da interrupted, his inhuman voice blaring like the alarms screeching overhead. 'These men wish you harm. I sensed it- that is why I activated.'

It felt like somebody had set a jackhammer off inside Jaime's skull. He grit his teeth, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of it all. Could he actually trust these SHIELD guys to help him? Why the hell would he want to listen to the alien robot trying to control him? Then again, why would Reyes trust the guy who ordered him to be shot?

"Just- just shut up!" Reyes finally screamed, slamming a palm against the side of his head. "Both of you, shut up!" He needed time. Time to think, time to reason, time to come to a good decision. But that was the trick: there was no time. Every moment he spent in indecision was a moment where men with guns got closer and closer.

They rounded another corner, coming up to an end in the twisting halls of uncaring steel. Several elevators were positioned along the walls, and there appeared to be no one nearby. Sitwell came to a stop, turning to face Reyes.

The boy looked inhuman. It was difficult to reconcile the black, chitinous figure with the lanky young man he'd apprehended hours earlier. His shoulders were broader, arms more defined- like the armor had weaved musculature for the boy that he hadn't had before. Long tendrils with sharpened, razorish points gleamed in the artificial light; Sitwell was sure those could puncture him like a grapefruit if Reyes were so inclined.

Of course, Jasper was much more worried about the plasma cannon hanging limb at the teenager's side.

"I...could've taken you wherever I wanted." He started, his throat dry and rasped. One wrong word could mean his body imploding in on itself in a shower of slag and gore. "I could've- could've run us around in circles until backup arrived. Or I could've taken you to containment. It...it would've been easy, honestly." Sitwell locked eyes with the creature. Those unblinking, yellow slits. Impossible to read. "But I didn't do that, did I? No, I brought you here-"

Motioning back to the set of elevators behind him, Jasper continued more confidently, finding his stride. "This is the only way out. Up to level one. I did what you asked me to."

He could see Jaime was already jerking forward to head toward one of the elevators. 'Kids these days,' Sitwell mused. 'Always in such a rush.'

With a sigh, he held up a palm. Sitwell was surprised when Reyes actually stopped and looked at him instead of continuing on. It gave him a little bit of hope that this could be handled peacefully.

"I did it to show you that you can trust me. You have a choice to make. You can just walk out of here, yes. You can leave right now- but we're going to follow you. We're going to follow you and, eventually, we're going to catch you. Because that's what SHIELD does. And...if you leave, you'll be giving up any chance at being absolved of this. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

From the ever-blank look on the inhuman faceplate, it was hard to get a read on the kid. And he wasn't offering any words to help Sitwell along.

"I'm saying that you'll be blamed for what happened. You'll be sent to a very...very bad place that no one gets out of."

Reyes finally spoke up. He turned away, his voice but little more than a broken whisper. The kid was terrified to his core. "But I didn't...I didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't me."

Sitwell just sighed. "No one's going to believe you if you run away. So stay. Tell us what really happened. We can get that thing outta ya, and we can make sure that you go back to your family soon. You have my word on that."

The two locked eyes again, and Sitwell swore he saw the mask soften, as impossible as that'd be.

"I..."

'I committed no wrong, Jaime Reyes. You know that. If you let them take me-'

"You're a LIAR!" Reyes suddenly roared, sending Sitwell stumbling away with a start. Jaime ignored him, focusing his full attention on the voice inside of his head. "You're the whole reason this happened- you killed those people, not me. Not me. It wasn't..."

Another pause, as if Khaji Da was weighing his response. 'You know I am telling the truth. Our minds are as bonded as our bodies. You would know if I was lying. But I'm not- and you know that. These people will never believe me. I will be punished for crimes I did not commit.'

"What...are you asking me to do?"

'Help me find out what really happened while we were offline. We cannot do that if SHIELD parts us.'

"Kid...I don't know what that thing is saying to you, but don't listen to it, alright? Listen to me. You can't trust it."

'I can do things these people cannot. You've seen that. We will find the truth where they will fail. Help me, Jaime Reyes.'

"Kid. Are you listening to me? Kid!"

'Help me find justice for those that died.'

The sound of rapid footfalls and growing voices spurred Jaime to action. No time to think. He had to make his choice- right then and there.

And he started for the elevator at a sprint, casting one last look at Jasper Sitwell as he passed him by. Jaime expected to see betrayal, or disappointment, upon the agent's face. But all that was there was hardened resolve. This would not be the last time the two saw each other- Reyes was sure of that.

The air in the upper stratosphere is extremely thin, meaning I can really open up the throttle without having to worry too much about creating shock waves in my wake. Even so, the friction-heat from what little atmosphere there is creates an orange glow around me like a spacecraft on reentry. I don't know exactly how it works, but I can control my personal gravitational field, expanding to a tight force-field around my body which, among other things, keeps my clothes from being ripped or burned off when moving over thirty times the speed of sound. It's not completely impenetrable, however, as some of the air still scrapes against my skin like sandpaper.

Up here, at these speeds, my senses start to go on autopilot, taking in and processing data almost completely on reflex. My vision continually zooms in and out on the ground below, scanning for roads and landmarks to keep track of my relative location, while my brain does all the necessary calculations in the back of my mind, working like an organic GPS. That gives me time to think about what's coming.

The Flash has made Central City her base of operations, so to speak. It's funny; Smallville is only about a three-hour drive from Central City, and I've only ever been there once. Ma and Pa took me there on a weekend trip when I was five, to see a double-header between the Central City Diamonds and the St. Louis Cardinals. It was back during the great Home Run Race of '98, and I got to see McGwire hit two into the stands. I remember seeing how happy another kid was to catch a home-run ball, and telling Dad that if he wanted, I could jump up and catch the next one in mid-air. He laughed and said he knew I could, but that wouldn't be fair to everyone else.

Later, it turned out McGwire was taking performance-enhancing drugs, giving him an unfair advantage over the other hitters. 'Not fair to everyone else,' indeed.

My eyes focus on a patch on the horizon and zoom in, and the patch clarifies as the skyline of Central City. I see occasional blurs of color, streaks of lightning on the ground and in the air. That must be the Flash. I hope she doesn't mind the assist.

There are so many of us now. Spider-Woman, Batman, Wonder Woman....I've been public for months now, and I haven't made any attempts to reach out to any of them. Who knows how many more of us are out there, the metahumans and mutants and impossible people, and how long we've been around. Who knows how long I traveled around the world, thinking I was alone, when there was someone who lived practically next door and who could move like lightning.

I dip down into the troposphere, slowing down to prevent the orange glow of air friction from erupting into an outright fireball. My insides lurch, like hitting the brakes too hard on a speeding car, as I decelerate from Mach 30 to a more city-friendly speed of just under Mach 1. Flash and her assailant are covering so much ground so quickly, it's hard to tell which part of the city to head towards first, since they already might be gone by the time I get there.

To my horror, I see the shining metallic man let loose a blast of energy that shears the wing off of a plane, which answers the question of where to go for me.

---

T H E F L A S H

Revalations Part Two:
^{NOT FAST ENOUGH}

---

Music

"BUT YOU HAVE YET TO UNDERSTAND THE NATURE OF SACRIFICE, AS ALL WARRIORS SHOULD. ALLOW ME TO DEMONSTRATE." With glowing eyes that matched the fury of his fist, The Surfer turned towards the plane that had once threatened to end Iris West's life as it advanced towards the far distance. With a casual raise of his arm, The Surfer shot out a beam of intense light and directed it towards the right wing of the plane's metal structure. It seperated from the craft in an instant, sending the plane hurtling downward. Even as he could hear the distant screams of the now imperiled passengers, The Surfer coldly glanced back as The Flash as she was still trying to save herself. "RISK YOUR LIFE BY PREVENTING THEIR DEATHS, OR SAVE YOUR LIFE BY ENSURING THEIRS. IT MATTERS NOT. A SACRIFICE SHALL BE MADE THIS DAY."

Iris' feet made contact with the top of the mountain as the bolt struck the wing of the plane. She skidded to an unceremoniously unbalanced stop. "NO!" Panicked her heart race increased as adrenaline and cortisol flooded her system. The plane was on decent but still going at a fair speed, now it wasn't on a straight flight plan but had began to tumble and twist as the shock from the explosion and the lack of two full wings changed it's aerodynamic profile. Turning to run away, essentially, she ran down the mountain.

Using the descent to aide her acceleration she was barely half way down it when a sonic boom reverbarated throughout the badlands, the sound amplified by the mountains. The sound likely heard by everyone in the Gem Cities. A trail of snow in her wake as she outraced the avalanche she had caused. Turning in a wide arc at the bottom of the mountain she kept pushing herself faster and faster. Had this not been such a stressful situation she would likely have been impressed at just how fast she was going right now, as this was no doubt the fastest she had ever travelled.

Running up another mountain her speed started to decrease the moment she started climbing, and yet she kept pushing on. Digging deeper than she ever had, lives depended on her going as fast as possible. As she hit the tip of the mountain she shot herself into the air. She wasn't entirely sure what she would do when she reached the plane, but Iris was sure she'd figure it out once she got there. Maybe she could phase out with other people and then rinse repeat with as many as possible or somehow cushion the fall of the plane.

Truthfully as she was passing through the air, again, she wasn't entirely sure what she was going to do. She wasn't Superman, she wasn't Wonder-Woman. Hell she wasn't even Spider-Woman. She was The Flash, key was in the name it was all about speed. Speaking off, she was loosing speed too fast. Far too fast, she had stopped ascending and started to descent too soon she was never going to reach the plane. "Damn it, no! NO!" Spinning her arms she tried to give herself a boost in the air, but it was futile. It was all she could do to steer herself in a way that would give her a reasonably painless landing. Looking at the plane as it continued to fall all she could feel was a pit in her stomach.

She had failed. They were all going to die, because of her.

I might not be able to keep up with the Flash or her chrome-plated opponent, but catching up to a commercial plane is a breeze, relatively speaking. The streaks of smoke and fire through the sky grow larger and larger as I approach the crashing airline, bits of shrapnel still being ripped free from the ragged gash where its wing used to be. The fuselage begins to keel over to one side, causing the people inside to tumble like clothes in the dryer, slamming against seats and walls as the plane goes into an involuntary roll. First things first, then: getting the plane righted so the passengers don't get bashed to a pulp.

Pulling up alongside the plane, there really isn't any good place to grab on....so I just have to make one. Guessing at the place where I'll have the best leverage, I tuck under the remaining wing, close to the fuselage, and sink my fingers into the plane's aluminum skin, which crumples like tissue paper in my grip. I could get a better handle if I dug in deeper to reach the carbon-composite frame, but I'd rather not do more damage to the plane if I can avoid it. Once I get my grip cinched in, I start to push against the plane's roll, trying to keep the airliner righted before I help it down.

"Nnnngh! Come on!" I grunt as I hear the metal groan from the strain, the force of its own mass hurtling through the sky resisting the force of, well, me. Rivets pop, sheets of aluminum come loose and fly away-- hopefully not onto anyone below. In the air, there's nothing to push against, so my actual muscles do very little of the course correction. That gravitational force-field that keeps my shirt and jeans from getting ripped away can expand, surrounding and permeating any object in direct contact with me. Once it starts, I can actually feel whatever it is I'm moving like it's a part of my own body, and move it with enough concentration.

The problem is, the more mass the object has, the more concentration it takes, and the more energy I have to spend to keep the gravitational field up. It's like trying to keep a muscle flexed, only the muscle in question includes every cell in your body and several hundred tons of metal and terrified passengers hurtling through the air at about 800 miles per hour.

My arms are shaking from the strain. My back feels like it's on fire. My teeth are clenched so hard they might break against each other. Slowly but surely, though, bit by bit, I feel the plane start to level out, giving the rattled and battered passengers some time to find seats and strap themselves in.

"All right," I pant through gritted teeth, "That's...the hard part....now we just-- no, NO!"

With a metallic scream and a series of gunshot-like pops, the remaining wing tears loose, sending the plane careening downward, and myself tumbling backwards behind them. Everything's a smear of blue-and-white as I roll head-over-heels through the air, until I'm able to stop myself, get my bearings, and pour on the speed to get back to the plane.

It's coming down on what looks like a residential area, towards a row of apartment buildings. There are hundreds of people on the plane, and probably thousands down below in harm's way. I have to catch up, slow it down, put it down safely.

Putting on the speed, I manage to get in front of the plane, turn around to intercept....



....and the nose-cone smashes into my chest. The fuselage ripples from the impact, but at the very least I'm practically stuck solid to the plane now. I grab hard into the plane's frame, and start pushing hard, trying to slow it down without letting it break apart from the strain.

It feels like an eternity of pushing against the mass of the plane, but I can feel its descent slowing as we dip beneath the Central City skyline. Pulling hard to one side, I'm able to steer the plane down into a long street, which will have to make do as a makeshift runway. Not far below us, people are abandoning their cars, running out of the street and diving for cover.

A few seconds later, I feel scraping against the bottoms of my boots, see sparks and smoke flying all around, and hear the awful screeching of metal against asphalt. We're on the ground, still going entirely too fast and threatening to flatten anything and anyone in our path.

Now that we're grounded, though, I have something to push against when slowing the plane. Which means now I can really put some muscle into it.

"NnnnnnggggggYYYEEEAAAAAAAGH!"

With a shout of strain and another shuddering ripple going up the deteriorating fuselage, I put on the brakes. Chunks of asphalt go flying as I dig my heels into the pavement. A cloud of dust kicks up all around, the noise near-deafening. Every bone in my body rattles, every muscle and ligament screaming.

A hundred yards later, we come to a stop. For a moment, I collapse from exhaustion, falling to my knees to catch my breath. I've moved heavier objects, put myself through more strain and more pain than that. Still, it never gets easier. You just get better at it.

After a few moments to recuperate, I climb up the side of the plane, rip the door off its hinges, and step inside.

"Is everyone okay?" I call out. The cabin is full of dust and debris, the passengers inside bloodied and bruised. Focusing my vision to quickly scan everyone's vitals, I see some broken bones, a lot of soft-tissue damage all around, a few cases of internal bleeding, and moderate to severe whiplash on nearly everyone. They're going to be feeling the effects for a long time. But at least it looks like everyone's going to make it.

At the sight of me, there are some gasps, a few flinches, lots of wide-eyed stares. Eventually, a little girl in a nearby seat nods.

"I'm okay," she says. "Thank you, Mister Superman."

With a sigh of relief, I give the girl a smile.

"You're welcome, I say, before addressing everyone else in the cabin. "Everyone stay where you are for now; rescue workers should be here any second to help."

As I turn, I see the looks on everyone's faces. They've just been through what may be the worst trauma they'll ever experience. The least I can do is try to brighten their spirits a bit.

"And, erm, I hope this experience hasn't put any of you off of flying," I say, trying my hand at a joke. "Statistically speaking, it's still the safest way to travel."

There's a smattering of nervous laughter. An older gentleman near the back actually starts to applaud. I'd stay longer to help, but there's still the matter of the mysterious attacker who started this.

As I exit the plane, I look through the air before I catch the gleam of the sunlight reflecting off of his chrome-metallic body. I ball up my fists, and feel my blood begin to boil.

Whoever this person is, he just nearly killed hundreds, maybe thousands, of innocent people, for seemingly no reason. That's enough to get anyone on my bad side.

Kicking up another cloud of dust as I push off from the ground, I take to the skies and rush towards the man on the surfboard.



"I don't know who you are, or what this is about," I say as I close in on him, "and honestly, I don't really give a damn. I'm ending this. Now."

Kicking up another cloud of dust as I push off from the ground, I take to the skies and rush towards the man on the surfboard.

"I don't know who you are, or what this is about," I say as I close in on him, "and honestly, I don't really give a damn. I'm ending this. Now."

The shockwave of their collision rippled through the air. An impact three times as powerful of the bomb that leveled Hiroshima tore across the badlands, cracking the ground and sending entire chunks of the barren earth into the air. The crash was so loud, people from hundreds of miles away reported hearing it.

Both the Surfer and Superman were blown away by the energy of their violent crash. The Man of Steel rocketed towards the ground while the Surfer drifted higher and higher into the stratosphere until he slipped the bonds of gravity altogether. The blow he had received had been mighty, but yet the pain was not there. He was beyond pain in this state. That was something he had felt when he was... another man.

"STRENGTH," the Surfer said in a voice that was little above the whisper, yet both Superman and Flash could hear his words clearly."YOU HAVE STRENGTH IN ABUNDANCE."

Floating in the upper levels of the atmosphere, the Surfer balled both his fists. Energy crackled from his knuckles. The power he wielded resided on Earth, as it resided in the deepest black holes and at the edges of the universe. It was the power of the cosmos itself that he was tapped in to. To fight him was to fight against the power of the universe. The energy in his hands slowly stretched across his arms, chest, and legs. Lastly, it covered his head until his entire body radiated with the Power Cosmic.



"BUT IS IT A SIMPLE BRUTE STRENGTH, OR CAN IT BE WIELDED WITH PRECISION?"

He exploded downwards, his body and board crackling with energy and leaving a trail of electricity in his wake as he rocketed towards the Earth and the heroes in the Badlands. They had yet to learn of sacrifice, but the Surfer had planned to give them a lesson on such matters in due time.

The shockwave of their collision rippled through the air. An impact three times as powerful of the bomb that leveled Hiroshima tore across the badlands, cracking the ground and sending entire chunks of the barren earth into the air. The crash was so loud, people from hundreds of miles away reported hearing it.

Both the Surfer and Superman were blown away by the energy of their violent crash. The Man of Steel rocketed towards the ground while the Surfer drifted higher and higher into the stratosphere until he slipped the bonds of gravity altogether. The blow he had received had been mighty, but yet the pain was not there. He was beyond pain in this state. That was something he had felt when he was... another man.

"STRENGTH," the Surfer said in a voice that was little above the whisper, yet both Superman and Flash could hear his words clearly."YOU HAVE STRENGTH IN ABUNDANCE."

For a moment, I stare at the shining metallic man in disbelief. I hit him at full force, at near top speed.....and he didn't even seem to feel it. This isn't the first time simply throwing a haymaker hasn't worked-- the Parasite was able to drain energy out of my punches every time they made contact, Livewire's body could turn into a sentient electrical charge, and the Atomic Skull was simply too lost in his insanity to register how much damage I'd done to him. This, though, was the first time I've thrown my best punch, and the opponent was simply too tough for me to hurt.

"That's not--" I start before stopping myself. The word I was going to say was "possible," but I know better these days. Ma always jokes that I "do a dozen impossible things before lunch," so maybe I shouldn't be caught off-guard when something challenges my own expectations.

Impossible or not, this guy is tough as hell. I don't know if I'm capable of even really putting a dent in him, let alone beating him in a straight-up fight. Regardless, I've got to do something, or he's going to put more innocent people at risk.

Floating in the upper levels of the atmosphere, the Surfer balled both his fists. Energy crackled from his knuckles. The power he wielded resided on Earth, as it resided in the deepest black holes and at the edges of the universe. It was the power of the cosmos itself that he was tapped in to. To fight him was to fight against the power of the universe. The energy in his hands slowly stretched across his arms, chest, and legs. Lastly, it covered his head until his entire body radiated with the Power Cosmic.



"BUT IS IT A SIMPLE BRUTE STRENGTH, OR CAN IT BE WIELDED WITH PRECISION?"

He exploded downwards, his body and board crackling with energy and leaving a trail of electricity in his wake as he rocketed towards the Earth and the heroes in the Badlands. They had yet to learn of sacrifice, but the Surfer had planned to give them a lesson on such matters in due time.

I can feel the waves of energy radiating from the silver man, making my spine tingle as he charges forward. It's....immense, hard to even fathom. He's like an exploding star in humanoid form, a living force of Nature itself.

Then again, that's what everyone says about me.

"You want to know what I can do with my strength?" I say, my fists raised in a fighting stance. "Come and find out!"

I hurl myself skywards at the mysterious attacker, the searing heat and teeth-chattering electrical shock from the energy flowing across his body growing exponentially stronger as we approach on a collision course. I pull my right hand back, winding up for a hook that, if it connects, would shatter a mountain.

Time slows to a crawl, split-seconds stretching like pulled taffy as we near our point of impact. I can't even begin to calculate his power, but with the amount of energy I'm capable of putting out and our combined speed, if I meet him strength-for-strength, regardless of who wins, the impact would be like that from the meteor that killed the dinosaurs. A planet-wide, mass-extinction event.

Fortunately, slamming into things at full force isn't the only thing I can do.

In the remaining inches between myself and the silver man, I dive downwards, the sudden change of movement throwing my cape into his face like a bullfighter. Instead of letting loose with the hard right, I turn hard to the left and throw out a sweeping backhand, my forearm connecting with the back of his left knee.

There's a loud KTING, like a baseball being hit with an aluminum bat, and I turn to see the surfer take a tumble off of his board, hurtling down into the Badlands and kicking up an enormous dust cloud as he smashes into the earth.

Given that he was able to take a haymaker head-on without so much as a grunt, I doubt I've done anything more than tick him off. But it's bought me a few seconds. Maybe the Flash can tell me what we're up against, and how we can stop it.

Scanning the horizon, I eventually see the red-and-yellow-clad figure and speed towards her, ripping up a trail of dust and gravel in my wake.

"Flash, right?" I say as I come to a halt in front of her. "We don't have much time, but I've got him on the ground. Maybe together, we can keep him there."