---

---

“A god?” Fate asked suspiciously. “Seems rather convenient that it only destroyed this city and left the palace and lands beyond unmarred.”

“You must understand,” the man on the throne said, “this god was weakened, as my sorcerers tell me, from centuries of imprisonment. And yet, although my cadre of mages and enhanced guards managed to drive it off, they paid for it with their lives.”

“Enhanced guards?”

“My personal retinue. Picked out because they were far more unique than the average Daxami.”

That gave him pause. What the man – lord? – was describing sounded like metahumans, except on their own planet. And someone decided to unleash a god upon this man? To what ends? “Why summon a god here? What motivation would these 'heretics' have to risk their own planet against you?”

“To smear my name, I suspect,” the lord said as he sat back against the throne. “Ever since I starting running to become the High King of this dreadful planet, my opponents have been bending backwards to smear my name and keep me from the Throne.”

“This is political?”

“Isn’t everything?”

“Summoning a god, however? Isn’t that a bit extreme? Exposing a stupid mistake in your past would’ve sufficed.”

The lord gave him a dumb look, which then turned to realization and understanding as he rolled his eyes. “I forget you’re not from this planet. Smear campaigns against those running for High King – or High Queen – of the planet without irrefutable proof is highly illegal in our world. Even alluding to something without some form of evidence can be charged with conspiracy to incite anarchy.”

“And you suspect someone is going to run a smear campaign against you?”

“Most definitely. Even now I can practically see those dreadful reporters rushing to their ships to be the first to get this story.”

“But you just said... what proof do they have against you?”

“I am,” the lord sighed as he waved a hand, “eccentric when it comes to magical experiments. There is no proof to it, but clearly someone’s willing to go to jail to see me far away from the Throne.”

Fate blinked as he took all of it in. Someone was willing to go to great lengths just to see themselves on this High Throne, or to keep this lord off of it. He still didn’t know enough to make any judgments, but he had to give answer to the summoning of a god. He had to stop it, seal it away before it regained its powers and put the entire planet at risk. Whatever happened after that, he would let the proponents of the world figure out; last thing he wanted was to get mixed in with politics, especially on a different planet.

“The god that was summoned, which one was it?”

“You would know more of that than I, Dr. Fate of Earth,” the lord said as he leaned forward, “my sorcerers tell me it’s a relatively ancient earth god with the aspect of War.”

That narrowed it down. There were as many gods of war as there were past civilizations on Earth. It could be anyone of them. He decided to go for another line of questioning. “Do you have any clue as to who plotted this summoning?”

“Who else than that demon Witch Queen, Wotan? She’s also running for the High Throne and although she believes her policies are better than mine, I’m winning the polls. She’s been struggling to connect with the various influential countries and no one’s been giving her ‘the time of day’ so to speak. With this, she’s effectively alienated me from all my supporters and they’ll now flock to her.”

“And this god of war, where will I find it?”

“It could be huddling in a fucking pit for all I care. But to answer your question, it’s probably in or around Terrussan. The country’s entire economy almost practically survives on war and selling weapons to intergalactic terrorists, selling secrets that would incite war, and well. It makes the most sense.”

“I think that’s enough for now, I’ve taken too much of your time already. I’ll seal this god before anymore damage can be done to the planet.”

“You do that. And while you’re at it, do me a favour and expose that bitch Wotan.”

“I’ll make no promises, but I’ll do what I can.” With that a massive ankh appeared underneath him and he descended into it.

Once Dr. Fate left there was a lingering, stretched silence in the throne room. Then, Lord Kendar leaned over to one of his sorcerers, “you need to teach me how to make an exit like that.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Chinatown, New York City

---

Danny felt immensely uncomfortable in a suit and tie. It restricted his movement in ways that were impractical, especially for his "night job." Of course, a suit is what was considered appropriate to wear for the majority shareholder for a multi-million dollar company (nearly a billion dollar company, as Joy always said in Board Meetings). So the millionaire adjusted his tie as he walked into the community center he fought so hard to get set up. Of course, with the allocations given he could only afford a space between a gift shop and a Chinese restaurant. The center was small, but it did good work. There were four families, about fifteen people altogether, gathered in such a small lobby area eating food out of plastic trays. Danny gave a small wave to Terry Cho, the receptionist on duty forced to work out of the kitchen window. Terry gave a toothy grin over to Danny. "Danny-boy! What brings you to Chinatown?"

"Someone has to make sure you don't get in trouble, Terry." Danny moved along out of the lobby and towards the stairs, each step creaking under the slightest bit of pressure. As he reached the top, there was a small hallway leading to different rooms. A bathroom, a bunk room for women, a bunk room for men, and then the office for Colleen Wing. He made his way over, knocking at the door. It took a few moments before a young Chinese woman opened the door. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, her green eyes standing out against the dark circles resting under them. As her eyes scanned up towards Danny, they lit up. "Mr. Rand... I... didn't know you were coming."

"Apologies for not giving any notice... Just wanted to check in and see how things have developed here." Colleen gave a nod and motioned back towards her broom-closet of an office. Her desk practically divided the room in half, with a bookshelf against the right wall containing a variety of textbooks, literature, and legal codes. Before her desk were two chairs, and Danny entered to take one of them while Colleen sat in her own desk chair on the other side, closing up a textbook she was clearly reading. She was, after all, finishing up her college thesis. Something on the art of warfare in ancient China, if Danny remembered correctly.

"I'm sorry, had I known that you'd been coming, Mr. Rand, I would have cleaned up the place a little. Not that not knowing you'd be coming is an excuse for the mess, I just mean-"

Danny chuckled a little and raised his hand, forcing Colleen to close her mouth out of anxiety. She was terrified of being chewed out. But the voice that greeted her was gentle and calm. "You work in a way that is comfortable for you. The only thing that matters is that we make sure the people here are provided for." Colleen nodded. "And, for another thing... It's Danny. Mr. Rand was my father."

At this, Colleen actually let out a small squeak of a laugh. There was something practically childlike about Danny's casual attitude towards life. Certainly a byproduct of his upbringing in a place where class was nonexistent. Colleen leaned back towards her bookshelf, picking out a rather large binder and handing it over to her guest. "Here are the logs of the past month." He took the binder, flipping through it and nodding as he looked through. He was struck by how many names were listed. So many people came to this center for help over the past month. That's all Danny really needed to see. He closed up the binder, handing it back to the center's manager. "That's all I needed to see, Ms. Wing. I'll make sure this place gets more funding."

"Thank you, M-... Danny."

He gave a reassuring smile back to Colleen, standing up from his chair and beginning to make his way out of the office. Colleen stood up to see him out of the center. As they reached the front door, the two shook hands firmly before Danny stepped out onto the street. As the door closed behind him, Danny began to make his way to the car idling on the street for him.

That was the plan, at least.

A few worried customers came pouring out of the restaurant and into the street, trying to get out of the area as fast as possible. Danny gave a small sigh as he raised a finger in the direction of his driver, who had gotten out of the car only to sigh and get back in. Danny entered into the restaurant, seeing a few Golden Tigers pushing the Steward back into the kitchen. The dining area remained empty, so Danny took this moment to turn the sign in the door from “Open” to “Closed.”

Danny spent a moment removing his suit coat, tie, and dress shirt. All that was left was his undershirt and dress pants as he kicked off his socks and shoes as well. Much more liberating. The Iron Fist gave a smile as he made his way towards the kitchen.

Almost immediately as he entered the kitchen, sounds of fighting escaped through the swinging doors. Pots and Pans clanged against daggers and skulls, and within a minute the Iron Fist was dragging out the last conscious Golden Tiger by the shirt collar. Danny lifted him up with both hands and slammed him into a nearby kitchen table, the table nearly buckling under the pressure.

”Who leads the Tigers?”

The kid must have been a few months shy of 17, but his fierce expession demonstrated the harsh experiences he had in his life. The Tiger spat into the face of his adversary, forcing a slight laugh to escape Danny’s lips. His Fist flew Golden and connected with the Tiger’s right leg. A loud snap filled the silent restaurant before the shrieking began. The Golden Tiger clearly wasn’t expecting that.

”I will ask one more time. Who leads the Golden Tigers?”

”Ch... Chaka. He calls himself ‘The Reaper.’”

Danny gave a small smile, his right Fist unclenching. Within a blink of the eye, Danny used a left jab to knock the Tiger unconscious, collapsing the table below his weight. Danny made his way towards the front door, putting on his shirt and suit coat. He tucked away a hundred dollar bill under a register located at the counter near the door. He then began walking out of the restaurant and to his car, getting into the back seat without a word. The car pulled away as Danny looked out the car window to the streets of Chinatown.

New Atlantis, Atlantis

The sound of knuckles rapping against the door of Sue Storm’s quarters interrupted her concentration. She looked up from the book of Atlantean history she had borrowed from Namor’s personal library to see the figure opening the door. It was Namora – Princess Namora, as she was referred to by her subjects – and from the look on her face she was no more pleased to be speaking to Sue than she ever was.

“The king requests your presence, surface dweller.”

Sue sighed, placed an ornate golden bookmark on the page she was reading, and closed her book. Ever since she had arrived in Atlantis, Sue had been reading all she could about its history and culture. There were tomes Namor kept locked away in his library that predated the Great Deluge. It had taken a while for quarters to be built to her specification but now she had almost settled she found the reading therapeutic. She had left her old life and its many problems behind. Though Namora seemed to enjoy making a point of reminder her she didn’t belong.

“You know, Namora, I don’t expect you to ever like me, but the least you could do is use my actual name from time to time. Which is Susan – or Sue – for what it’s worth. Not that you didn’t know that already.”

“Your presence in New Atlantis defiles our great capital. I do not know what power you have over my cousin, but I do know this – I do not trust you or the ‘advice’ you give him. Your loyalties are to the surface world, not ours.”

They exited Sue’s quarters and made the long way out through the Hallway of Sorrows. It was called as such because it marked the spot where Shalako had been murdered by the Mer-people some nine thousand years ago. Every guard they walked past knelt down on one knee, fist touching the ground and head lowered in reverence at Namora’s presence. That particular detail of Atlantean life was still something Sue was struggling to get to grips with.

“Sometimes you talk about the surface world as if it were another planet.”

In one hard, unforgiving look, Namora made clear to Sue how little she thought of the people living above the waves. “It might as well be.”

Once through the Hallway of Sorrows, they passed through the Great Hall. Sue had never seen anything like it. Every surface was coated in gold. The chairs, the tables, even the immaculately clean knives and forks that lined the tables shone with a light so blinding it could blind. The hall had been home to some of the most dramatic moments in Atlantean history – among them Guy Gardner’s mock-trial the last time a surface-dweller visited Atlantis. Though Sue knew better than to mention that particular incident in Namora’s presence.

“The way I see it, what’s good for Atlantis is good for the surface world. I’m here to help foster peace between our two worlds, Namora. The kind of peace that will keep both of our peoples safe. Surely that’s a good thing?”

“There is an Atlantean saying,” Namora said as she shoved open the hall doors. “Those that want peace must find it at the end of a trident.”

Once through the doors, Namora left them to swing back in Sue’s face without a care. Sue caught the heavy doors in time, having learned to expect such things from the princess, and used all her might to keep them open long enough to slide through and jog after Namora.

Once she’d caught up with the princess she offered her a knowing a smile. “We have a similar saying on the surface world, funnily enough.”

The last leg of the journey the pair made in silence. Climbing the tower to Namor’s study was no easy task, not even for one of Namora’s sturdy Atlantean constitution. It was, of course, designed to be difficult to reach. Though Namor was no great reader he valued his privacy almost more than anyone Sue had ever met. The brash, aggressive man she had met on the deck of the Pegasus had proved to have hidden depths. It was why, despite herself, Sue had agreed to stay in Atlantis far longer than their ‘arrangement’ had required.

A dozen guards stood sentinel outside of the king’s refuge. As was custom, they knelt before Namora and the princess gestured to them to return to their feet. As she reached for the handle to her cousin’s study the door opened and an unfamiliar man stepped through it.

Decked out in black and purple armour, the man offered Namora only a smile. His face was hidden behind a silver cowl with orange lenses covering his eyes and yet Sue could still sense that there something unusual about the man. It was only then that she realised that unlike the others, the man had not knelt.

“Princess.”

Namora nodded nervously and stepped out of the man’s path. He smiled at the princess again, though his eyes showed no indication of warmth or kindness, before sneering dismissively in Sue’s direction. With that the armoured man disappeared down the tower’s stairs, taking four of the guards with him, and Namora gestured to Sue that she should step inside.

As Sue shut the door behind her she noticed for the first time there was worry in Namora’s eyes – and despite the way she had treated her since arriving in Atlantis, she could not help but feel moved by it. She cast the thought from her mind as she turned to greet the king. Namor was sat behind a desk that had large, detailed map of the seven seas strewn across it.

“Welcome, Susan, I trust you find your lodgings satisfactory?”

“Satisfactory doesn’t do them justice,” Sue smiled. “You have been very generous to me, Namor, although I can’t say the same for Namora.”

“The princess has been known to bear grudges. Since Namora's encounter with the one you call Gardner she has developed something of a mistrust for all surface-dwellers. Rest assured that in time she will come to accept your position as my servant just as my other subjects have.”

Sue had two points of contention with Namor’s assertion. Though Namora’s disgust at Sue’s presence in Atlantis was more open than the average Atlanteans, Sue was under no illusions that they felt any differently about the subject. Even a king as powerful as Namor could not compel his subjects to love. The other issue Sue had – which she had addressed several times before – was with the word servant.

“Advisor.”

Namor waved a dismissive hand in her direction as if the distinction was completely meaningless to him. “Yes, yes, as you wish, Susan.”

Sue glanced down at map atop Namor’s desk. There were figurines in battle formations, big swooping arrows indicating troop movements, and in-depth explanations as to varying current levels in different battlezones. Though the Atlanteans possessed holographic technology that far outstripped the surface world’s, Namor was a traditionalist. In fact, from Sue’s reading it was exactly his traditionalism – and his considerable might, of course – that helped him capture the Atlantean throne.

Out of the corner of Sue’s eye she spotted one target on the map that was far away from the others. From what she could make out it was on the northeast coast of the United States, perhaps Maine or even New Brunswick in Canada, and it appeared a single cell had been sent there. When she strained to deduce more, Namor pushed the figures atop the map aside and stepped away from the desk.

“Who was that man you were speaking with?”

“His name is Orm,” Namor explained. “He is one of my most trusted generals. During the Glorious Reclamation, Orm lead the siege at Xebel that helped break the back of the incompetents sitting atop the throne. Atlantis owes him a great debt for bringing that den of iniquity to heel.”

Try as she might, Sue couldn't seem to put the worry she had seen in Namora's eyes out of her mind. “Your cousin seemed afraid of him.”

“She is right to be afraid. There is a madness in Orm’s bloodline. Atlantean children pass horror stories of his exploits at Xebel around to this very day – and with good reason. Orm’s cruelty is single-minded, obsessive almost. He respects no title, courtesy, or tradition. Only strength.”

Namor stood before the window of his study and looked out across it. From it all of New Atlantis could be seen. It was a city twice the size of New York, with a hundred times the life forms, and yet it was only a fraction of Namor’s dominion. It was clear from the way he stared out at his kingdom possessively that he alone possessed the strength to command Orm’s respect.

“He sounds like a dangerous man to keep around.”

A devilish smile crossed the king’s face that put the worst of Sue's worries at ease. “Perhaps, Susan, but only for the enemies of Atlantis.”


Sue wandered over to Namor’s side and joined him staring out at New Atlantis. It was beautiful. Perhaps she got caught up in the beauty or perhaps it had been so long since she had thought of the surface world that when Namor slipped his fingers through hers she did not resist. His hands were rough, but warm, and the gentleness he showed in pulling her towards him surprised Sue. The king was about to plant a kiss on her lips when she regained her senses and pushed him back.

Sue clumsily tried to change subject. “How goes the struggle against Black Manta and the Drowned? I overheard one of the guards talking about the attack on Tlapallan this morning. Apparently there were heavy losses? Perhaps it’s time that you considered the peace proposa-”

“There will be no suing for peace with fanatics that murder innocent people. That terrorist’s head will be mine. His band of followers think they can take refuge among the barbarians at Maarzon? They are wrong. With every day that passes, we learn more about their organisation and its movements. With every day that passes, the net encircles them more. As Poseidon is my witness, Black Manta is not long for this world.”

Namor strode back to his desk and took his seat. His mood had shifted, as it so often did, and it was clear from the way he was scribbling onto some parchment that his appetite for conversation had gone. Sue's excitement had given way to guilt, but now dread had taken its place. As she stared out across New Atlantis, she couldn't help but feel that things in Atlantis were going to get a lot worse before they got better.

“Ms. Stacy,” a voice floats lazily to my ears through the darkness before it fades into the void, an echo tumbling down an endless cave. From in front of my eyes a blurry point of light appears, like a star in the night sky obscured with a thin layer of water. The voice repeats its call to me, and the light gets brighter and brighter until my eyes flash open and I realize I’ve fallen asleep in physics class. My teacher, Mr. Becker, looks on with annoyance, “Ms. Stacy, I asked you a question.”

I look around to find everyone in class staring at me as I try and discretely wipe away some drool from the side of my mouth. Flash is snickering, and Liz Allen is outright howling. Peter shoots me a sympathetic look.

“I...uh...force equals mass times acceleration,” I manage to stutter out without having any idea what the question was.

Everyone howls with laughter as Mr. Becker attempts to quiet everyone down, “Please. Please. Enough, you hyenas. Ms. Stacy, I merely wanted to know why you were sleeping in my class. Am I boring you?”

Of course that’s all he wanted to know.

“No, sir,” I shake my head. “I just...had a long night last night. You know? Kinda just beat.”

“Well, let’s not let it happen again, shall we?”

I nod as he continues to drone on. To be honest, I’m kind of a whiz in physics, so I don’t really need to pay attention, and I could really use the sleep. I’ve been trying to track down the source of the Octopus’s drugs into New York, mapping them at home.

A huge map of the city hangs on the wall of my bedroom, crisscrosses of colored string spider-webbing across the streets of New York. Red crosses over blue, which passes under yellow, pink, and black. Pinning them to the map are pushpins of just as many colors. The map is absolutely a mess, and I've been adding more and more as the weeks have gone on

Each point shows a place I found a dealer pushing Ink, or where I stopped a large shipment in a truck. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’ve seen an uptick recently. I don’t know if it’s because of people getting more depressed during the holidays, or if the Octopus’s plan to spread addiction through the city is working better than I thought it is.

Neither of those options are very good.

What’s worse though is where the lines seem to be coming from. All the lines seem to come from the Bronx. Normally, that wouldn’t be all that big of a deal. But that was before the Surfer decided to destroy the supermax prison that is located right off the coast of that part of the city. Since then, the Bronx has become something of a war zone. Cops don’t go there, and the only protection people have is a gang calling themselves the Pale Horses. From reports, they’re a pack of vigilantes, but they’re brutal. They don’t take prisoners, and have already killed quite a few people.

Normally, I’d go into stop them, like I did with the Punisher. But I don’t want to waltz in there and fight them, the Octopus, and any escaped Raft inmates still in the area. Dad’s already warned me that would be a suicide mission.

But I can’t wait around any longer. If the Ink continues to spread over the city, it won’t be long until it spreads from here.

I guess it’s time to head into the Bronx.



“Absolutely not,” Dad shakes his head as I finish putting on my mask. “We’ve talked about this. Until I can get info on where the Pale Horse territory runs from my guy in organized crime it’s too dangerous to go poking around in there.”

I knew he wasn’t going to like this. He’s been wary of me going into dangerous situations ever since the Surfer. He knows how out of my league I was there, but this is different.

“Dad, it’s a bunch of vigilante gangbangers,” I protest. “I can take care of them. And I need to find where these drugs are coming from. I can’t wait anymore.”

“I’ve heard stories,” Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. “Whoever runs the Pale Horses? He’s not to be trifled with. Heard guys on the street say he can rip a door straight off a car. That he can take on hell of a punch and not lose a step. I just don’t want you racing in to another situation like you did with Black Tarantula.”

“Dad, do you think the Pale Horses are running Ink?” I ask him, tilting my head to the side. “Because if they’re not, I don’t think I’m gonna have that much of an issue with them. I’ll be in and out before you can say Spider-Woman.”

“They don’t like cops, sweetheart,” he assures me. “How do you think they’re going to feel about you?”

“Dad, I’m Spider-Woman, not Spider-Cop,” I shrug as I head for the window. “I’ll be fine.”



The swing to the Bronx doesn’t take long, but the change couldn’t be more stark. The streets of this part of the city are clear of the throngs of pedestrians you find elsewhere. Windows are barred with clearly new fortifications installed since the Raft incident. And curtains are pulled shut over dimly lit windows, making sure no one sees what people have in their homes.

It makes me sad to see what the neighborhood has become. It was just as nice as Queens before the Raft, and things have taken such a drastic turn. Still, the fact that it’s basically become a no-go zone for police would make it the perfect place for the Octopus to run his business from. Don’t have to worry about unwanted raids if there’s no one doing the raiding.

“So, any ideas where I can start looking?” I ask Dad over the comms. He’s taken over helping me in situations I know Peter will be out of his league. Pete is great, of course, but he’s not really proficient in tracking down drug dealers.

“Well the docks are out,” Dad says as I swing over the abandoned-looking streets. “SHIELD has enough patrols down that way during their rebuild of the Raft. There’s an area in the West Bronx that might fit the bill. Some old warehouses that have been abandoned for a while. Would be a good place to set up shop.”

“Of course it has to be all the way across hostile territory. What else would be the case?”

“You wanted to do this, remember?”

“Yea, well, not everything I do is smart. Remember?”

“Sure, but you can do this.”

I was sure Dad was going to hate me being Spider-Woman. I mean, I flaunt the thing he's held dear his entire life every day and night I go out on patrol. I'm a vigilante. There's no dancing around the subject. Cops hate vigilantes. Hell, before I told him what I am, Dad hated them with all his heart. I don't know if it's because it's me, or if something else changed his mind, but he's behind me one hundred percent, and I could not be any happier about that.

"Thanks, Dad," I smile as I swing deeper into this part of the city. "I'll get in touch if I find anything."

NYPD 28th Precinct
Harlem

Captain Alex Stone wouldn’t make eye contact with Misty. Instead he looked straight ahead as he smoked his cigarette. Everyone at the Two-Eight knew the captain’s favorite hideout to smoke was a half block away from the precinct in a doorway of an alley. One of the holy commandments of the Two-Eight was “Thou Shall Not Interrupt The Cap During His Smoke Break,” and Misty had never even thought about doing that when she was here.

But now she was a civilian out of Stone’s reach. But even still, she felt a little bad to have cornered him here while he enjoyed one of his few pleasures of the day.

“It was short notice,” said Misty. “That’s the only reason I’m here now.”

“Right,” Stone said, blowing smoke from his nostrils. “When I said ‘keep in touch’ I meant a phone call every so often, a text here or there, Facebook friends, maybe get a drink and catch up. I didn’t mean you coming to pump me about information, Misty.”

Misty held a hand up and nodded. “Cap, I get that. I really do. You know me, right? I am not a heretic. I wouldn’t interrupt you while you were smoking unless it were a serious matter. Someone is dead and I think their death was related to this mob guy case Chase is working on.”

Misty noticed Stone’s face grimace at just the mention of Chase. The two had mixed it up once or twice back when Chase had been investigating her for the DA’s office. The captain had put his entire career at risk to go to bat for her in that one. It was all for nothing, unfortunately. Misty was still on the outside looking in, and the political blowback from it meant there was a good chance Stone would never make inspector.

“When did this murder happen?” Stone asked with a sigh.

“This afternoon,” said Misty. “In Crown Heights. I think that’s Seven-Seven territory.”

Stone tilted his head, making eye contact with Misty for the first time. The way his eyes bored into her made her remember very well, the captain’s storied history as a homicide detective.

“Tell me again how you know this murder happened?”

“I went to the apartment to interview the woman who lived there and saw cops and vans from the ME’s office there. I saw a body bag being wheeled out. I went back later and saw crime scene tape on the apartment listed as her home address.”

Stone’s eyes refused to look away. Misty was sure he could smell the bullshit on her story. Instead, he finally looked away and tossed his cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel.

“If I call and find out who was murdered in that apartment, and if I give you that information and it does turn out that this murder was related to whatever you and [i[Mr. Yale[/i] are working on, then you go right to the Seven-Seven with what you know and you let them do their job.”

“Okay,” said Misty.

“Because this won’t end how you think it will,” said Stone. “You won’t earn your badge back if you bring in a murderer on your own. That part of your life is over with. Pains me to say it, but it’s the truth. If this information leads somewhere, then you do the right thing and let NYPD take over.”

“I promise,” Misty lied. “And thank you, cap.”

“Don’t thank me,” Stone said as he started to walk away. “Thank Earl.”

---

Federal Plaza
Lower Manhattan

Adrian Chase stared at the US Attorney’s seal on the wall of the lobby. It appeared to Chase to be just off-center. A little crooked. He had been resisting the urge to correct it for almost an hour now. He’d come in two hours ago with his copy of the signed discovery request. The receptionist had politely but coldly asked him to take a seat and someone would be with him shortly.

During that time he’d used the bathroom, asked three times how much longer it would be, was kindly but firmly rebuffed by the receptionist, managed his fantasy football lineup, received a cryptic text from Misty saying something had happened, she was now working the case, and she would be by the office later tonight when she found something.

“Mr. Chase?”

Adrian stood and followed the receptionist back through the corridors to an ornate corner office. A tall, thin man in an expensive three-piece suit was busy practicing putting a golf ball down a strip of fake turf. He looked up at the door opening, his steely gray hair perfectly combed and a set of perfect white teeth flashing as he smiled.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome.”

He took Adrian’s hand into his. While the skin was soft, his grip was firm.

“I just wanted to introduce myself. I’m Jack Thomas. US Attorney for the Southern District of New York.”

“I know who you are,” Chase said softly.

“You remember me?”

Thomas smiled warmly and went back to his short game.

“I mean, anyone who is plugged into the legal community in Manhattan knows who you are.”

“Oh, shoot,” Thomas said as his putt went slightly right of the cup that served as the hole. “I thought maybe you remembered me from when I was at CPZ.”

“You worked for CPZ?” Adrian asked with a raised eyebrow. “When?”

“Oh, back when you were a boy,” said Thomas. “I was a senior associate back then. I got my start with the firm as a summer associate right out of law school, back when Little Al was running the show and it was just Chase & Prescott. No Zucker.”

Alfred Chase Jr., Adrian’s grandfather, had been the man responsible for turning Chase & Prescott Attorneys At Law from a debt-ridden two-man firm that he'd inherited from his father into one of the largest and most prestigious law practices in the mid-atlantic and northeast. Despite overshadowing his father in almost every single way, Alfred was always known as Little Al until the day he died.

“So how is Trip?” Thomas asked. “I haven’t seen him in nearly five years.”

“He’s good,” Chase said as he looked out at the impressive view of the city. “He’s on his second heart, third face lift, and fourth wife. So all is well.”

Thomas lined his putter up for another attempt. “I have to say I admire your gumption. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for you to get a job at CPZ and just coast on the family name. But you’re out here hustling.”

The US attorney made a little fist pump as the ball went into the cup. He laughed and turned his attention back to Adrian.

“That’s what I’m talking about. But take for example Angelo Campisi. My office has crossed swords with all the mob lawyer firms in town so often it’s downright boring. So it is a breath of fresh air to see you in here, hungry and eager to take the case. I respect that.”

“Well, thank you,” Adrian said with a smile. “It means a lot coming from someone like you.”

Thomas gestured towards Adrian with his putter.

“That is why I want to work out a deal with you, since we’re both part of the CPZ Family, as it were. Our FBI brethren are looking hard at Angelo’s bosses, but so far these guys have actually showed good discipline. It’s rare for mobsters. They want a win, so Campisi gets Queen for a Day and he tells us every dirty little secret that the Regetti Crime Family has and the he and his family go into WitPro and with your help we dismantle one of the last big major Mafia operations.”

“Wow,” said Adrian. “You start with Queen for a Day?”

“I start and end there,” Thomas said with a humorless laugh. “Get with your client, Adrian. This deal is only good for forty-eight hours. After that, we go to trial. And while you got heart, kid, you can’t win at trial. My AUSA’s would tear you apart. So, tick-tock, counselor.”

Thomas’ warmth had seem to evaporate. He turned back to his putting and spoke without looking back at Adrian.

“You can pick your discovery up on the way out. Make sure you shut the door behind you as you leave.”

---

Heroes for Hire Offices
Midtown

Misty came up to the fourth floor landing of the walk-up office building. The door with “Heroes for Hire” stenciled on it in gold still had lights shining through the door’s opaque window. She used her key to open the door and stopped at the threshold when she saw the boxes.

Groups of file boxes were scattered around the reception area Gladys usually sat at. Boxes on her desk, on the chair’s for clients, on the floor wherever there was room. Misty furrowed her brow and called out for Chase.

“Back here,” came his reply.

She stepped over boxes and made her way to Chase’s office. Like the reception area, it was cluttered with stacks and stacks of files. Misty noticed for the first time that every box had the same government seal on it.

“This is what they do,” Chase said from behind a wall of boxes. “The federal government. They try try to drown you in paperwork. I had to rent a U-haul to get them to the office.”

“But you don’t drive.”

“I had to hire an Uber driver, pay him to drive the Uhaul and help me unload, and then pay for him to take an Uber back to his car.”

Misty opened up one of the tops of the boxes and looked in.

“How much of this is legit?”

“All of it is,” said Chase. “But there’s so much here. Everything from Angelo’s FBI file, to FBI agents runsheets. I used to do the same when I was an ADA and wanted to overburden a one-man defense firm.”

“Sounds like a punk move.”

“It is,” said Chase. “But when I do it it’s a brilliant example of gamesmanship. So what happened with the goomar?”

Misty managed to carve out a place to sit and tell Chase on what happened in Brooklyn, her meeting with Stone, and Stone’s warning.

“Damn,” said Chase. “Today seems to be warning day. I got a personal audience with the US Attorney and a very generous offer to settle the case. That offer comes with a time-limit, though. Forty-eight hours to decide or the offer is gone for good. Something’s up. I think they know they have a loser and don’t want to take it to trial.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a prosecutor tried to offer up a deal to save face.”

Chase nodded and tapped his fingers on the desk. “I’m going to speak to Angelo tomorrow, but I’m sure he’ll turn it down.”

“Good. He shouldn’t take it.”

“Wait,” Chase said with a scowl. “I thought you wanted to dump this as quick as possible.”

“That was before a woman was murdered,” said Misty. “And your boy Angelo is a scumbag, at least this time he has an airtight alibi for the murder.”

“I still would have liked to have had Rosa as a witness,” Chase said with a sigh. “Alright, fuck it, I’ll deal with all of this tomorrow. Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Only if it’s top shelf,” said Misty. “I know you rich people keep your money by being cheap.”

Chase chuckled as the two of them started to wade through file boxes towards the door. After locking up, they headed down to the street. Less than a half block away from their offices, Chase pushed Misty back behind him as burgundy Lincoln jumped the curb and skidded to a stop on the sidewalk in front of them.

“Get out of my way,” Misty said as she pushed Chase aside and started started to go for her gun.

“Easy does it, sweetheart,” a man said as he came out of the car, a gun in his chubby hand. He had been behind the wheel of the car and his tracksuit matched the paint of the car.

The passenger side door opened and another man in a tracksuit got out. He, too, had a gun. He motioned towards the car with it. “The two of you need to get in the backseat. We’re going for a ride.”

By the time the Avengers arrived back in Washington, it was nearly morning. Figuring out a way to hide their comings-and-goings from Director Hill had initially proved a challenge… until they discovered that one of the traffic controllers on the Triskelion runways was a huge Captain America fanboy. All it took then was a one-on-one meeting -- and talks of how the agent would be working with Captain America on a secret mission -- to obtain takeoff and landing codes that didn't appear on the daily flight manifests. That freed them up to come and go as they pleased, although they still took the extra precaution of scheduling their flights for off-hours. And with Hill sidelining Team 7 indefinitely, the facilities and equipment were all there to be used.

Landing in their personal hangar, the team headed inside and began to unload. As they stripped of their gear and tended to their scrapes and bruises, Steve Rogers approached Diana, who was still holding Richlen's copy of War and Peace. Leaning against a locker with folded arms, Steve watched her trace her finger over the protrusion beneath the binding. “Three months for this,” Diana mused. “Doesn't seem like much, does it?”

“Well, normally I'd say, ‘Don't judge a book by its cover,’ but…” Steve gave a weak smile. He knew this wasn't really about the book. None of them had talked about what had happened in that apartment -- what Richlen had done to himself. It was grotesque. They'd have to be crazy not to wonder what it said about the enemy they now faced. Steve sensed the need to reinforce the positive. “This is what we've been working towards. Every secret mission, every dead lead. It's finally paid off.”

“Well,” said Barton, “then let's find out what we got.” He offered a hand to Diana. She handed him the book. Spinning it around, Barton considered the shape beneath the binding. He drew a knife from his belt and made an incision along the inside cover. Probing a finger inside, he drew out a tiny thumb drive. The rest of the team gathered around to consider it as Clint held it up to the light.

Vic reached out for it. “May I?” Barton handed it over. Victor Stone had been the newest addition to the Avengers’ roster; they brought him on when it became clear that the team needed someone with the technical know-how to go after Hydra. His father, Silas Stone, had been working on an experiment in interdimensional travel for SHIELD when tragedy struck. To save his son’s life, Silas had fused Victor’s body with top-of-the-line cybernetics. Vic plugged the drive into a port on his wrist; a blue holographic display appeared above his palm. “Unsurprisingly, it's encrypted,” he reported.

“How long will it take to crack?” Steve asked.

Cyborg frowned. “Richlen had access to some seriously high-level encryption. Looks like an evolving algorithm, rewriting itself every couple hours. And there’s a built-in killswitch; after the third failed attempt to access the data, the drive wipes itself,” he observed. With his free hand, he scratched the back of his neck. Shaking his head, he said, “This is going to take a little while, even for me. I’d say… a week, maybe two.”

“Hydra will learn of Richlen’s death soon, if they have not already,” Tatsu pointed out. “If they have reason to suspect he may have divulged critical information…”

“Then they’ll have a two week headstart on us,” Barton finished for her, grimly.

To feel the mood in the room, one would not think that the Avengers had just scored their first significant victory in the fight against Hydra. Of course, it was hard to feel accomplished when they still could not completely grasp the scale of their task. Again, Steve felt compelled to lift the spirits. “That may be, but we should only worry about what we can control. We have the drive, and soon we will have the names of other Hydra agents and sympathizers. Considering yesterday we only knew the identity of one, I’d call that a win,” Steve said. “For now, I say we take advantage of the time to rest up. After three months of constant searching, it’ll be nice to have a break.”



The sun had risen by the time Steve pulled his motorcycle onto his street. Obviously, making permanent residence in Wyoming while working in D.C. wasn't feasible -- nor did Steve care to stay at a hotel indefinitely -- so he dipped into his savings to pick up an apartment in this little Georgetown brownstone. The neighborhood was quiet and far from the craziness of the Capitol, so it fit Steve's wants and needs nicely. Of course, staying in Washington meant getting around… which is where the motorcycle came in. It had been a restoration job, giving Steve something to occupy his mind in his limited downtime.

Heading inside, Steve stopped at the mailboxes, where he ran into his neighbor, Bernadette “Bernie” Rosenthal. The sharply-dressed woman had her BlackBerry glued to her ear, as usual, and was in the middle of tearing into the person on the other end of the line. Steve tried to respect her privacy and not eavesdrop, but he could not help but catch bits and pieces of the conversation. “Listen to me: you tell the Congressman that if he wants to play hardball, we won't hold back. You understand? Good. Call me back with what he says,” Bernie finished, hanging up abruptly. She looked at Steve and said, “Sorry about that.”

Mail in hand, Steve shook his head. “Not at all. Just glad I wasn't on the receiving end,” he smiled. He closed his mailbox and added, “You're up early today.”

Bernie smirked. “Yeah, it can look that way when you haven't actually slept, huh?” she countered. A Chicago native, Bernie was a staffer for a junior Congressman from Illinois who had designs on the presidency in 2028; she planned to do everything in her power to get him there. As she collected her own mail, she remarked, “You know, sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have just taken my mother's career advice.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Why, what did she think you should do?”

“Glassblowing,” Bernie answered, earning a laugh. At that moment, her phone rang. Glancing at it to determine the caller and then back at Steve, she said, “I should probably take this. Good to see you.” As she wandered out of earshot, Steve could again hear her getting wound up, talking animatedly about an “agenda,” “votes,” and “campaign promises.”

Steve headed upstairs. His apartment was on the fourth floor, just across from Mrs. Kapplebaum, a lovely old woman whose family fled Germany during Hitler's rise to power when she was only a girl. She liked to talk to Steve at length about those days, unaware that he understood far better than most. She also baked an incredible Streuselkuchen, a treasured family recipe. Steve passed her door and arrived at his own. As he took out his keys, another door down the hall opened.

“Steve, I'm glad I caught you!” It was Arnie Roth, another of Steve's neighbors. The portly man always seemed to wear a smile and was friends with most everyone in the building. Arnie came down the hall, jacket tucked under his arm. “Michael and I are hosting a holiday party for the tenants this Saturday. We'd love if you could make it!”

Steve offered a smile as he fit his key into the lock. “We'll see, Arnie. I may be out of town this weekend.”

Arnie nodded understandingly. “Work's got you traveling a bunch, huh?” he asked.

“Something like that,” Steve answered with a grin. The door to his apartment lurched open, and Steve waved goodbye to his neighbor. Stepping inside, he tossed his keys and mail onto the table beside the door and began shedding his coat. The sound of toenails rapping on the hardwood floor alerted him to Scout's approach. Steve knelt down and greeted the dog, scratching him behind his ears. Scout had adjusted to his new home nicely, although he surely missed the great outdoors -- as did Steve.

Steve poured out a bowl of dry food for Scout and continued on towards the bathroom. He needed a hot shower to scour the dirt and grime of the favela from his skin. Standing beneath the showerhead, Steve felt a sting and discovered a graze along his abdomen; in the heat of things, he hadn't even felt the bullet catch him. Scrubbing out the spot, Steve watched the blood turn a pinkish-white as it mixed with the running water and disappeared down the drain. He dried off and applied a bandage. The wound would be gone in a day.

Finding Scout waiting for him outside the bathroom, Steve said, “What, you don't like being cooped up, either?” The dog tilted his head. Steve nodded. “Alright, come on.” He fetched Scout's leash and put on a heavy jacket. Grabbing his keys, he held the door open for Scout, who wasted no time dashing out into the hall. Steve followed a bit slower and lead the dog down the stairs and out onto the street.

There was a park not far from Steve's apartment building. At this time of day and in this cold, the foot traffic was light. Steve followed behind Scout, who was just happy to be getting fresh air. In his own way, Steve enjoyed it, too. The cold air was bracing; it helped him shake off the effects of multiple consecutive nights with only minimal sleep. Finding Richlen had been too important to rest, and -- even as a Super-Soldier -- it was catching up to him. Still, Steve imagined there would be a great deal more sleepless nights ahead.

Sniffing at the sidewalk, Scout led Steve over towards a bench in the center of the park. The woman sitting there seemed to pay them little mind, although she spoke up when approached. “It's funny,” she began, “When I heard you had a dog, I sort of pictured a golden retriever.” Steve took a good look at the woman for the first time and finally recognized her; with her peacoat and scarf, the Acting Director of SHIELD looked much different than she did at the office.

“I suppose it would be naive to think that you just happened to live around here,” Steve thought aloud. Director Hill shot him a glance, and he took the hint. Shortening up Scout's leash, Steve took the available seat at the end of the bench and said, “I always thought that the ‘two spies meeting on a park bench’ was something that only happened in movies.”

Hill shrugged, her gaze fixed ahead. “Well, I would've come to your apartment instead, but I didn't want to ruin your chances with that congressman's aide.” When she felt Steve's surprised stare, she finally looked his way and said, “I have the world's most sophisticated intelligence-gathering network at my disposal, and you think I don't know about your crush?” He let out a snort, and she turned her attention back to the park. “You had better hope she's been less attentive.”

Still, it gave Steve pause. If Director Hill knew about Bernie, was there any way she didn't know about the Avengers? They had been careful to cover their tracks -- particularly with Cyborg’s tech disrupting any possible surveillance technology, including cameras, on their missions -- but Hill clearly knew more about them than she let on. Just how much she knew was the question. As Steve contemplated this, Scout inched up to Hill and began sniffing at her feet. “I guess he likes you,” Steve remarked.

Hill looked down at the dog, offering a gloved hand to sniff. “In Washington, that'd be a first,” she mused. It was true: Maria Hill's tenure as Acting Director of SHIELD hadn't exactly been met with resounding support. Hill had an abrasive personality. So did Fury, to be fair, but his came with decades of experience in the military and intelligence to back it up. Then, of course, there was the unspoken reality that Nick Fury was a man and thus had been held to a different standard; his gruffness had been seen as almost charming, an allowance not granted to Hill.

For his part, Steve got the impression that Hill was just someone trying to do their best in an uncomfortable situation. He was sure that becoming SHIELD's Director was one of her goals, though certainly not like this. Being thrust into the position so suddenly often put her at odds with the Fury loyalists who objected to her managerial style. Even Steve had to admit that he didn't agree with some of Hill's decisions; as predicted, she had kept Team 7 on a much tighter leash and adopted a tougher stance on metahumans in general. Still, he didn't need to see eye-to-eye with the woman to respect her or the office she held. In time, he hoped, he could even bring her in on the Avengers’ project.

“My approval rate is far from our largest concern, however,” the Director continued. She reached over her side and produced a dossier. As she handed it to Steve, she explained, “Someone hit a SHIELD substation in Rome, cleaned out the armory. They made off with millions of dollars in cutting edge, military-grade weapons and prototypes.”

Steve furrowed his brow. He opened the folder to find a page of information on SHIELD's Roman base, including schematics and blueprints. Paging through it, he found screenshots of the heist in question. The crew was generally nondescript, looking like any sort of paramilitary group these days... save for their apparent leader; standing a head above everyone else in frame, the imposing figure wore a white strapped harness and skull mask. “What kind of outfit is coordinated enough to take on SHIELD?” Steve asked as he stared at the skull.

The Director nodded for him to continue. On the next page was a headshot of a bald, scowling man with colorless eyes and a cleft lip. “Meet Brock Rumlow,” Hill announced. Beneath the picture were documents: a criminal rap sheet and a record of military service. The Director narrated, “A real charmer. Served time in juvenile detention for an assault on a classmate; the kid needed twenty-six stitches and nine screws. After getting out, he did what any psychopath with no other prospects would do: he enlisted.”

“Even with a juvenile felony? Guess the recruitment officer saw that as a sign of potential,” Steve scowled. He had served alongside his fair share of bad apples. The military's cocktail of violence and authority attracted types like Rumlow. They didn't give a damn about serving; they just wanted an excuse to hurt others.

“Well, Rumlow rose fast, eventually joining Special Forces. There, he racked up a kill count that would make the Punisher blush. He was eventually dishonorably discharged -- surprise, surprise -- over an incident involving the apparent rape and beating of a widow in Yemen. After that, he began traveling the world, selling his services under the codename ‘Crossbones,’" Hill concluded. “His crew has been responsible for coups, assassinations, and general acts of violence all over the globe. They'll do anything for the right price.”

Steve nodded. “I'm all for going after Rumlow, but why not bring a team in on this?” He looked to the Director. “SHIELD has plenty of resources in that part of the world.”

Hill turned to consider him with something like self-doubt in her eyes. After a moment, she looked away and said, “Nick Fury held the world together with bandages and string. And with him gone, it's all threatening to unravel. If word got out that you can hit SHIELD with impunity, like sticking up the clerk at 7/11? It would be open season out there.” The unspoken implication was there: no one feared Maria Hill the way they feared Nick Fury. Asking for help was tantamount to failure in her eyes.

Steve gathered himself, shutting the folder. “So we keep it small,” he agreed, “a one-person manhunt. Where are we with Rumlow?”

“I deployed SHIELD facial recognition algorithms to comb through data from all around the world; closed circuit televisions, red light cameras, even available cell phone data. We finally turned up a hit,” she explained. She passed Steve a photograph. Even with the blurry security camera quality, Rumlow's distinctive facial structure was apparent. “This was taken two nights ago in Tangier.”

“You think he's meeting the buyer?” Steve asked.

“Or an intermediary. Either way, it's a safe bet that the stolen weapons are close at hand.” She collected the photograph and the dossier, adjusting her scarf. Giving Scout one last pat, she stood and put her hands in her pockets. Turning to look back at Steve, she asked, “How soon can you be in the air?”

Felicia Hardy sits on the catwalk above the warehouse, transfixed by the scene below her. Weeks ago, when they took over this place using funds secured by Flint Marko during Black Tarantula’s hectic siege on New York, it was nothing more than an empty, dusty, tetanus-filled hell hole. In a matter of a week, it became a fully functioning drug factory and lab, and is now running nearly autonomously. The place is spitting out kilo after kilo of the most potent synthetic heroine the market has ever seen. Their organization is raking in boatloads of cash because of it. She enjoys that, even if her employer seems to not care.

Her employer is the real reason she can’t help but watch what is going on below her. The four, snaking, slithering metal arms crisscross across the room, protruding from the back of Otto Octavius. The first time she had seen the arms, she had been in awe. He designed them to help with delicate experiments as the disease that was taking his fine motor skills progressed. The tentacles, as he called them, were more precise than he could be thanks to a microcontrol chip implanted directly into his cerebral cortex. They weren’t meant to help build his criminal empire, but that has all changed.

Doctor Octavius himself has changed, if she is being honest with herself. This great man had saved her from a life on the streets. He saved her from a life as a contract killer. He offered her something more than that. A chance to remake the world.

Pushing drugs isn’t her idea of remaking the world. She knows Octavius is out for vengeance. She’s seen it in him before. But this time it’s different. Maybe it’s the progression of the disease. Maybe it’s the fact that Spider-Woman and Osborn have mucked up his best laid plans. She doesn’t know for sure, because the good doctor has become insulated in the past months. Now he only speaks to her when he has orders.

She isn’t angry. Not yet. He keeps the money flowing freely, so she has what she’s here for. But she’d be lying if she said she isn’t worried.

“My dear,” Octavius’s voice approaches as the tentacles extend, reaching him up to the catwalk she is sitting on, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”[color=a2d39c][/color]

“Anything you want, Doc,” she smiles wryly. “I’ve been sharpening my claws all day hoping for some play time.”

“I can always count on you,” he smiles. “I need you to go out on patrol. Whispers have gotten back to me that our Spider friend has entered our fair neighborhood. I want you to watch her. See if she gets close. If she does...discourage her from getting closer. Understand?”

“You got it, Doc,” she grins before slinking out of the open skylight.

The cold, December air hits her like a jolt of electricity, and the hairs on her arms stand at attention. The excitement ripples through her, causing her muscles to coil up like a snake about to strike.

She likes her new life. Her old one was one that could have ended in untimely death at any moment, and her new one keeps her flush with cash. But she would be lying if she said she doesn't miss the fights. There's nothing like a good one to get the blood pumping.

Tonight, she would have her fight.



I can almost smell the desperation as I swing over the Bronx. If I didn’t see many people out on the street during my initial crossing into this part of the city, it is now a veritable desert. The Bronx looks like something out of a post apocalyptic building. I’ve seen a few cars tipped over or with their windows broken, street signs strewn across the roads, and buildings looted. Hallmark signs of a riot, for sure.

Staying inside isn’t something I begrudge the people of the neighborhood. I would do the same.

A twinge of guilt crosses my chest as I survey everything that’s gone on here since the Raft incident. I had no idea it was this bad here. I knew cops felt like they weren’t welcome, btu from the looks of it the people who live here don’t feel it either. I should be here more. I could be doing more to help them.

Then again, I have no idea if I could even clean up an entire portion of New York by myself. So far the best I’ve done is put away few mobsters and drug pushers. Do I even have the ability to make real, lasting change in this city? Or am I doomed to constantly chip away at the edges of New York’s problems, moving on to new problems, which fresh ones replace the old, like scabs over a scraped knee?

I’m so lost in my own thoughts I almost miss the scream emanating from an alleyway below. Changing my direction, I break for the sounds. Landing on a rooftop above the alley, I slink to the side, looking down to find two men wielding crowbars backing a scared shopkeeper into a corner with nowhere to go.

“You didn’t pay up this week,” one of them says, smacking his hand against the crowbar. “We warned you what would happen.”

“Please,” the scared man scuttles backwards on his hands, the slushy dirt in the alley staining his pants. “I can’t get any customers with what’s going on!”

“Not our problem,” the other guy shrugs sarcastically. “But it certainly is yours.”

He raises the crowbar menacingly before bringing it down swiftly towards the shopkeeper. Instead of the sickening sound of metal connecting with bone, however, the only thing that echoes through the alley is the clang of the crowbar hitting the concrete after I yank it out of his hand with some webbing.

“Oh looks like someone’s got a case of the dropsies,” I say as I land on a car parked in the alley. "Do you play for the Giants? Because I swear I saw a guy drop a ball just like that. Then again, it is the Giants, so that's not really all that surprising."

"It's the Spider!" the other guy yells out in alarm, dropping his own weapon and fumbling for a gun in his waistband.

"It's the goon who yells out obvious things!" I call back, attacking his hand to his hip with a web. Somersaulting off the car, I land between the two men, "Now, let's be a good group of criminals and go home. Spider-Woman doesn't want to have to do anything you might regret."

The first man doesn't listen, of course. He picks up his partner's crowbar and lunges at me clumsily. I move out of the way in more than enough time, spin around, and drive my palm into his chest. He's lifted off the ground and slams into the car, leaving a sizable dent in the pea green door of the sedan. His body makes a damp thud as he hits the ground, scrambling to his feet and running off. His friend runs after him, his hand still stuck to his him. From my vantage point, he looks like someone singing "I'm a Little Teapot" running the hundred yard dash.

Chuckling, I give my hand to the cowering man, "Don't worry. They won't bother you any more."

"Yes they will," he responds, reluctantly taking my outstretched hand. "But next time there will be no one to protect me. And they will do worse than rough me up."

"I...," is all that manages to come out of my mouth. Usually I get thanked for saving people from getting beat up by crowbars.

"Don't worry, sir," a voice comes from behind me. I turn to find almost a dozen people standing in the entrance of the alley, brandishing everything from bats to guns. "We'll take care of you from here on out. Free of charge."

My eyes narrow in suspicion at the newcomer, "And who might you guys be? Extras from the set of The Warriors?"

"Says the person dressed in a spandex suit," the guy shoots back, pointing at me with the bat.

"Okay, first, it's not spandex," I raise my hands in defense. "Second...that doesn't matter."

"No, it doesn't," the man responds with a smirk. "Now, I'm gonna have to ask you to come with us."

A snort of laughter filters through my mask, "Yea? That so? Who do you think you are?"

"We're the Pale Horses," he sneers. "And you're on our territory now. The Bronx is under our protection. Our boss would like a word."

"Jesus he knows I'm here?" I recoil in mock panic. Looking the group over, I can tell I'm not gonna fight my way out of this one. Plus, they're not wrong. They may be a gang, but as far as I can tell their only crime is clashing with the police. Which, to be fair, isn't the best thing in the world, but nor is it the worst. They're boss may or may not have some information to help me too. "What is he, psychic?"

"No," the leader with them shakes his head. [color=440e62]"But he's got eyes everywhere."

"Fine," I shrug, realizing that I don't have much of a choice. "Let's have a chat."



"Well, well, well, Spider," Felicia muses to herself as she watches the hero go willingly with the gang who thinks they run this place. They've only been allowed to stick around because they keep the police out of Otto's hair. Otherwise, he already would have sent Marko to take the lot of them out. "Walking into the stable, are we? What are you up to?"

Still, if they end up willing to work with the Spider-Woman, they may need to be taken out sooner rather than later.

Unless she can just take out Spider-Woman tonight. Then all that worry goes out the window.

She likes that option.

Episode One; Natural Born Killers, Part I.

It was about noon on the trading moon that orbits Rann, six light-years from Knowhere. The Martian Manhunter was handling paperwork for his last job, a bail hopper who had tried to flee to the outer rim, J'onn caught him in a refueling station using his old credits account. It was really sloppy of him and made him quite the easy mark for the Martian whom could easily track him down. He wasn't a violent criminal, there was no fight between the two and the arrest was simple and easy. He'd be put in an isolation pod for six years - a meager punishment for his large spree of robberies. Finishing up his report and signing the papers for his reward, a relieved sigh escaped the martian's mouth as he saw his credits increase after the successful transfer. He was about to head back towards the port, get in his spaceship and head back home to Knowhere. Go talk to Jack and the other patrons for a while, go home and read some books and call it an early hibernation cycle.

Well, that was, till the ground shook from the explosion in the distance. Sirens wailing from the hovercars above him, streaking across the aerial highway. The Rann peace-keepers were heading over there, but judging by the calls J'onn was hearing in his earpiece from the peace-keeper scanner in his ship these four cruisers weren't gonna do the trick. It was an armed robbery on the Osmium vault from the platinum mines on all four of the moons, a multi-trillion credit heist was in progress, six cruisers had already been taken down by what appeared to only be two assailants. The Manhunter tapped his ear, connecting him to dispatch and forward to the officer on the ground outside of the vaults.

"This is Martian Manhunter, bounty collector, ID number 52565325. I would like to assist you in your peacekeeping efforts. Permission requested to engage the suspects alone."

"What the hell is a Mars?!" The Officer's gawked back at the Manhunter. "You'll get yourself killed, kid."

"I guarantee they cannot do more harm to me that they can to your officers. Give me a chance and you'll save your officer's lives." J'onn insisted, now airborne, heading over there at Mach 4, surpassing the speed of the cruisers. As he approached the site of the vault, he saw a massive worker mech that had gone through several aftermarket facelifts to turn it into a military machine, armed with Gatling laser, forcefield projector, and rocket launchers. The Mech was hailing plasma onto the police and their barricade, their shields about to give way any minute now, the officer in charge let out a disgruntled yelp as the plasma began burning a hole through the forcefield.
"Okay, okay! Permission granted! Try to at least keep them a little busy so we can regroup before you get killed!" The officer cried and J'onn nodded. "I shall do my best." The Manhunter promised, picking up speed before impact. Phasing just long enough to sneak past the forcefield, he became tangible again just in time to strike the mech in its core, sending it horizontally and falling backward with good momentum, making the several hundreds of ton Mech sail forty meters backward.

J'onn turned his attention towards the vault, as he heard applauds from the officers behind him who frankly couldn't believe their eyes. "What in all of Rann's name was that?" The officer in charge exclaimed. "Give those winged freaks hell!" Another officer cheered as several of their co-workers went to tend to the wounded.

"Winged?" J'onn asked, peering inside of the Vault, seeing the 7 foot, incredibly well built humanoid with massive silvery wings spreading from his back was putting the precious metals into a small pocket dimension carrier - a hammerspace for personal goods, essentially. A very expensive device primarily used by criminals to hide stolen goods from authorities. Making his way into the vault, J'onn approached the burly man who looked out towards the officers and the Mech. "What the hell is going out there. All the fuckin' rann's dead already?"

"Not so. I'm afraid there's been a bit of a dent in your plans." The Martian spoke, softly appearing in the winged man's sight. "Who the hell are you?!" Grabbing his blaster from the table next to him, firing four times into thin air - the Martian wasn't there anymore, appearing instead under him, phasing through the ground, his arm becoming tangible as he grabbed the culprit by the throat with one hand, his other hand knocking the gun out of his. "I counter four seriously injured - if not worse outside. Why would you do this?" J'onn asked bluntly, the man trying to fight the far stronger Martian off of him.

"Why?!" he commanded, this time with a psychic scream, shocking the bandit. "M-Money!" He cried, shocked by the trespassing into his mind. With it, J'onn was flooded with images of the war efforts between Rann and the winged man's home planet - Thanagar. His name was Hro Talak, a Thanagarian. This man was a deserter from the army after his platoon had been decimated by a warship, he had been on the run for decades, stealing what he could and killing those that tried to stop him. In the moment of distraction, the Thanagarian was able to pull a plasma cutter hidden in his sleeve. Igniting the blade and swiftly slashing the green arm that held him, the pain from his arm being cut off sending J'onn to his knees, holding the arm in pain. The Thanagarian crawled onto his feet, sprint turned into flight. As he tried to head out of the Vault. J'onn regained his composure in a moment, picking up his severed arm and attaching it to his stump, the two quickly reattached and regenerated the damaged tissue. The arm was gonna be weaker for a time, but it was truly a minor setback.

J'onn set off after the man whom was flying out of the deep Vault, only to be met by 24 officers with their blasters aimed at him - having already arrested his partner, Paran Dul whom hadn't put up much of a fight after the concussion she had received from the hit she took inside of the mech that's now nothing more but scrap. Having nothing but a plasma cutter in his hands, a pissed off Manhunter behind him and a small army in front - Hro had no other choice but to give up. "You'll pay for this, green man."

"So shall you." J'onn simply stated, as he watched the officers bring the duo in. They'd be transported to Rann and processed there - both for their wave of crimes on the outskirts of the Rann territory, but also for their crimes of war during the long conflicts between their two people. He took no pride in this arrest - three people were dead. He hadn't been fast enough, done enough. It was nothing more but a pyrrhic victory.

Scarsdale, New York

Adrian and Misty sat in luxurious wingback chairs and watched two men playing pool. One was tall and heavyset, dressed in jeans and a tacky Christmas sweater that had a goofy reindeer on it. The other man was short and thin, wearing a tailored navy suit with french cuffs. They’d been playing the game when the two goons had pushed the he and Misty through the doors of the study and made them sit in the chair. The two men continued their game for a few minutes before Misty finally spoke.

“Ten bucks says you miss the six,” she said to the at man.

A look of annoyance flashed on the big man’s face as he struck the cue ball with his stick. The white ball rolled across the table and struck the six. It started towards the corner pocket before veering to the left and clattering against the side wall of the table.

“Pay up,” said Misty.

“I don’t think Mr. Regetti will be doing that,” said Chase. “Even though he’s already paying ten times that for Mr. Wexler’s time. Isn't that right, Jake?”

“Very astute,” Jake Wexler, the man in the suit, said as he rubbed chalk on the end of his cue. “But if you did your homework, Miss Knight, you’d know that Mr. Regetti abhors gambling.”

“I’m sure he does,” said Chase. “He’s a smart man, after all. As the head of one of the biggest bookmaking empires on the east coast, the temptation to gamble with house money would be too great.”

“Those are baseless allegations,” said Wexler. “Mr. Regetti has proven time and again that he is an upstanding businessman whose source of income is completely legitimate.”

“So why does Angelo Campisi have him so scared?” asked Misty. “Scared enough to bring us here at gunpoint to have this little meeting. This is what my father calls a ‘come to Jesus’ talk.”

“Really?” asked Chase. “See, my dad called it ‘the nanny’s job, that’s why I pay her.’”

“Angelo keeps his mouth shut,” ordered Regetti.

His voice took Chase back. It was so... high, almost as if he had been sucking on helium. It was a complete contrast to the big, imposing man with heavy eyelids. He didn’t bother to even look in Chase and Misty’s direction as he lined up for another shot. This time, he easily sunk the six ball and moved to make another shot. Chase thought that it was a good thing Regetti hadn't looked their way. Misty was shaking with silent laughter. Chase elbowed her in the ribs. A loud "HA!" popped out that she quickly turned it into a cough. Regetti and Wexler stared hard at the two of them. Chase suddenly remembered the don's street name... it was Squeaky Regetti. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as he spoke.

“As a lawyer, I have to do what’s in his best interest,” said Chase, clearing his throat.

“Do what’s in your best interest,” Regetti said in his cartoon voice. “Angelo takes the deal and goes into witness protection, then that’ll make me very angry. With Angelo gone and out of reach, I’ll have to turn my rage… towards the people who helped him.”

“My client speaks legally,” Wexler said quickly. “We would be forced to pursue… legal action towards you, perhaps a lawsuit for slander.”

“Yeah,” Regetti said as he looked up from the table. “And we all know how fucking bloody those slander lawsuits can be.”

---

Brew Brothers
Midtown

“We gotta leave town,” said Misty.

She and Chase were on barstools at the watering hole just around the corner from the office. This had been their original destination before the mob detour into upstate. Chase nursed a scotch while Misty was on her third coke and rum. The jukebox was playing “Jingle Bell Rock” for what had be the sixth time since they’d arrived. She resisted an urge to shoot it before turning back to Chase.

“That’s the only way we can come out of this okay. You resign from Angelo’s case and let the chips fall where they may.”

“A new lawyer takes over, Regetti is still going to hold us -- me, actually -- personally responsible for it. If he can’t get us, he’ll go after our families. My old man in Connecticut would be harder to get at, but what about your dad?”

“Yeah,” Misty said with a sigh. She put her head down on the bar. “And that poor murdered girl."

"You think Regetti did it?"

"Why would he take away a potential alibi for Angelo?" asked Misty. "No, someone killed her because she had to know something.”

“Which was what?” asked Chase.

Misty polished off her drink and shook her head. “I don’t know. But it was important enough to kill her.”

“If Angelo is really innocent,” said Chase. “Then there’s gotta be something in all those boxes of files that prove it. I’ve just got to comb through them in the morning with Gladys. Maybe something will shake out. What’s your gameplan for tomorrow?”

“I think I’ll see what my old boss has to say about Rosa’s murder,” said Misty. “After that, I’ll head back up to the scene of the crime and see if I can find anything out.”

“NYPD still probably has it sealed.”

“Yeah,” Misty said with a smirk. “They probably do. But I don’t think that’ll stop me.”

Chase laughed and took a sip from his drink. “Well as your attorney in this matter, I have to advise you that this course of action is highly illegal, dangerous, and just my knowing about it could be grounds for my disbarment.”

“You gonna stop me?”

“Hell no.”

---

---

Fate appeared on an expansive plain with rolling hills to his right and to his left, off in the distance was the burning city with a red sun slowly starting to rise from the horizon. To the front was the hut that he'd made for the survivors and out of it was walking an older man with a balding head, wearing a burned and somewhat dishevelled blue coat tied at the waist with what Kent assumed used to be a rich and well-made white belt with a chipped golden buckle. He waited patiently, at the base of a hill, until the man stopped in front of him, noticing the others slowly making their way out of the hut as well but keeping their distance.

"Tel-Ar," the man said, introducing himself. "What news do you bring from our home, stranger?"

"Kent, please," he said as he removed his helmet and tucked it under an arm. "Nothing good, I'm afraid. A god was summoned and released simply because politics went too far."

The elderly man was silent for a moment, his brows furrowing together as he looked off in the distance, mouthing 'a god'. Then, looking back at him, "What do you mean? Our city, our lives were collateral to some fucking politics?"

Kent looked down, and nodded, "I'm afraid so. Wotan, according to the city's lord, summoned a god to make it look like his experiments went too far."

"Why would she ever do something like that?"

"Lower his numbers in the polls I'm told, so she can get ahead."

Tel-Ar gave him a look. "She doesn't need to lower his poll numbers. She was already in the lead by a large margin." He then turned around, slowly shaking his head. "I lost my family. My daughter." Tel-Ar turned back, his eyes fierce, "I can't understand it. People used to speak so highly of him, the only reason he ran for the High Throne was because he was pushed into it by his advisors. And the entire fucking ordeal changed him. And we pay the price for it."

Kent looked on in sympathy. "I would bring them back if I could," Kent said, a hand reaching for the man's shoulder, hesitating, then going back down to his side, "but not even my powers can truly bring back the dead."

"I wish you could too. We have to look forward and move on, but what's left to us now? Our homes are gone and we're refugees, a scant few with no where to go. What I want now, what we all want is justice. Dealt by our own hands."

A part of him wanted to comply with Tel-Ar's request. To go flying back to the city, bring the politician to them and fly off, leaving them to do with him as they wished. And although he didn't doubt it was the justice that the politician deserved, the question that bothered him was what would come after? Would this not give precedent for others to take matters into their own hands? To depose leaders by force and thus bring on an age of anarchy, citing the moment Tel-Ar and the other survivors did the same. And although that outcome was troublesome, what if someone caught wind of what they'd done and reported it? The planet's police force would undoubtedly bring their own justice to them, perhaps even kill them and sweep the murder of Kendar under the rug to prevent an uprising.

Another planet, and yet these people not only looked but also acted like humans. Would this one moment of giving them what they wanted truly devolve into chaos? It might not. A part of him hoped it wouldn't; a part of him wanted to do it and swear them to secrecy, telling them to speak of it to no one.

But there was the other side to consider: what they would do if he denied his request. They had nothing to lose and everything to gain by killing politicians. That in itself would also bring anarchy and chaos. And he had no doubt that the planet's reporters would be all over one of the survivor's attack on a random politician, thus making their entire ordeal public which would undoubtedly inspire some other idiot to do the same.

He was a servant to Order, sworn to keep chaos in check and make sure things didn't go haywire. It was things like this that made his life difficult, the fucking greyness of it all. No matter which way he looked, the outcomes would always bring chaos, and he had to decide which of lesser evil he wanted to bring into the world. It felt like he was fighting a losing battle.

Kent let out a sigh and put the helmet back on and lifted himself from the ground, rising higher into the brightening, morning sky. "Justice will be yours, Tel-Ar." With that, he turned and flew towards the city.


Although the fires had burned themselves out during the night, the smoke was as thick as ever in the growing light of dawn. Down below, in the streets, he could see ranks of soldiers making their way out of the palace, marching deeper into the city, heading towards a set of hovering vehicles just beyond the city's borders. Curiosity struck him as to where they were going, which quickly turned to suspicion when he realized Kendar's men were supposed to have been killed from the god's sudden attack. He watched them for a moment more, then turned and crashed through the palace's dome.

Once the dust settled he could see the guards inside were strewn about haphazardly, some crushed underneath large pieces of rubble screaming out in pain. Lord Kendar, he noticed, had a force field around him put in place by the two sorcerers that were on either side.

"What's the meaning of this?" Kendar shouted as he stood, looking up at him.

"You're coming with me, Kendar," he said as he descended, "to face justice against your crimes."

"My crimes? Wotan destroyed my city and here you are ruining my palace! What crimes are you going on about?"

"Wotan was leading the polls. She had no incentive to destroy your city, unlike you. Perhaps you were looking to manipulate an outsider to remove your competition. I don't look kindly to being used, Kendar."

"Maybe you'll look more kindly to being killed." Kendar said as he pointed.

The two sorcerers on either side of the lord flew towards him shooting off energy blasts from their raised arms.

Kent lifted a hand, causing two force-shields to form in front of him, while the other telekinetically raised a large piece of rubble and threw it at the right sorcerer. She swerved out of its way as the other formed a spear-like object out of magical energy, preparing to throw it.

In a fluid movement, Kent formed a rope with his free hand that tied around the unbalanced sorcerer's waist and flung her at her partner, causing the spear to fly wide and crash into a part of the dome, sending rubble and dust exploding outward. Below, the sorcerers crashed hard into a pillar breaking it in the middle and sending it toppling into the throne room's aisle.

"I suggest you stay down," Fate said as he pointed an outstretched hand towards the two sorcerers.

"As long as we live," one of the sorcerers said as she untangled herself from the other, "you will not harm Lord Kendar."

"So be it," Dr. Fate said. With a twist of his wrist, the floor underneath them turned into wet cement, hardening as their feet and hands were sucked in. Then, he swung his hand and the floor shifted moving one of the sorcerers across the central isle to the opposite end. Fate then slid both of them up their respective walls as he raised two large pieces of rubble, hollowing out their middle and slamming them over the sorcerers, encapsulating them both.

"Well aren't you just the capable sorcerer," Kendar said in a woman's voice as Fate descended, his boots touching the ground.

Fate hesitated, suddenly confused. "Kendar?"

"Wotan," Kendar's body suddenly shifted into a woman with long black hair, brown skin, and green eyes wearing a black low-cut, split dress with crow feathers sewn onto the shoulders and back. "A pleasure, Doctor Fate."

He stood in shocked silence for moment. He didn't even feel the magic that came from her or her illusion. "What happened to Kendar?" He asked, his voice strained.

"I killed him ages ago and put this construct in his place. I'm a little disappointed you dind't even notice it."

He reached out with his mind, feeling for the magic, and although he couldn't directly feel it, he could taste a hint of sorcery around her. It was unsettling. "I suppose you're the cause of this destruction?"

"Very astute of you, doctor," she said as she sat on one of the throne's arms. "I am, indeed. And for good reason."

Fate's eyes narrowed. "And what reason would that be?"

"To bring an end to Nabu's fatal idealism. You must see that order without chaos will cause chaos. Instability, the loss of life over and over. Do you really want to be party to that?"

"What I'm party of is none of your concern, Wotan. What is my concern however is how you know Nabu."

"We go way back. I've known the fool since he was a mortal deluding himself and his people that he was a god. His arrogance has only grown since then and become far more dangerous. The fool doesn't even realize he's the cause of the universe's imbalance."

Kent was at a loss for words, his mind spinning. One moment Wotan was a political opponent to Kendar and the next she tells him she's an immortal. From earth. A part of him wanted to deny the claim, but he could feel Nabu's presence in his helm and the hatred that was wafting from the him. That alone was enough proof that the two knew each other, but why she was even on this planet was still a mystery. More, why did she impersonate a local lord and summon a god? It seemed random in his mind, but someone like her, who claims to have lived for so long, randomness didn't seem likely. There had to be some sort of design to it all, and whatever it was, the involvement of a god and the sacrifice of lives could only point to something disastrous.

"You speak about imbalance, Wotan," he said trying to keep his voice level, "yet you would cause it by shifting the spectrum in favour of chaos. I cannot allow that. Your hubris is on a level with Nabu's, and just like him -- according to you -- you're unable to see it. Your deluded self-righteousness is a danger to the cosmos and I will stop you."

"I commend you for your boldness, doctor. Too bad it's not going to do you any good." she said as she raised a hand. "Do say hello to Nabu for me."

A portal opened behind him. Turning he watched the emergence of the hulking mass of Negal. Thirteen feet tall, wearing nothing more than a black crown with two twisted horns and a long leather loincloth strapped in place by a giant belt. The power wafting off of him alone caused Fate to stagger back, his heart lurching with fear.

Juba, South Sudan

A hail of bullets peppered the small shack that Guy Gardner was taking shelter in. The SHIELD agent was bleeding from a bullet hole in his side and breathing heavy. He reached down and checked his handgun’s clip and let out a groan. Only four bullets left. He’d spent the others on the militiamen that rumbled him on his way out of the Arrow Boys compound. They couldn’t have been much older than eighteen or nineteen, but they were in Gardner’s way – and despite the years he’d spent on the shelf after Atlantis, Guy still understood that the mission came first.

Today’s mission was sat beside him. Professor Zhang Chin was one of the world’s foremost biochemists – he was also a wanted criminal. Chin had spent decades supplying every tinpot dictator in the Middle East and Asia with the kind of chemical weapons that ought to belong in science fiction. SHIELD acquired information that indicated Chin was about to break with routine in order to expand into the African market. South Sudan’s civil war was to provide the testing ground of Chin’s newest concoction.

Dum Dum Dugan had other ideas.

With Fury out of action and Maria Hill assuming the directorship of SHIELD on a temporary basis, the old hand had been brought in to help steady the ship a little. His first action had been to set up a two-man task group designed to stamp out threats before they happened. Guy Gardner’s name was the first on the list. After a lot of arguing, Hill had relented and allowed Gardner back into the field and so far he’d proved about as effective a crime-fighting tool as SHIELD had – although that was subject to change if he failed to extract Chin in one piece.

“Sneak your way into South Sudan in the middle of a never-ending civil war and smuggle a war criminal out without being seen, they said.”

Another hail of bullets rained down on the shack. This time a few of the bullets passed through the basic metal that was serving as protection for both the SHIELD agent and the chemist. Chin whimpered, bearing his wrinkled bald head in his hands, as another barrage of bullets came flying towards them. Guy looked at him, disgusted by his cowardice, and shook his head.

“It’ll be fun, they said.”

Guy rose and his eyes scanned the horizon. There were six men and only four bullets in his gun. He had to think fast. He took the two on high ground down before they’d even noticed he’d sprung out from behind cover and opened fire on the fire as the white of his eyes turned towards him. Another volley of bullets came towards the shack and Gardner ducked back into cover with a grunt.

“Anytime you feel like telling your friends to stop shooting at us, that would be great. I hate to break it to you, Chin, but if I’m not making it out of here alive, then neither are you, so it would really be in your interest to contribute here. Just a little bit.”

“What do you want me to do?” Chin asked with a slavishness that irritated the SHIELD agent. “I’ll do whatever it takes. I don’t want to die.”

Guy pulled the chemist close and whispered some instructions to him. Chin nodded his head in agreement and Guy dragged him to his feet.

“<Stop!>” Chin shouted in perfect Juba Arabic over the sound of the shooting. “<Stop firing, you idiots! If you hit me you’re going to be in a lot of trouble, do you hear me? Not just you, but your families too.>”

The shooting stopped and Guy appeared, brandishing his gun at the chemist’s forehead, tucked closely behind him. The three remaining Arrow Boy militia eyed the pair of them suspiciously as Guy’s finger tightened around the trigger in nervousness. One miscalculated move and both he and Chin were dead men. As much as Chin probably deserved it, Gardner quite liked being alive – not to mention he didn’t fancy giving Maria Hill the satisfaction. So instead of shooting his way out, Guy was going to try to talk his way out through Chin.

“If you know who Chin is, you know how valuable he is,” Guy began. “But he’s only valuable alive. If you shoot him – or if I shoot him – then we all lose. Do you understand? We all go home empty-handed. If you let me leave here alive, I will make you all very rich men. You hear that? Very rich. Richer than you can possibly imagine. So rich that neither you or your children will ever have to worry about money ever again.”

“<The American says that he’ll make you rich,>” Chin translated upon feeling Guy’s gun being pressed harder against his forehead. “<He said that if you let him leave here, you’ll never have to worry about money ever again. That your chi->”

Suddenly Chin stopped speaking. He made no effort to escape from Guy’s grasp or to offer any explanation, but the SHIELD agent felt uncomfortable about the chemist’s silence. It wasn’t the play that Gardner had drawn up. He jabbed the pistol into Chin’s forehead again to get him to speak but he remained silent.

“You had better start talking,” Guy growled at him. “Because there’s no version of this where you make it out of here alive if you double-cross me. You think you’ve got reinforcements coming? Unless they’re faster than a speeding bullet, they’re not going to save you from me.”


To Guy’s the relief the chemist started translating again. “<He only has one bullet left in his gun and is losing blood quick. Hold your nerve. You want money? Whoever gets me out of here alive will be made a rich man. But I want this pig taken alive. I want him to suffer at my hand.>”

Once the shooting started, Gardner realised his mistake. A bullet nicked Chin’s bicep as it whizzed past the SHIELD agent’s head and the chemist scampered out of his arms. Guy shouted a profanity, swung his gun around, and managed to put down one of the three remaining militiamen with a shot through the cheek.

With the rocket arm that had helped him set state passing records in Maryland, Gardner launched his empty pistol into the second-to-last Arrow Boy still standing. It broke his nose on impact and once in close Guy slipped a blade from his belt into the militiaman’s thorax. A bullet cracked Gardner in the shoulder and he staggered backwards, but he still had the presence of mind to use the Arrow Boy’s body as a shield.

Guy wrestled the AK-47 from the dead Arrow Boy’s hand and sent a spray of bullets firing in his direction. He dropped dead to the ground and Guy let out a relieved sigh. He let his carcass shield fall to the ground and then searched the shanty town for Chin. Even with a headstart, he’d only made it fifty metres ahead on account of his old age.

“Oh no, you don’t."

With a crack, Guy sent a bullet hurtling towards Chin. It tore through his calf and the chemist fell to the ground with a thud. Gardner limped after his wounded prey with a satisfied smile on his face. Chin was writhing in pain on the ground when Guy reached him. He took a great deal of gratification from dragging the old man to his feet and was about to make a joke when the sound of heavy machinery caught his attention.

A large tank daubed in graffiti smashed through several rusty shacks and came to a stop in front of them. Sat atop it were five more Arrow Boys who were brandishing AK-47s in the Gardner’s direction. To top it off, the turret on the front of the tank pointed at the SHIELD agent.

“Fuck.”

The chemist slipped free from Guy’s hands and staggered towards the tank with a laugh. The sense of dread in Gardner’s stomach grew as Chin turned to face him. The elderly man’s saggy features twisted into a wicked smile as he gestured to the Arrow Boys to restrain his would-be kidnapper. One was in the process of leaping down from the tank when a shadow appeared over him. He had made it to Guy and wrapped his arms around his shoulders by the time Gardner could make sight of what was casting it.

With an almighty bang, Ben Grimm came crashing down against the tank. It squashed on impact and the Arrow Boys on top of it were sent sprawling by the impact. Ben tore the tank in two as if it were made of cardboard, bullets ricocheted from his rocky hide as he made his way towards the last few remaining militiamen, and despatched them with a heavy clap that burst their eardrums.

Feigning a point towards an imaginary watch on his wrist, Guy shouted to his colleague. “What kind of time do you call this?”

“You know what they say, Carrot Top,” Ben chuckled as he threw the unconscious Professor Chin over his shoulder. “Better late than never.”

Chinatown, New York City

---

Detective Bard stood on the other side of the glass, staring at the individual in the interrogation room. He tapped his right foot nervously, as he always did. He always got antsy when things didn't quite add up. Rich guy shows up out of nowhere after being gone for over ten years. Around the same time, a guy stalks Chinatown with a glowing fist and taking down the Triad... the Tigers in particular. Same person? It's got to be... With a brief sip of his coffee, Bard eyed over Daniel Rand carefully.

It was a breath of fresh air when Detective Santiago entered into the viewing room with Bard, holding a file in hand out towards her superior. "Tested negative for the metagene. He doesn't have powers." The elder detective gave a nod at the news while taking the file, setting down his coffee to examine the test results personally. The lab had gotten the result back quickly on this one. It's not every-day that you have to bring in a millionaire through the back door secretly to question him, especially when you have suspicions he's a super-human vigilante. Best to get him checked out as quickly as possible.

The news wasn't exactly what Bard expected. Certainly Daniel Rand had to be the same powered individual. A series of alternate theories ran through his mind. Could just be some monk from the monastery he stayed at. Somehow came back at the same time, has powers. Or it's some sort of magic. Or maybe it's just coincidence... Bard knew that dwelling on it would only lead to complications. He stepped out of the room before circling over towards the interrogation room, entering in with a swift motion before slamming the door behind him. His gray suit still had a bullet hole through the lapel from a case worked seven months back. The edges and seams were somewhat frayed. Bard wasn't paid enough to afford new suits, so he made due with what he had.

The person sitting across from him... Bard could tell he wasn't comfortable wearing his suit. Rand's skin was practically crawling. He couldn't find a comfortable position. Bard took a moment to take a seat across the cold metal table from Daniel, leaning back and looking his suspect over again. The millionaire's nervousness drove him to break the silence. "I'm not fully confident I understand the legal system, but I've been watching some Law and Order and I'm fairly confident that I have a right to have a lawyer in here with me."

Bard gave a nod and a smile. "Of course, Mr. Rand. Your lawyer is on his way. But we both know the longer you're in here, the better the chances are that someone's gonna start talking to the media. And I don't think that's going to go over well with the investors in your company."

Danny knew that the detective across from him was right. Joy, Ward... they would have a heart attack if they found out where Danny was at this moment. "I get that detective... what is it you want to know?"

Bard had to keep himself from cracking a smile. This was almost too easy. He was fighting the clock, but there was a good chance he'd be able to get genuine information as long as Rand was alone. "You walked into a Chinese restaurant right next to a Community Center your company owns earlier this afternoon. What happened in there?"

"I heard a noise coming from the kitch-"

A loud banging nearly shocked Danny and Bard out of their seats, with the detective reaching for the sidearm at his side. Standing in the now open doorway was a 5'7" man in an italian suit, carrying a briefcase and a set of glasses. Jerryn Hoggarth was not the most athletic man, but he knew how to sprint when he needed to. After taking a moment to pant heavily, he made his way to Danny's side, tossing a briefcase onto the table and wiping his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. Bard got up to close the door, grinding his teeth at the realization that he was less than a minute away from getting exactly what he needed. Hoggarth raised an eyebrow at Detective Bard. "I'll have a suit in by the morning if you even thought of questioning my client without me being in the room. Did you bother to inform Mr. Rand that he had the right to an attorney?"

Clearly, Hoggarth was not going to be a fun individual to deal with. Bard sat back down and spoke, "I did, in fact, inform Mr. Rand of his rights. That was clarified moments ago, after which I asked him a question which he clearly only had to answer if he felt he needed to."

"I'm going to answer the question." Danny's tone was harsh and authoritative, and Bard was surprised by how quickly the disposition of the man he was interrogating shifted. Hoggarth found himself unable to speak against his client, which was certainly a first. "I wanted to look in the restaurant and see what it was like. I've been here for two months but never bothered to grab take-out. Figured today might be a change. The sign said 'Open' but I couldn't see any servers or patrons. I heard a sound coming from the kitchen, and wanted to investigate..." Danny's voice trailed slightly, his eyes turning up towards Bard and Hoggarth to connect with them and see their reactions.

Bard was impossible to read, and Hoggarth was rather shocked and was planning his next words carefully when he felt it important to interject. "I saw... criminals beating up the store owner. They turned their attention my direction and tried to attack me. I-"

"Mr. Rand found himself in a hostile situation in which the chance of serious bodily harm was beyond a reasonable doubt, and therefore invoked his right to self-defense when attacked. Is that what you're trying to say, Mr. Rand?"

Hoggarth's intent was clear, and Danny knew what that meant. "Yes. I defended myself. Once I was out of danger I left the restaurant."

"You didn't bother to wait for authorities to arrive on the scene to give a statement?" Bard's voice had an edge. He was pressing into Danny, hoping to elicit a reaction.

"I called the authorities, informed them of the situation, and told them that I would be able to stop by the station-"

Hoggarth interjected, giving a smile towards Danny as he did so. "My client deescalated the conflict, as is his right under the law, and went out of his way to ensure that the NYPD would be able to get his statement while preserving the best interests of both the business owner who was victimized by criminals, but the lives and well-being of the thousands Rand-Meachem Inc. employs. We both know, Detective Bard, that Mr. Rand staying at the scene of the crime would only hurt the comp-"

Bard raised his hand, staring daggers into Hoggarth. It was almost supernatural the effectiveness it had in cutting off the prestigious lawyer. Bard's voice relaxed slightly, seeming to be more questioning than interrogating. "Which the NYPD understands and appreciates. We just have one more question before we let you go, Mr. Rand: One of the individuals we apprehended at the scene claimed that you broke a table with a 'glowing fist.' You wouldn't happen to know anything about that accusation, would you?"

Danny's eye twitched subtly, and Bard's lips curled into the tiniest of grins. He knew the truth, even if Danny wasn't going to give it freely. Bard didn't even listen as Hoggarth stood up and spat out some excuse and right Danny had to not answer "baseless, slanderous rumors." Bard didn't have enough evidence to convict Daniel Rand of any crime, let alone make a charge stick with Hoggarth's legal team on the case. All the detective wanted was to know that he was right. Daniel Rand wasn't a metahuman, but he was certainly more than a rich kid who finally returned home. He was a vigilante. Bard stayed seated as Rand and Hoggarth left the room to get Danny out of the station as quickly as possible. The detective needed to relish the small victory for just a moment longer. A millionaire with a glowing fist... we supposed to throw him in a cell with the Devil or the Spider? Feels sometimes like we're fighting the only people trying to save this city.

| THE DREAM DIMENSION
| _{Present Day}

The boy wound his way through the wild grass, passing out from underneath the shadow of the great castle and into a pastoral valley. Down the dusty trail, over the hill, through the trees, he arrived at a river.

The idyllic setting invoked memories of the River Usk near Isca Augusta, the seat of the Roman amphitheater that had caused the soldiers of Camelot to be known as the Knights of the Round Table. Several horses trotted along the way, as the stable boy guided them over toward the shores of the river bank.

The sun was warm as it shone overhead. The old caretaker was right that this was the perfect weather for a washing day. Reaching down to his waist, the youth started to untie the length of soft rope that he used as a belt when something made him pause.

It was an odor. An acrid sensation lingering on the breeze.

He knew it well, his luminous eyes scanning upward for the tell-tale column of smoke. He found it, somewhere over on the other side of the river. Near where the houses were.

A whistle echoed over the river, prompting the horses to raise their heads up at the stable boy's call. Jumping up onto the back of one of the colts, settling comfortable atop the bareback of the animal as the youth demonstrated equestrian skill in turning and guiding the powerful form of the animal into a trot.

Once they were emerging from out of the thicket, he pushed the colt onward into a full gallop. Before long, the distant column of smoke was no longer over the horizon.

It was the House of Mystery.

Throwing his legs over to one side, the young squire dismounted while the colt was still moving. The boy's hands were aglow with eldritch energies, which swirled around his small form as he held them aloft and began weaving a series of arcane sigils. The cloudless sky suddenly became muted, as clouds begin to take shape at an accelerated pace. The child was muttering in Gaelic as the components of the incantation started to come together, the sky turned dark as the spell was completed and the boy gave the command, "Niar!"

That was when the sky opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour that seemed isolated to just over the one residence.

Standing in the rain, the child took a moment in which to catch his breath before he looked back down. Splashing in the mud that had already begun to form puddles on the ground, the boy ran over to the door to the house.

It was open, part of it no longer resting on its hinges. Smoke filled the interior of the fortified hall house. "Gwynt yn chwythu" the child uttered softly, causing another surge of energy around his small frame. At the same time, the windows came open on their own, as a strange wind seemed to pass straight through the home.

Taking several steps further, the boy looked for signs of the caretaker. His head turned left and right as he scanned the blackened, soot-covered furnishings for signs of one of the usual residents.

There was a strange silhouette there. A figure as though with the body of a man, the legs of a satyr, and the head of a demon. From beneath wicked horns, a pair of glowing red eyes stared back at the youth from out of the smoke and shadows. It was standing by one of the bookshelves, pulling something free even as it turned the shelf on its side and sent it crashing toward Mordred.

Tucking into a roll to one side, the young squire moved out of the way of the crashing furniture. Except when he had found his footing again, the demonic figure was no longer standing there.

A flash of movement caught the edge of the boy's vision, his head moving just in time to see a large shadow moving for the back of the Great Hall. Before he could be about it, the figure had already arrived at the entry at the other side of the house and was gone.

Even as he started to move, the boy's advance was halted by the realization that there was a man's arm sticking out from beneath an overturned cabinet. With an ascending motion of his hand, an eldritch glow seemed to illuminate the frame of the cabinet, before lifting it away to reveal the caretaker underneath.

Bending down, the squire stooped to aid the fallen man when a sudden plume of smoke seemed to erupt in the center of the room. "That damned Springheeled Jack," Morpheus barked, his voice rolling like thunder as the elder god spoke.

"He's taken the book."

---

---

---

---

Iris knocked on the door before waltzing in, arms spread wide. "It's CHRISTMAS!" She chuckled as she ran into the room, jumping into her father's arms. William West stumbled slightly as his fully grown daughter jumped into him as if she were no older than eight, embracing her he braced his back and pushed her back onto her own two feet.

William chuckled, a hearty laugh that always reminded her of what Santa used to sound like on television, it’s probably how he had managed to play such a convincing one every year for her and Barry. Sadness crept into the edges of her mind, but she forced it out. This was a time of celebration, not mourning. Iris had done that, months of it. To truly honour his memory, she had to push on.. “Not quite yet, you’re always in a hurry. Slow down and enjoy the moment” He lead her into the living room, sitting down on the sofa. Iris managed to slide herself in amidst all the decorations that sprawled along the sofa waiting to go up on the tree. With Christmas so close, she was surprised that he didn’t have them up yet. She opened her mouth to speak, but her father bet her too it, waving his hand dismissively.

“Don’t get on my back, it’s been crazy in Investigations for the past three months. I’ve not had the chance to put the decorations up yet.”

“I could have helped Dad.” William merely shrugged her comment off.

“You’ve had problems of your own honey. I didn’t want to burden you.” He cast a sad smile in her direction, and it took all her willpower not to roll her eyes at him. Ever since Barry had died her dad had treated her like something fragile, as if saying the wrong thing or looking at her the wrong way would shatter her into pieces.

“Dad…” He picked up her change in tone, low, sympathetic. Before Iris could finish what she was going to say he stood up and started fumbling with the Christmas tree.

“Barry was like family Iris, and he was something else to you entirely-” She opened her mouth but he was hearing none of it, throwing a look at her that she hadn’t seen since she was eighteen and tried to go out wearing a mini-skirt. “-I don’t know what it was, and you probably don’t know either. He was taking from you too soon. Just know this honeybear-” Oh there was the honeybear, if things continued to get more emotional he was going to start crying. If he started crying, then that meant that she would start crying. “-you’re my daughter, and I love you. You’re all the family I have and I’ll do anything to help you.”

Iris stood up and hugged him, holding him tightly. She may have been the big superhero but she never felt safer than when she was in her father's arms. She pushed back, hands on his shoulders. “Thanks Daddy.” She smiled at him, she could feel a tear clinging to her left eye. Willed it to stay where it was. Taking a step back she shifted awkwardly on her feet. “I’m not the only family you have though…”

William took a step bath, exhaling air in a ‘huff’ as he turned around and grabbed the nearest decoration and shoving it onto the tree. “Daniel made his intentions clear years ago when he broke the law. I’ve not spoken to him since he was sent away, and I don’t intend too. I don’t want anything to do with him-”

“Dad-”

“-No Iris. End of discussion, you bring this up every year. End of discussion young lady.”

“But Dad-” There was a knock at the door and she sighed as he merely pointed to the door. It was so frustrating dealing with someone who was just as stubborn as she was. Opening the door she was surprised to see a kid there, standing eating a burger. Something eerily familiar about him as his hair was just as red as hers was.

“Uh, hey. Iris right?”

“Yeaaah..”

“I’m your cousin Wally, you mind if I crash with you for a while?”

Heroes for Hire Offices
Midtown

Chase leaned back in his chair and sighed before he loosened the knot on his tie. On the desk in front of him was a sea of paperwork, just a small portion of the files he had on the FBI’s investigation into Angelo Campisi. He’d come in at five that morning to start pouring over it. Gladys showed up at nine like usual and started to help him. Almost six hours he'd been reading reports and intelligence files written in redundant and dry copspeak. Adrian fought the urge to nod off several times during it.

And after hours and hours of reading through the files… something wasn’t right. Adrian could feel the answer floating somewhere in his mind, just out of reach.

“Gladys,” Chase said as he stood. “How’s it going?

“It’s going,” Gladys Murphy said from the reception desk out front.

Adrian leaned against the frame of the door that separated his back office from the reception area. Like is own desk, Gladys’ was covered in papers and boxes. Her wrinkled hands clutched an open binder with the FBI logo on the cover. Adrian wasn’t sure, but if he had to guess he would say Gladys was somewhere between eighty and one-hundred and eighty. He was sure he could hire a secretary/paralegal half her age, but probably not one as skilled. Gladys was the only nonagenarian Chase knew that could make a mean cup of coffee and type one hundred and fifty words per minute.

“Anything at all?”

Gladys looked up from the pages, her thick glasses making her eyes seem huge. “Besides documents riddled with spelling errors? Not so much, Mr. C.”

The phone on her desk began to ring. Ever the professional, Gladys picked it up by the third ring.

“Heroes for Hire…. Yeah… yes, ma’am. Well, ‘metric shitton’ isn’t a legal quantity. How much marijuana was he caught with? Right...”

Listening to Gladys talk made something click with Adrian. He hurried back to his office and started to root through files until he found what he was looking for. After double checking, he folded the piece of paper up and slipped his suit jacket back on.

“Angelo, you son of a bitch.”

“Potential client, Mr. Chase,” Gladys said as Chase headed towards the front door. “Referral?”

“Throw Barry Fitzwaller a bone,” said Adrian. “And make sure he knows that he owes me one. Also, keep looking into the discovery files and let me know if something catches your eye. I’ve got to go meet with our client and get to the bottom of this.”

----

Crown Heights
Brooklyn

Misty flicked the butterfly knife open. She ran the blade down the red tape with the NYPD seal on it, warning that it was a crime to break the tape. With the tape cut, Misty pulled a pair of disposable nylon gloves out of her back pocket and slipped them on. She tested the doorknob and found it was unlocked.

In the event of most crime scenes, cops rarely locked the doors when they left. Usually they didn’t have the keys and figured that the seal would do the job. If someone wanted to break in they would just break in. Misty guessed she was proof of that. She stepped through the door and shut it behind her. The living room where Rosa’s body had been found had all the tell-tale signs of NYPD CSI work. There was still black powder on the floor and, ironically, luminol stains on the couch.

Because their job was to just collect physical evidence, the crime techs mainly focused on the room where the deceased had been found because it was almost always the site of the murder. Homicide detectives would have walked through the apartment to see something, but Misty knew how the job went. The guys at the Seven-Seven may be fine, upstanding detectives, but they probably had an already heavy caseload of unsolveds that they were working. With the dead body in the living room, they wouldn’t look too hard in the other rooms besides passing glances at personal effects.

Misty walked through the living room/kitchen towards the bedroom. That would be the place to start. She thought about her conversation with Stone on the way up to Brooklyn. No forced entry and with a single shot to the back of the head, the Seven-Seven was working on the theory that Rosa knew who killed her. No cellphone had been recovered and the working theory was the killer took it because the call or text record had some kind of evidence. The detectives were in the process of running down the phone while looking up her nearest and dearest. Both tasks had them stumped.

Rosa Torres was a ghost.

She had no criminal record, no voting history, and no employment. Stone said she had no driver’s license or photo ID. Rosa Torres was just a social security number. Someone was busy combing through birth records from the late eighties and early nineties, but that would take awhile. Even the apartment was paid for by a mailed money order to the landlord.

“Who were you?” Misty muttered to herself as she looked around the bedroom.

She hadn’t gone back here when she found the body but it was decorated just like the front of the apartment. Very spartan, very plain. There was no sense of what type of woman Rosa was. Misty looked around the walls and searched the dresser and closet. Anything valuable there would have been taken by the NYPD, but maybe she would find something they hadn’t. After not finding anything, she turned the flashlight of her phone on and bent down to look underneath the bed.

There was nothing under the bed but dust bunnies. Misty started to get back up when she paused. The reflection of her flashlight caught the hardwood floor funny and reflected back something odd. There was a section of floor that had a different consistency than the rest. The grain ran a different direction. Misty scuttled under the bed to examine it. She ran her gloved fingers around it and felt the shape of a square. The square popped open after she worked it, a hidey hole underneath the panel.

Misty crawled out of the bed with a few pieces of paper, a flash drive, and a phone. She tucked the flash drive into her pocket and started to turn on the phone. An icon flashed on the screen indicating it needed to be charged. She tucked that into her pocket and looked at the papers in the dim light.

“Shit.”

She pulled her phone out and dialed Chase’s number.

---

Manhattan Detention Complex
“The Tombs”

“I want the truth, Angelo.”

Angelo furrowed his brow at Adrian in his best attempt at looking confused. Chase noticed the black eye on Angelo’s face that hadn’t been there the day before.

“What are you talking about?”

“This.”

Chase put the paper to the glass. It was a photocopy of an FBI intelligence report. The report contained a conversation between Angelo and someone whose name had been redacted. According to the report, it was a phone conversation recorded a week before.

“This report here is bullshit, and you know it?”

“What the fuck are you--”

“Look at the notes, Angelo. You use that same tired ass story about your girlfriend doing something crazy with her finger. But in the transcription, it describes you gesturing with your finger the act. If you’re on the phone, how the hell do they know you made that gesture?”

Angelo’s face went white as Chase pulled the paper away.

“I don’t--”

“I don’t want to hear your bullshit,” Adrian hissed into the phone. “You lied to me. You’re already an informant to the feds, aren’t you? For some reason, they doctored all this evidence to make it seem like otherwise. Now, why?”

“I can’t tell you,” Angelo said tightly.

“I’m your lawyer. We have attorney-client privilege.”

Angelo scoffed. “You think that matters to them? They’re always listening.” He pointed to the black eye and said, "How do you think I got this?"

Adrian tapped the glass. “Two people are dead, Angelo. The truck driver in Jersey, and now Rosa. We need to find out what happened.”

“Rosa’s dead?”

Angelo’s hand faltered and he placed the phone down. Chase couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could read lips well enough to know it wasn’t pleasant.

“Okay,” Angelo said after he picked the phone back up. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

---

“This is big, Chase. Call me when you get this.”

Misty hung the phone up as she came out the apartment and on to the street. She heard the sound of a revving engine and looked up in time to see a black sedan with blacked out windows racing along the sidewalk towards her.

---

---

She watched the sun rise over the harbour, turning the dark sky into a mix of bright yellows, purples, and reds with thick clouds shooting out rays of sunlight between gaps as they moved slowly overhead. There was a crisp chill in the air, but this far from the city it was a sort of fresh feeling. As fresh a feeling one could get in New York City. She was standing at the docks in front of her car, her thick fur-tipped overcoat wrapped around her with her gloved hands in her pockets. The wind occasionally blowing auburn strands of hair across her face.

There was a sublime beauty in sunrises. That, and it always reminded her of her fiance. Probably because it resembled the nature of his powers, the way his magic always radiated like sunlight, the way his strength would always make her feel warm when he was around. And in the coldness of the winter, that sunlight was as close she could get to that warmness, and to Kent.

He didn't even tell her where he was going, but she'd gotten used to that a long time ago. Even before his powers he'd just run off somewhere giving her the briefest of explanations. It was only after prodding that he'd tell her, and although she hated doing it, she didn't want to feel shut out. It was who he was. She'd been trying to slowly change that habit of his and finally thought she was starting to make headway until he just disappeared. Once again telling her nothing.

And although it made little sense, she had a strange feeling he was off planet. Of course she couldn't confirm, but she could just tell when he was here, somewhere within the confines of earth whether it be some other country or not. Like a sort of connection that was always cut off when he left the atmosphere.

It's been a day since and there she was still worrying about him even though she knew he was alright. She saw his powers, watched him experiment with them in front of her, take down small time criminals around their neighbourhood from time to time before he started looking towards the stars. He was alright, she knew that, but she couldn't stop worrying, couldn't stop thinking about him.

Inza let out a sigh, and shrugged the thoughts off. As much as she would love to do nothing but think about her man over and over, she had real concerns that needed to occupy her mind. The hospital was starting to go down. Patients were getting frustrated -- and that was the best of circumstances -- and the board was doing little more than pocketing as much money as they could before the entire thing shut down. She couldn't blame them though. Most of the hospital's board weren't even doctors, and those that were hadn't seen any patients for decades; it was easy for them to overlook the suffering of others, see them as only numbers. But she'd only just joined the board, and the memory of practising was still fresh, the need to take care of the patients and make sure they were better was still a priority.

It was why she couldn't let this happen. She had to fight tooth and nail for the place to stay open, but without money that was going to be impossible.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard a car pull up behind her, the wheels scratching against the gravel. A few seconds later she heard a door open and close followed by footsteps approaching her.

"Kind of a shady spot you picked here," Eric Charles said as he stopped beside her. "Outta the way. At the docks. Kinda cliche too, really."

She turned to him. Eric was a tall and handsome fellow, dark hair with an immaculate hand-tailored suit underneath an overcoat and scarf. Only thing marring his exquisite features were the bags under his eyes. "The hospital's going down, Eric," she said, "the board couldn't give a shit and no matter how hard I try to get them to see things from the patient's perspective, they won't budge."

"What do you want us to do?" He shrugged, "this ain't easy for us, either, you know that. Thought the whole point of you joining the board was to keep shit like this from happening."

"That was the reason. Which is why I need a favour from you."

"Sure. Anything."

"You still in touch with that friend of yours from the military?"

"I have a lotta friends from the military."

"The one in the NSA."

"Oh. That friend. Yeah, we still talk from time to time. Why?"

"He owe you a favour?"

"I saved his life a couple times on the operating table. Again, why?"

"I need him to do something for me that's not exactly... legal."

Eric narrowed his eyes. "What're you planning, Inza?"

"I'm planning to run a fund raiser for the hospital. I don't want you getting in trouble so tell your friend to get in touch with me."

Eric sighed and looked out to the harbour, shaking his head as he thought about it. "Fine. But, I had no part in this. I like my job. And my freedom."

"I highly doubt you're going to lose your freedom over this, Eric."

"Why're we even over here anyway. We couldn't have done this in a coffee shop?"

"I like watching the sunrise. Reminds of Kent."

Eric paused. "What? I just saw him on my way out of the hospital. He's literally only a couple elevators above you. You can't just bump into him?"

Inza's eyes widened momentarily. She'd forgotten Kent had made a simulacrum of himself months back. "Well, I mean, you know. I just like being reminded of him without actually seeing him?"

Eric snorted a laugh. "Okay. You're.... it's not that deep, but alright none of my business. I'll let you know when I get in touch."

She watched him walk back into his black Mercedes and drive off then turned back to the harbour, a hand brushing away a few strands of stray hair.