Dave takes a sip from his beer after I finish recounting the events at the tea house, contemplating his words. "... Well, that's sure to keep Russo away from crime," he says flatly, his voice giving away how unnerved he is by the story. He's been... Distant lately, as if disturbed by my growing violent tendencies. It almost makes me want to cut back. Almost.

"And if it doesn't, I'll be sure to put one right between his eyes," I reply, leaning back into the couch and putting my hands behind my head. I couldn't care less about what I did to that bastard... But wasn't there a reason I had spared him when we first met? His... Daughter... My God. I can't imagine what she'd go through once she sees him like that. I blink once, twice, clearing my head of those thoughts. I can't think about that. It's too late now.

There's an awkward silence after that. Then, the satphone that Greg gave me rings. Dave answers it. He occasionally says "yeah" or "uh huh", and finally ends the call with a "Right, I'll tell him." He hangs up, and turns to me with a grin. "A friend of your cowboy pal just called. Said that Vigilante and his buddies are ready to hit Solomano's building, but the guy's got his guard up already. He's expecting it."

I give a quick grin. "That'll just make it more fun. When are we going after him?"

"Tomorrow night."

"I better go make sure my weapons are ready then... I'll see you after we raid the building, Dave."

"Be careful, Frank." With that, I stand, grabbing my coat and heading out the door. I look over my shoulder to see Dave nodding at me. I give him a thumbs up, before I walk out the door and into the cold night. My van's parked not far away. Solomano has a lot of Metas and Mutants on his payroll, not to mention any demons that are helping him out. I'll have Vig and his buddies on my side, but still, there's the chance that I'll die tomorrow night.

I climb into the front seat of my van so I can drive to my warehouse, but before I do that, I grab a picture from the dash. A photo taken not too long after the twins were born. Maria, Frank Jr., Lisa, and I. One happy family. If I do die, I can't comfort myself and say that I'll see them again. I know I'll burn in Hell for my sins when I bite the dust. But at least I know they're somewhere better.

I stick the picture back onto the dash and start the van, driving back to my warehouse. Tomorrow night, we wage war on Solomano in his own building. The only thing that I can think about is the striking similarities between our plan and Die Hard. I chuckle. "Well yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker."

I drive off into the night.

---

---

---

---

Iris raised an eyebrow at her father who gave her the smallest shake of her head, obviously hoping that Wally wouldn’t notice the gesture. Iris turned back to him and flashed him a smile, offering to hug him. It was awkward, but family greeted like family. “Hey, Wally. Nice to meet you I guess.” Iris stood to the side to let him in, he crunched up the big belly burger bag into a ball.

“Nice digs cus.”

Wally whistled as he looked around. She shifted awkwardly as he nodded at her dad. “This is actually my Dads, I live in an apartment out in the city.” Throwing another look at William who cleared his throat.

“We’re just getting ready to eat Wally. If you’ll excuse us, we need to finish it up.” William signalled to the couch sitting on front of the television. It was currently running some rerun of some old science fiction television show. “Make yourself at home.” Wally shrugged as he walked around and then plopped himself down on the sofa, there was a thud and Iris winced slightly as eh did so. The Sofa wasn’t exactly young so a teenager just plopping himself down on it was a sure fire way to break it.

Iris excused herself as she moved into the kitchen behind her father, pulling the door closed as she did so. Speaking in a hushed voice so that her voice wouldn’t travel outside of the kitchen. She knew from experience with having friends, and boyfriends over, that words spoken in this household tended to travel better than expected. “Dad, what the hell is going on? Who’s he?” He recoiled slightly with the harshness of her tone, she regretted speaking to him in such a way but something wasn’t sitting quite right with her. This didn’t make any sense.

“Keep your voice down Iris.” William put on an oven mitt as he pulled a tray out of the oven, examining it before pushing it back in. He moved over to the sink, picking up a pitcher and filling it full of water. “He’s not your cousin.”

“I figured out that much, but that isn’t answering my question.” Iris grabbed his shoulder as he moved to walk past her, busying himself. The only way she was going to get any answers out of him would be to get him standing still. “Dad.”

William sighed. “He’s your nephew.”

Iris felt the colour drain from her face. “My… What?”

“Your nephew. Daniel had a son before he was sent off to prison. To some hooker.” William practically spat the words, the way he always did when it came to Daniel. “So that makes him your nephew.”

Iris leaned against the counter, not trusting her legs to keep her standing. She had always known that Daniel had a life beyond these four walls, when he ran away at seventeen she had lost contact with him. Part of her had always sought to reconnect with him, bring their family back together. Life just got in the way, he had tried to get in touch with her two years ago but it was in the middle of her trying to get Henry released from prison. The thought of that sent a pang of guilt reeling through her, if she hadn’t done that. If her and Barry had only realised sooner, perhaps the events of the last year could have been avoided. “I can’t believe you knew about this, and didn’t say anything.”

William shrugged. “I didn’t think it would ever be important I didn’t expect him to turn up on my doorstep looking for somewhere to stay.” He walked back to the oven and withdrew their dinner. A lasagne that before Iris had been looking forward to. Now, she wasn’t even hungry. “He can’t stay Iris. Not here, he’s the son of a criminal and a hooker. I’m a cop and I’m not having him here.”

“He’s family Dad.”

“I don’t care. He can visit, but he can’t stay. Not here.”

Iris crossed her arms over her chest. “I guess he’ll stay with me then.”

“Iris-” A concerned look crossed Williams face.

“No Dad. He’s family, and Wests look after their own-” Iris pointed an accusatory finger at her father. “-You taught me that.”

Before William could argue with her, Iris stormed out of the door, grabbing Wally by the cuff of his shirt and dragged him out of the couch and towards the door.

“Come on Wally. We’re leaving, you can stay at my place.”

---

Jay offered his hand to the agent. “Agent Coulson, is it?”[color=#ffe599] [/color]Despite the fact that the agent was shorter than he was, there was an air of confidence that he exhumed. Superiority that despite the fact that Jay had years of experience dealing in the extraordinary, made him doubt who was really in control in this room. He had arranged this meeting between them, even then there was something about how Coulson had walked into his small house in the suburbs of Keystone that made it seem as if the agent had been waiting for the call.

“Yes Sir, and can I just stop to say it’s an honour to meet you. While I am a fan of how you took down the Rival back in fifty-two I must say I am more impressed with how you helped arm and mobilise the French resistance against the Nazi occupation. I’ve kept every issue of the Invaders since I was old enough to read.”

Jay shifted awkwardly on his feet, this wasn’t what he was expecting. The professional, school-teacher demeanour was lost the second he had shaken the man’s hand. Instead it was replaced by what could only be referred to as a fanboy. “Uh, thanks I guess.” Coulsons eyes scanned up and down, noticing the walking stick. The agent signalled to one of the seats on the porch.

“Would it be better if we sat for this discussion?” Jay had to withhold a grimace. Being offered a seat in his own home, that was the agent part of Coulson taking over, taking command of the situation. Controlling the lay of the land. In defiance, as much as retaliation, Jay waved his hand dismissively.

“No, I just have one quick question. A favour, really. One civil servant to another.” A curious looked crossed the agents face.

“What is it you need?”

Jay sighed.

“I need to know what S.H.I.E.L.D did with Johnny Quick.”

Captain Rogers sat in the back of a SHIELD rapid response vehicle, receiving treatment for his wounds. All around him, SHIELD personnel set to the task of trying to put the streets of Tangier back together again. The chaotic scene matched Rogers’ dark mood. He had failed to secure the stolen weapons, and now they could be anywhere. In the wrong hands, those weapons could reap untold destruction -- the kind that made the damage in Morocco look pedestrian. He had to set it right… He just didn’t know how. So, when his earpiece buzzed to life, he found himself sitting up straight.

“How would you like another crack at Rumlow?” Director Hill asked.

Rogers immediately stood. “What have you got?”

“I’ve been reading through files all morning,” Hill explained. “Turns out the Diamondback was recently acquired by a company called the Apex Group.”

Rogers raised an eyebrow. “Should that sound familiar?”

“Not likely; it’s a shell corporation. But looking at the incorporation paperwork gave me a name: Edmund Galloway,” Hill continued. “Galloway is a suspected fence with ties to Robinson Sinclair, a South African philanthropist who moonlights as an international arms dealer. As it so happens, British intelligence has been building a case against Sinclair. They recently intercepted a message from Galloway to Sinclair, promising delivery of ‘the Italian merchandise.’”

“Meaning our weapons,” Rogers nodded.

“Well, they’re not talking about heels and handbags,” the Director agreed. “Sinclair is holding a fundraising event tomorrow night in Dubai. You’ll meet up with our contact in the Secret Intelligence Service there. I’ve already sent the flight information to your phone.”



Steve stood before the customs agent, a balding man with a bushy, gray mustache. The agent surveyed the passport before handing it back across the counter, saying, “Thank you, Mr. Nasland. Enjoy your stay.” Steve accepted the phony passport with a polite smile and went on his way. Sometimes, it paid dividends to have multiple documented identities; it afforded Captain Rogers with the ability to travel discreetly, to mask his whereabouts and be able to insert himself wherever he was needed. As of yet, the world had not discovered that Steven Grant Rogers was the same man in the footage of Captain America's fight with the Colonel, but he aimed to remain cautious all the same.

Stepping outside, Rogers scanned the arrivals at passenger pickup. As promised, SHIELD’s contact arrived in a powder blue Mercedes. The car cruised to a stop along the curb, and the tinted passenger side window rolled down. Inside sat a young woman with long, blonde hair and a pair of reflective sunglasses. Steve wasn’t sure what he had been expecting… but it wasn’t that. As if sensing his hesitation, the woman said, “William Nasland? I’m your ride.” She beckoned him with a nod. “Hop in.” As soon as Steve got inside, she rolled the window back up and zipped into the flow of traffic. Eyes on the road, she spoke, “Captain Rogers, welcome to Dubai. I’m Agent 13 with MI6.” Her lightly-accented voice was all business.

Steve relaxed a little. Sinking into the plush leather seat, Rogers put his hands on his knees and surveyed the car’s interior. After a moment, he scratched his beard and said, “I thought you guys always drove Astons.”

Even behind her Ray-Bans, Agent 13’s raised eyebrow could be seen. “Come now. You can’t believe everything you see in the movies,” she replied. The corner of her lip curled into a smile.

Leaving the airport behind, they began their journey downtown. Dubai was a sight to behold, the shining jewel of the Arab world. Rogers felt himself feeling less a secret agent and more a tourist as he stared up at the twinkling skyscrapers that each seemed to rival the others for supremacy among the clouds -- with all bowing to the undisputed king, the Burj Khalifa. The extravagance on display was almost mind-boggling; even the local authorities drove luxury cars. Even the mission was an exercise in glitz and glamour. Sinclair’s fundraiser dinner commanded a hefty price at twenty-five thousand a plate. Which reminded Steve of something. “I, uh… I didn’t bring a suit,” he explained. When Agent 13 looked at him, he added, “Well, not that kind of suit, anyway.”

Again, she smiled. It was a good look on her. “Director Hill sent me your measurements. There’s a suit waiting at the hotel,” she assured him.

He nodded. There was a bullet dodged… Although, it did raise the question of why, exactly, Director Hill knew Steve’s measurements. He supposed recent events had shown that to be the least of what she might know. At the same time, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Agent 13 had been sizing him up, too. Not that he was entirely innocent in all this; even now, he found himself wondering what sort of dress Agent 13 had lined up for the evening. His impropriety nearly made him blush. Looking away, Steve began, “You know, this isn’t entirely fair.” He met Agent 13’s gaze. “You get a name, and I get ‘Agent 13.’”

She considered that a moment. “Sharon,” she responded, “You can call me Sharon.”

Sharon. It was a nice name.



Before they had time to talk any further, they arrived at the hotel. As Sharon turned over her keys to the valet, Steve collected his bags and followed her inside. The hotel lobby was beyond ornate. The ceiling stretched at least three stories, accommodating the largest crystal chandelier that Rogers had ever seen. The massive, curved reception desk was flanked by a shimmering wall; upon closer inspection, Steve realized that it was an enormous man-made waterfall. And if the decor left any doubt as to the hotel's preferred clientele, the fashionable -- and expensive -- outfits worn by the bustling guests affirmed that they were in the presence of great wealth. Steve felt dangerously underdressed.

“Shall we?” Sharon asked upon returning with the keycards. It took Steve a moment to shake himself from his awestruck stupor and follow her to the elevators. Their room was on the twenty-third floor, just two below the Grand Ballroom where the fundraiser was being held. The elevator dinged their arrival, and they stepped out into a hallway with almost uncomfortably white walls. Marching down the curved hall, they reached their door at last. Sharon swiped the keycard across the lock before throwing it open. Upon seeing their room, she remarked, “I've certainly stayed in worse.”

True to form, the room was the height of luxury. Steve was almost certain he could fit the entirety of his Georgetown apartment in the bedroom alone. At the far end, floor-to-ceiling windows granted a breathtaking view of the Dubai skyline. Steve stepped inside and shrugged off his bag. Behind him, Sharon wheeled in her own luggage. She crossed in front of him towards the bed, throwing down her suitcase and beginning to unfasten the latches. “Do you need the bathroom for anything? I'm going to start getting ready,” she said, looking up briefly to consider him.

Steve shook his head. “All yours.” He walked to an untouched corner of the bed and had a seat. The fundraiser wasn't for another hour yet, so he had a moment to relax. He offered Sharon a little smile as she collected a makeup kit and hairbrush from her suitcase. As she disappeared around the corner to the bathroom, Steve stretched out and let his head hit the pillow. He hardly had a chance to close his eyes before there was a knock at the door, however. Rising with his hands on his knees, Steve crossed the valley to the front door; he opened it to find a bellhop holding a black garment bag.

“Mister… Nasland?” the young man said, reading aloud from the card attached to the bag. Steve nodded and accepted it. Out of reflex, he reached for his wallet until he realized that he hadn't exchanged any of his cash. He passed the bellhop an American five, for which he seemed plenty grateful. “Have a good night, sir.”

Lugging the suit back inside, Steve was surprised to hear the sound of running water. Sharon was using the shower? The thought made him somewhat bashful. Trying not to focus on it, Steve brought the garment bag to the bed and opened it. If Director Hill had picked out the suit herself, then she had surprisingly good taste. It was a classic ensemble: charcoal black single-breasted jacket, starched white button-down, and a royal blue tie. The bag even included a pair of black wingtip shoes, already polished to a mirror shine. Rogers laid out the entire outfit and began to undress.

By the time Sharon emerged from the bathroom, adorned in an embroidered bathrobe courtesy of the hotel, Steve was in the middle of tying his tie. He turned to look at her, her hair still damp from the shower. She smiled at him, saying, “Well, don't you clean up nicely?” She crossed the room and rifled through her luggage, eventually producing a garment bag of her own. “Although, you'd look much younger without the beard,” Sharon added playfully. She then retreated to the bathroom once more.

Sometime later, Sharon stepped out in a black cocktail dress with a diamond necklace and her hair up. If the goal of surveilling Sinclair was to avoid attention, then Rogers had to imagine they were off to a bad start. Without seeing the other ladies in attendance, Steve felt confident in saying that she would be the night's breakout star. He contemplated telling her as much until he thought better of it; they were working tonight, after all. Putting on the finishing touches by adjusting his cufflinks, Rogers consulted the clock next to the bed. The fundraiser was beginning soon.

“Let's go get our guy,” he suggested.



The Grand Ballroom was every bit as advertised. Stretching as far as the eye could see, the cavernous room was a sight to behold. Rows of tables, all adorned with white tablecloths and carnation centerpieces, faced a stage near the windows. A string band filled the air with pleasant music. As Sharon and Steve entered, they found themselves having to yield to passing caterers with trays of drinks and unidentifiable hors d'oeuvres; Steve swiped a pair of champagne flutes from one and passed the additional glass to Sharon. He quickly downed his drink, knowing full well that his heightened metabolism would burn off the alcohol to no effect.

“Any sign of Sinclair?” Steve asked, realizing he was unfamiliar with the target.

Sharon peered over the edge of her glass. Taking a moment to survey the room, she blinked and, bringing the flute to her lips, answered, “Not yet.” For her part, she sipped the champagne more carefully, needing to keep a clear head. Dabbing a finger against her lip, she linked arms with Steve and led him deeper into the ballroom. As they walked, she kept her eyes up, saying, “You know, before I forget, I wanted to say how sorry I was to hear about Colonel Fury. I do hope he makes a full recovery soon.”

Steve shot her a curious look. “You knew Fury?”

Sharon shrugged. “Not personally, though certainly by reputation. I don't think there's an intelligence agent alive who hasn't heard of Sergeant Fury and his Howling Commandos,” she replied. She paused, offering Steve a fleeting glance before whispering conspiratorially, “I've always wondered, though… how did he lose his eye?”

Steve had to laugh. In the thirty-or-so years that he had known Nick, he had heard no less than a dozen stories about “the day Nick Fury lost an eye" -- usually propagated by rookies and recruits buying into the mythology of the enigmatic Director. Fury, of course, never spoke on the issue. For one, the circumstances were highly personal, but truthfully? Fury didn't want to shatter the illusion. As long as the true story remained untold, they were all true. “It's gonna take more than one drink to get that out of me,” Steve teased.

“Duly noted,” Sharon smirked. As she turned her attention back to the fundraiser, she suddenly stiffened. “There he is.”

Steve followed her sightline to the stage, where a rugged-looking gentleman was stepping up to the microphone. Robinson Sinclair had shoulder-length brown hair -- though more gray near the temples -- which he tied behind his head. His square features were accented by a meticulously groomed five-o-clock shadow. He wore a blue suit with no tie, opting instead to leave his collar unbuttoned. Sinclair smiled brightly at his guests, many of whom were now offering light applause. He tapped the microphone once and stood with his hands folded behind his back.

“Good evening, everyone,” Sinclair began, “So very happy that you all could join me here. I know this time of year is particularly demanding, so it means a lot to see so many generous faces before me.” Sinclair paused to clear his throat before continuing, “You know, ten years ago, if you had asked me how I wanted to spend my life…” At that point, Steve tuned him out. He had no doubt that Sinclair's charitable organizations had done a lot of good for the world, but good acts did not cancel out the bad; how many lives had been endangered, even lost, because Sinclair put weapons in the hands of dangerous men? No more. It ended tonight.

Sinclair's speech drew to a close, and both Steve and Sharon joined the applause this time. As Sinclair exited the stage, shaking the hands of eager benefactors, he was approached by a large man. It took Steve a moment to place him, but the peculiarity of seeing Brock Rumlow in a suit did little to hide that distinctive scowl. “That's Crossbones,” Steve announced for Sharon's benefit. Rumlow and Sinclair talked a moment longer. When their conversation had ended, Sinclair patted Rumlow on the arm and surreptitiously passed him something out of Rogers’ sight.

Sharon saw it, too. She asked, “What did Sinclair just give him?”

Steve was already hedging in the direction that Rumlow turned. “I don't know, but I'm going to find out. Stay here, and keep an eye on Sinclair,” Steve instructed. The crowd had dispersed following Sinclair's speech, putting dozens of minglers in Rogers’ path. Luckily, Rumlow's unusual frame made him an easy mark to follow. As Steve squeezed past socialites and caterers, he watched Rumlow beelining for the kitchen entrance. Steve increased his pace, drawing a few offended snorts as he nearly bowled people over while racing for that door. He reached it mere moments after Rumlow marched through.

The kitchen was a mess. Overcrowded with caterers and cook staff, every counter was covered in some combination of ingredients, food, or waste. So distracted were the workers that they paid neither Rumlow nor Rogers much mind. Rumlow trudged through the cramped space, heading in the direction of a neon “EXIT” sign. Steve wasn’t going to let him slip away -- not again. Spotting a nearly empty catering tray, Rogers picked up the silver dish and hurled it like a discus. It collided with the back of Rumlow’s bald head, knocking him forward a step. As it clattered to the tiled floor, the assembled staff finally took notice of the intruders in their midst. Rumlow turned and locked eyes with Rogers.

“You shoulda stayed in Morocco,” Rumlow snarled. Advancing on Rogers, he snatched a large knife from a butcher’s block. Closing with impressive speed, Rumlow cut through the air with a swing that Rogers easily ducked. The staff began to panic, ducking behind countertops or running for the exit outright. Rumlow flipped the knife and came around on the backswing; Rogers blocked with a forearm and drove the other fist into the mercenary’s solar plexus. The man stumbled back, slashing wildly. A lucky hit caught Rogers across the upper arm -- tearing through jacket, shirt, and finally skin. Emboldened, Rumlow redoubled his efforts with a series of rapid swipes that Rogers narrowly avoided.

Ducking under another high swing, Rogers shrugged out of his suit jacket and quickly twirled it into a makeshift rope. He caught the next slash against the knotted fabric and turned it away. With Rumlow momentarily vulnerable, Rogers threw a shoulder into his chest and followed with a sharp kick to the outside of his knee. Rumlow buckled but refused to fall; he came up swinging, nearly removing Steve’s nose from his face. Rogers caught a jab to the ribcage and a headbutt to the chin. He fell back, losing the advantage to Rumlow. The mercenary slashed him across the abdomen. With all his adrenaline pumping, Steve hardly felt the cut.

Rogers was quick to recover. When Rumlow came in for a stab to the gut, Rogers entangled his knife hand in his rolled-up jacket. Yanking Rumlow forward off-balance, Rogers kept his wrist restrained and delivered three successive blows to the head with an elbow. Blood trickled down Rumlow’s face as he sneered at his opponent. Rumlow kneed Steve below the belt but lost his knife for the effort. He grabbed the doubled-over Rogers by the head and slammed him into the nearest counter; Rogers left an indent in the thin, metal surface.

Rumlow spat blood. “If you wanted to die, all you hadta do was ask.” He bent low to pick Rogers up off the floor.

Rogers surprised him with a chop to the throat. Choking for air, Rumlow was defenseless. Steve sprang up and charged him back into a freezer; the appliance threatened to topple from the force of the slam. Rogers went to work on Rumlow, delivering a combination of body blows with impunity before the mercenary finally managed to swerve out of a punch. Rogers’ fist slammed into hard metal, and Rumlow cracked him over the head with his elbow. Stumbling towards a counter, Rogers spotted a saucepan -- and opportunity. He braced against the countertop and waited for Rumlow to close on him. Taking the pan by the handle, Rogers spun.

WHAM!

Rumlow fell like a sack of bricks. Sweating and bloodied, Steve stood over his fallen opponent and caught his breath. Dropping the saucepan unceremoniously, Steve knelt over Rumlow’s body and began patting down his pockets. He reached into one and produced a hotel keycard. Stopping to check Rumlow’s pulse before he stood, Rogers pocketed the keycard and assessed his injuries. Nothing too serious, though he certainly couldn’t go back out into the fundraiser like this. Retrieving his discarded suit jacket, Rogers hastily threw it back on. The fabric was torn in multiple spots, but it would have to do. He straightened himself best as he could and returned to the party.

The look of concern on Sharon’s face told Steve everything he needed to know about his appearance. Waiting for him by the kitchen door, she looked him over before reporting, “Sinclair left. I tried to follow him, but he got into an elevator.” Noticing curious glances from those nearby, Sharon positioned herself between Steve and the onlookers.

“Well, I think I know where he's going,” Steve answered, producing the keycard he obtained from Rumlow. He nodded towards the exit. “Come on. I think it’s time we changed.”

The fight that Tony was expecting, surprisingly, never really came to fruition.

After the press conference where he vehemently defended Iron Man's actions, there wasn't a peep from Oscorp. He was initially worried, thinking that Osborn was planning something behind closed doors to retaliate. As time went on, however, he relaxed a little, focusing more on work and other such things.

And a lot of work he did.

"I'm uploaded and ready, sir."

Tony slipped off the hoodie he was wearing before carrying his newest project to an open space in the lab. He'd been working on it since before the whole Goblin fiasco, but now it was finally ready to test. It took a lot of sleepless nights and Starbucks delivery, but nothing Tony wasn't already used to.

The object itself looked like a normal, if avant garde, briefcase. The coloring and markings were reminiscent of Iron Man's usual look, albeit silver rather than gold; a new look for a new project.

Tony placed the case at his feet, then promptly stepped on the edge of it.

With a click and a whir, the mechanism inside started up. The handle of the case separated into two, leading to gauntlets that Tony easily slipped on. The rest of the case he hoisted up to his chest, where it clicked into place. From there, it was all automatic. Just like his previous models, everything clicked into place, except now, he didn't need the assistance of his usual assembly set up. This model was portable, making it easier for Tony to "call on" Iron Man when out and about.

Finally, the faceplate closed down, and Tony was face to face with J.A.R.V.I.S.'s UI.

"All systems are functioning properly, sir. It's certainly not my place to do so, but I'd call this a success."

Tony smirked. "Couldn't agree more, J.A.R.V.I.S. I say we celebrate. Call up Pepper Potts. Let's see if she's on for dinner tonight."

The Franklin Storm Institute, New York

Three months ago the Baxter Building’s auditorium had been the scene of Ben Grimm’s brutal assault on Guy Gardner whilst under Hector Hammond’s control. Since then, the Baxter Building had been demolished and a new one had been erected in its place. The Franklin Storm Institute had been opened by Reed Richards shortly after SHIELD announced his successful return from space. It had sat relatively unused since then, but today it was a hive of activity – and its auditorium, built in the exact same spot as the old one, was the most alive of all.

Five teenagers sat in spacious seats that were designed to optimise their learning. There were no desks, nor were the seats pointed towards a board, instead the auditorium was built like an interactive lecture hall. The initial awkwardness of being seated in a room full of other teenagers had abated after a few minutes once it had become clear that whoever it was that they were waiting on was running late.

“My name is Jean Loring. You probably know of my family – if you’ve been to Ivy Town, you’ll have stayed at a property owned by my father Gil Loring. Our property portfolio is one of the largest in the northeast.”

Loring was seventeen and stood a touch under five foot eleven. Her father Gil was more than just a property magnate – he was one of the richest men in America. When Loring heard that Reed Richards was starting a new school he had made sure his daughter Jean’s credentials found their way onto the super scientist's desk. If Jean wasn’t such a brilliant physicist, Richards would have been minded to turn her down due to her father’s interference alone – but he couldn’t hold Jean’s upbringing against her anymore than he could hold Holt’s past against him.

“Ivy Town? Like, poison ivy?”

Jean rolled her eyes at the ignorance of the fifteen-year-old sat in the seat next to hers. “What did you say your name was again?”

“Kamala,” she responded eagerly with a smile so broad that it would have hurt a normal person's cheeks to maintain. “Kamala Khan.”

“Khan? No, no, I don’t think I’ve heard of the Khans.”

If Kamala was hurt by the comment, she did a good job of pretending otherwise. “Yeah, well, my family don’t have a ‘property portfolio’ or anything like that and I’m not super smart like the rest of you, so I’m not really sure why I’m here … but I do have some pretty awesome pow-”

When Khan turned back to Loring she noticed that the older girl had long since stopped listening. For a fraction of a second her cheerful demeanour took a knock but one glance at the ‘Franklin Storm Institute’ sign on the wall put a smile back on her face. Opposite her a boy no older than fourteen was trying clumsily to initiate conversation with what appeared to be a holographic projection of code – with a silver head.

“Hey man,” Amadeus Cho said as he offered the hologram his hand. He suddenly realised his mistake and awkwardly retracted it. “You're going for that whole binary aesthetic, I see. Yeah, that's a pretty brave choice. Let me guess, your Instagram page must be popping off, right?”

The hologram turned its head to observe the young man. Its eyes were like empty white pits carved into its metallic head. Cho couldn’t tell whether the hologram had heard him or whether he was even really in the room, but that didn’t alleviate his sense of awkwardness at all. And yet there was something clearly young about it. The silver piping along the back of its head almost looked like braids if you squinted.


The voice which came out of the hologram’s facsimile of a mouth sounded like a dialling code – or several dozen dialling codes all playing at once. Cho didn’t seem at all taken aback by it. Instead the expression on the child prodigy’s face twisted into faux-shock.

“Oh, come on. You’re seriously trying to tell me that you don’t know what Instagram is? But what do you do when you’re pooping? Or when you need to have your self-esteem crushed?”

The hologram stared unblinkingly in Cho’s direction as he considered the question. The dark green ones and zeroes that ran along his body seemed to hastened as if the hologram were running a thousand searches at once. Finally, having discovered an answer that the hologram deemed Cho would consider acceptable, its mouth opened to release the dialling code voice for a second time.


Cho’s face dropped as he realised he was uniquely unqualified to respond to the revelation. Perhaps it was the weight of the Thinker’s lifeless gaze that forced a titter from Cho’s lips. Within seconds the titter turned into a giggle, which turned into a laugh, until eventually Amadeus was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Well, that explains how you stay so svelte. You know, it was really hard to eat healthily while Kirby and I were on the road. You win one soap box competition and the next thing you know you’re being chased across America by the gun-toting employees of a billion dollar corporation.”

Upon hearing its name, a furry head burst through the neck of Cho’s jacket. It stared up at its owner, who smiled down at it proudly, and then let out a whimper upon laying eyes on the Thinker in the seat next to Amadeus. Cho whispered softly to the puppy, lifted it out of his coat, and held it towards the Thinker a little. The hologram and the puppy exchanged puzzled looks as if trying to work each other out. A lick from the puppy’s mouth passed through the Thinker’s head which caused Cho to laugh again.

“Is that thing a dog?” Jean called out in shock from across the room as she eyed the puppy with disgust. “You brought a dog in here?!”

“Firstly, that thing is a coyote, not a dog,” Cho said as he raised a scholarly finger into the air. “And secondly, his name is Kirby. Well, it’s actually ‘Kerberos’ if you want to be exact but that’s a little wordy so Kirby’s fine by the both of us.”

Loring’s pretty features became somewhat less than pretty as her brow furrowed into an entitled frown.

“I don’t care what it’s name is. I’m allergic to dogs, you idiot. You need to get that mangy thing out of here before I go into anaphylactic shock.”

Cho waited a few moments for Loring to deliver the punchline. It took several seconds for him to realise that she was being serious and he looked to Khan for support. The young girl shrugged her shoulders. Cho looked up at the athletically built black guy sat at the back of the room but he didn’t return his gaze. Finally, the Thinker broke the deadlock by standing up from his seat as if to make an announcement.


This time Cho didn’t laugh but he couldn’t help but smile when the Thinker turned its head too look to him for approval. “See? You’ll be fine. The second your eyes start swelling shut, my old buddy Think here will magic up some epinephrine for you and you’ll be as good as new.”

“Are you hard of hearing or something, runt?" Loring growled angrily at Cho. "So long as I am in close proximity to that horrible mutt you have tucked into your ratty little jacket, I am at risk of imminent death. You need to get that thing out of here and you need to get it out of here fast.”

Kirby returned Jean’s growl in kind and eyed her distrustfully from across the room. Shaken by the raised voices, Kamala made her way across the auditorium. She gestured towards Cho to let her hold Kirby and he hesitated for a moment. Kirby’s tail wagging excitedly convinced him to trust the cheerful girl and so he handed the puppy to Khan. Kamala pressed Kirby against her face and let out a laugh.

“Awh, come on, Jennie, Kirby's only a puppy! And he’s so cute. What’s Cho meant to do? Leave him out on the sidewalk?”

Loring and Cho both started speaking. Neither gave way to the other and the volume of their voices increased with every word. Soon they were shouting and Kamala was caught between them, half cupping Kirby’s ear from the noise and half trying to get them to stop. The Thinker stood in silence watching the hubbub. His empty white eyes gave no sign of judgement. There was no way of knowing what he was thinking.

From behind Kamala, Cho, and Loring came a whistle that was so piercing that it brought an immediate end to the arguing. The older boy that had been sat at the back of the auditorium in silence had risen to his feet and it was clear from the look on his face that he was unimpressed by what he had seen from the others.

“Could all of you just shut the fuck up? Just be quiet for like five minutes, man. None of you have stopped talking since we got here. Well, except for the green dude but I’m not even sure that he’s a real person.”

Kamala stared down at Kirby between her hands and passed him back to Cho. Both of them took their seats, cowed by Michael Holt’s intervention. Loring remained standing. She glared at Holt and the two were caught in what felt like a silent battle of wills. Both of them refused to blink, choosing instead to glare at the other until the other sat back down or blinked. After several agonising seconds, Jean blinked and returned to her seat.

“Whole room of geniuses and not one of you motherfuckers know when to shut your mouths,” Holt muttered under his breath as he sat down.

Reed Richards sensed the pregnant silence when he walked into the auditorium. He looked across the room at the faces of his soon-to-be students. The Thinker was as unemotive as ever, Loring was simmering, Khan downtrodden, Cho was cooing into his jacket, and Holt looked like he was still only there to stay out of prison.

Leaning in every last bit to his new role, Reed played dumb to the tension. “Well, it looks like I won’t be needing to do any introductions.”

“It’s … it’s really you! You’re Reed Richards," Kamala squealed with child-like excitement. "Like, the Reed Richards. You were on the front cover of TIME magazine when you were twelve years old. You lead Franklin Storm’s expedition into deep space. You're basically my hero!”

Loring let out a loud sigh from beside her but Kamala didn’t seem at all embarrassed by having made such a public proclamation of admiration. For his part, Reed offered the young girl an encouraging smile.

“Thank you, Miss Khan.”

The super scientist had written a speech to deliver to his students on their first meeting. It was several pages long, full of references he hoped would entertain and amuse them, and though he was slightly ashamed to admit it, he’d rehearsed it several times earlier that morning. This morning was the culmination of months of work. He had wanted every detailed to be right – even down to the introductory speech. But stood there in front of the five teenagers, Reed couldn’t bring himself to trot out a prepared speech. Instead he chose to speak from the heart.

“I trust you all know one another – but you don’t know why you’re here. Not too long ago, this site used to be the home of the Baxter Building. It was the name of not only a building, but a special school that Franklin Storm created to help teach the next generation of scientists, thinkers, and leaders how to make the best use of their incredible talents. Well, Franklin is no longer with us and the Baxter Building is no more. In its place stands the Franklin Storm Institute and ... as we have taken to calling this little project: the Future Foundation.”

The five of them represented a new start. Not only for Reed but for this world. ‘Teach them’ – Reed could hear the words of this world’s Reed Richards in his head still. Without the Baxter Building, without the timecraft, and without a route home, the Future Foundation had given Reed something to feel passionate about these last few months. It had kept his mind off what he had lost – who he had lost – and kept it squared on what mattered: the future. And the five teenagers in the auditorium were the future.

“You are all here because you have incredible potential. The five of you have been hand-picked because you possess attributes that mark you out as generational talents – but talent isn’t everything. That’s where the Future Foundation comes in. We are here to help the leaders of tomorrow help answer tomorrow’s questions today. Your learning will be tailored to each of your unique abilities and, as I’m sure you’ll all be very relieved to hear, will not be confined to the classroom.”

Reed looked out at the inaugural class of the Future Foundation with a broad smile. “So what say we get started?”

---

---

The world seemed to bend in, a subtle shift towards the singular entity. The ground trembled and groaned from the pressure, dust shifting down from the shattered dome as the rent that tore reality closed behind the massive figure of Negal. As if from a far away place Fate could hear the clashes of distant battles, the cries of the dead and dying. And an even more subtle noise that grew in the back of his head, threatening to overwhelm him to the point of nearly driving him to his knees: the sound of a marching army. He felt sweat drip down his face behind the mask, and within, he felt Nabu shudder.

Fate could feel the eyes of the god regarding him, and for a moment he wondered how he came to this. Only a couple hours prior he was spending time with his fiancee, enjoying her company in their fancy condo. Now, he might never see her again. Funny how that worked. He always imagined himself dying with her by his side, or at the very least on earth. Who could've seen that he would face his end on a different planet light years from his own. It certainly wasn't lost on him either that his name was Fate.

Could he change it however? Could he possibly face a god and come out of it alive? It was mad to think so, but he certainly wasn't going to keel over and let it happen.

"I don't enjoy being used as a weapon, Wotan," Negal said in a quiet, deep voice. "It happened once, it will not happen again."

Fate noticed Wotan's smile falter. "Well, this earthling here will pose a threat to me and to you. He won't let you conquer his planet."

"There are others besides him. What will his death change?"

"One less to worry about?" He could see the nervousness beginning to set into the face the other sorcerer, her eyes widening slightly and sweat beading on her forehead.

Negal seemed to consider it for a time and shrugged his massive shoulders. "I'm here anyway. But this is the last time, Wotan. There will not be a third."

A look of relief overcame Wotan before she settled into an easy smile. "Of course not," then she turned to him. "You have fun with our mutual friend, Fate. I'm sure you'll find the experience quite exhilarating. Not often you get to die at the hands of a god." A bloom of power enveloped her and the construct then disintegrated into a puddle that slowly pooled in front of the throne.

"A shame," Negal said as he held out a hand. Within moments a massive and jagged black scythe appeared in his grip. "You could have been a great ally, Fate."

"You're having regrets about this?" Fate asked incredulously.

"Please understand that I mean no malice when I say your death is meaningless. It is the power I feel from you that I respect and regret that I could not have by my side. Alas," a knowing smirk crossed his features, "things don't always go the way we want, do they?"

His words only served to chill Fate's blood and as he absorbed the full extent of Negal's lament, the more afraid he became. "Whatever you think is going to happen, the power fate is mine."

The smirk turned into smile. "We shall see."

I definitely don't have the passion for the show tonight. My drumming is fine, I'm too good at it for it to be otherwise. Sorry, I know that comes off as conceited, but I'm a damn good drummer. Before the whole superpower thing came along, this is what I was best at. This is what defined me. Sure I'm smart. Sure I'm probably better-than average in the looks department. But here behind a snare I am truly at home.

Not so much at home when I'm wearing this damn Elf costume though. I look like Buddy the Elf's emo younger sister. I can't take it, even if MJ swears this is the last time she'll make us wear costumes.

It probably says something about me that I willingly dress up as a spider and jump around the city, but when my friend asks me to do it for our band I rebel against it. Maybe Dad is right. Maybe I really do have too much of an issue with authority.

Playing at a consistent venue has been nice, though. The place pays us decently enough, and the acoustics aren't terrible for an old Queens bar. A soft yellow light illuminates the inside, creating a homey feel when mixed with the Christmas sweaters that adorn the patrons.

So far no one's cat-called me here, which is a plus, especially considering the costumes. I feel like if we had gone with some of the
other places we were looking at, I would have broken a few hands by now. Bars willing to throw some cash at a girl, punk-slanted band
normally aren't going to be the most reputable places, so we really lucked out.

The set ends, we get a healthy amount of applause, MJ grabs the tips out of our bowl, and we head to the back to change.

"Good set, everyone," Glory smiles as she rips the elf hat off her head. She waves it at MJ, "Can I burn mine. Please let me burn mine."

Mary Jane merely crosses her arms and glares at her bandmate.

"Jeez," she puts her hands up, "it's just a joke. Relax, girl."

"Yea, MJ," Betty adds in. "Let's all remember the Christmas spirit."

"She's a mean one, Mrs. Grinch," I mumble under my breath and the other two laugh in a squeal.

"Do you have something to say?" our lead vocalist and my best friend shoots my way. "Because now would be the time to say it."

I look into her eyes, and realize she's felt as much tension the last few weeks that I have. Wearing my heart on my sleeve is a habitual problem. Maybe karate guy from tonight is right, I do need to do a better job of controlling my emotions. Or maybe I've just waited way too long to tell MJ how much of a witch she's been since Harry's Dad became the de facto mayor. Either way, this is coming to a head now, and I'm not going to be the one to back down.

"Maybe I do, yea," I rub my right arm with my left hand, showing how uncomfortable this is making me already. I don't want to like...friend breakup with Mary Jane. But I do need to tell her how shes making me feel like shit. "For the past few weeks you've been acting like this is your band. Like we're all here for you, and not to have fun and play our music. And outside of the band, ever since Harry's Dad got the big-"

She throws her hands up in the air, "I knew it! I knew you were jealous of how much Harry's been spoiling me since the Goblin line came out. Well I'm sorry, Gwen, but my boyfriend is rich and that's how he likes to treat me."

I recoil like I've been slapped, and Glory and Betty merely cover their mouths in shock.

"You think I'm jealous? Of money? Do you even know me?" I ask with my eyes narrowing at her. "I don't give two shits about how much money Harry spends on you. The MJ I know wouldn't either. That's why I'm pissed. Because my best friend is turning into a shallow trophy wife. You expect me to be okay with that? Well, newsflash, I'm not. So either cut this Kardashian bullshit or find another drummer."

She looks down at her feet and up to the ceiling, never making contact with my eyes. I don't know if she's pissed or embarrassed, but either way it's probably not good for me. I can feel the tension radiating off the other two girls standing next to me. There is no way this is going to end well.

"Well maybe we should find another drummer then," she says after an interminable pause.

I turn and leave, "Good."



The Next Day

I flip the card the man gave me around in my hand, watching as it changes from the dragon emblem to the address and back again. I haven't decided if I'm going to track him down or not. Sure, he's offering to train me to fight better, something so many people have told me I definitely need. But he's also a rando guy who showed up on a rooftop and challenged me to a fight after mocking my inability to take down the Cat the other night.

So let's just say I'm conflicted. Having the night I did last night with Mary Jane doesn't help things either.

"You say he offered you training?" Dad asks, the trepidation showing in his voice. He's been the one pushing me to get some training. He said it right after our run in with the Black Tarantula, and he's been on my case about it ever since. But even he probably can't see this as a good idea. Stranger danger and all that. "What was your read on him?"

All I can do is shrug, "Hard to get a read on him. He was calm. Didn't seem like he meant me any harm. And what he showed on that roof, he could have taken me down, more likely than not. But I'm not discounting that this could be a trap."

Dad slides the knot of his tie up to his throat, making sure it looks okay for the dinner we're headed to, "You want me to check the address out first? Do some scouting for you?"

I shake me head as I make sure my dress is laying okay, "No. I don't want someone spotting you and putting two and two together. I don't want anyone else to know who I really am under the mask."

"Good point," he admits. "You ready?"

"Yea, let's go."



"Hello! Welcome! I'm so glad you could come tonight," Aunt May welcomes us into the house, and Dad hands her a bottle of wine. I give her a big hug.

"We wouldn't miss it for the world, May," I smile and meet her gaze, full of vibrancy even at her age. Even after what happened with Ben, she's still the same, happy, loving woman she's always been. It's a miracle. It keeps me going. It also keeps me terrified of the day she finds out the truth. About how Ben is dead because of me.

"Yea, May, we wouldn't want to be anywhere else," Dad smiles broadly. "Something smells delicious."

"Typical," I roll my eyes.

"Can I take your coats?" Peter asks after he gives me a peck on the cheek. "And we're having turkey, Captain Stacy. Will all the trimmings."

Dad's eyes raise, "Just for the four of us? I can put away the food, May, but that's an awful lot."

"Well, it's not just the four of us," Pete says sheepishly. "MJ and her mom are coming too."

My eyes go wide as I glare at Pete, "Let me help you with the jackets, Peter."

He winces when I use his full name, knowing that it means I am definitely not happy with him right now. I'm sure May invited the Watsons, but I could have at least gotten some warning.

"I know, you think I should have given you some warning," he says as we drop the coats off in his bedroom. "But then you wouldn't have come. You need to be cool with her."

"I'll be cool with her when she stops acting like a-"

"None of that," he stops me. "Not tonight. Now come on. We'll have some cookies before dinner."

"Yea. That'll help me feel better."



"And I come around the corner, and there Ben is, balancing on the ladder like something out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon," Dad says between a forkfull of mashed potatoes. "And he looks down at me and says 'George...I seem to be in a bit of a pickle'. I swear I've never laughed so hard and was so scared at the same time."

Everyone around the table laughs, but it's the sad kind of laugh that people have when remembering someone who's passed. It's like a spasm of joy tinged with pain at the end, so you don't really know how to feel afterwards. Ben stories are the best. At least they were the best. Before he was taken from us that is. Now I just wish he was here to make more of them.

MJ and I catch each others' glance fleetingly before looking away. We haven't really said a word to one another outside of our hellos. I don't think Pete's reconciliation is going to happen tonight. But at least we're not screaming at one another.

"Well, Ben always insisted on putting up the Christmas lights himself," May chuckles and takes a sip of wine. "Even Peter couldn't convince him to help."

"Nope, always told me that the lights were for me to enjoy, not to work on," Pete smiles sweetly at his plate. "I always did enjoy them."

"Always the best on the block," MJ adds. "Now if we put them up against Gwen's mom's designs? Then that would be a competition."

I look up and half-smile at Mary Jane, and she returns the gesture. Mom loved Christmas more than most. She always drew up some crazy display for Dad to put on the house every year.

"Yea, the two of them had quite the friendly rivalry," May nods. "Poor George always got the worst of it."

"I had to basically do two houses. One actually putting up the lights, and two making sure Ban didn't fall off a ladder,' Dad looks down and wipes away a tear, I'm not sure from sadness or the laughter. He picks up his glass, "To the people we lost too soon. Hopefully they're somewhere celebrating together."

"Here, here," May raises her glass as well.



As we get ready to leave after a wonderful Christmas Eve dinner, Mary Jane manages to corner me as I go to get the coats, "So are we going to talk about last night?"

"No," I respond, putting on my coat. "I"m sorry if I came off as harsh, but I mean it, MJ. You've changed."

"And you haven't?" she shoots back. "You've been aloof? You haven't been showing up for practice? Maybe I'm not the only one to be at fault."

"Yea, well, sometimes people have shit to deal with," I hiss. "And at least I haven't become a raging gold digger. Merry Christmas, MJ. I hope Harry got you something shiny. I'm sure that's what you're hoping for."

I regret the words immediately, but don't wait around to see their outcome. It is a low blow. It's something I would never consider saying to her. Not in a million years. But maybe I'm not in control of my emotions. Maybe it is time to talk to rooftop karate guy.

Dad and I say our goodbyes to May, Peter, and Mrs. Watson, and step back into the cold. I can tell Dad wants to ask about what's wrong, but instead he puts his arm around me and we walk home in silence.

Midtown
Heroes for Hire Offices

“Do you like art? Either of you?”

Murray Sandoval looked between Misty and Chase after he asked his question. Sandoval, dressed in a navy blue tartan suit with matching bowtie and pocket square, was ever bit the dandy Chase had heard he was. The famous Manhattan art gallery owner seemed out of place among the more… humble architecture of Chase and Misty’s office. File boxes from the Campisi case were still stacked around the room. Sandoval had placed his blue homburg on the stack of boxes beside his chair before he sat down.

“When it comes to art I know what I like,” said Misty. “There used to be a Jacob Lawrence mural down the street from where I grew up in Harlem. It showed black people on the move, whole families with suitcases and somewhere else to be. That's always stuck with me for some reason.”

“The Great Migration,” said Sandoval. “A representation of the African-American flight from the deep south in the early twentieth century. I know very well where that mural was. It’s a shame they took it down, but such is the way of urban renewal. And what about you, Mr. Chase? What sort of art stirs your soul?”

“The one where the dogs are playing poker,” said Chase.

Sandoval looked as if he’d smelled something especially foul. His upper lip curled and his left eyelid twitched.

“Ah, I see. It seems as if that old adage is true: money can hardly ever buy taste.”

“Look who’s talking about taste, Gainsborough,” Misty said with a smirk and nod towards Sandoval’s attire.

“Well, Ms. Knight, you do seem to know your art,” he said tightly.

“What can we help you with, Mr. Sandoval?” asked Chase. “If it’s to keep insulting me, then you are free to do so as long as you can pay our fees.”

“I need help recovering a painting,” said Sandoval. “Something from my private collection was taken two nights ago. And it’s a very delicate situation, very delicate.”

“All due respect, Mr. Sandoval,” said Chase. “That sounds a bit out of our scope. I know that you know that the NYPD has an excellent art theft division that can assist you--”

“He can’t go to the cops,” said Misty. “Because the painting he needs back was either already stolen or he bought it illegally. Or maybe both.”

“Your partner speaks the truth, I’m afraid,” said Sandoval. “It’s a lovely Junior Hallinan that I acquired some years ago. Said painting went… uhh… missing during a transfer from an art gallery in San Francisco to one in Minneapolis. If I were to report it to the authorities, questions would arise as to how I acquired it. Questions I would rather avoid answering.”

“Very well,” said Chase. He reached for a pen and scratch piece of paper. He jotted a number down and showed it to Misty. She nodded and Chase passed it to Sandoval.

“Seems a tad high,” Sandoval said sourly.

“I’m sure the NYPD would love to do this job for free,” said Misty. “In fact, I can call one of my old friends from 1PP and see if they got time--”

“No,” shouted Sandoval. “No, that’s - that’s fine. This price will work.”

Chase shared an amused look with Misty before turning back to Sandoval. “Thefts like this don’t just happen out of the blue, Mr. Sandoval. Do you have anyone you suspect would want the painting? Someone with means.”

Sandoval leaned forward in his seat and nodded vigorously. “Oh, I’m almost certain is was Branford Wilmont.”

“Branford Wilmont,” said Misty. “How do I know that name?”

“The Branford Wilmont,” asked Chase. “The Reclusive billionaire who lives on Wilmont Island? A man-made fortress island in the middle of the East River. That Branford Wilmont?”

“The one and the same,” said Sandoval. "He's always lusted after that painting, he has since I outbid him at auction for it!"

Misty and Chase exchanged glances.

“Yeah,” said Misty. “We’re going to need more money if that’s the case."

"Why?"

"We're going to need to bring in a specialist. Luckily, I know a guy… well, actually, I know a guy who knows a guy.”

---

“So there’s this rich guy named Chase and he was all like ‘Yeah, my dad owns this law firm I can do whatever,’ but is dad was like ‘Guess again, fool, you want a job you gotta work for it.’ So Chase was like ‘Damn, that’s cold, but you know what? I’ll become a prosecutor investigating dirty cops!

“That’s when my girl Misty came into the picture. She was this badass sister who had like a Pam Grier thing going on and you know that’s my thing, right? Coffy, Foxy Brown me and my cousin used to watch those movies back when I was a like twelve or thirteen and it made me feel a funny way, you know? Like a tingling--”

“Focus.”

“Right, well Misty was this badass cop out on the streets. She was busting drug dealers left and right and was like ‘Knock knock! Who’s there? Justice!’ But then this other cop named Scarfe got into Chase’s ear and was like ‘You know what? Misty Knight, she’s dirty.’ And Chase was like ‘That’s messed up. But you know what? If I bust her my dad will offer me a job!’ So he did and Misty was like ‘I’m innocent!’ and Chase was like ‘crookedcopsayswhat’ and Misty was all “What?” And Chase was like ‘Got you, dummy! You’re done!’

“So Misty was kicked off the NYPD, right? Only she proved her innocence and showed up to Chase’s house and was all like ‘See, fool? It was your boy Scarfe that did me dirty.’ And Scarfe was like ‘Yeah, I did it, but you won’t find out why because I’m about to be mad murdered. Smell you later!’ So Chase was all like ‘I’ve learned a valuable lesson about how messed up our criminal justice system is. I’m gonna quit the DA’s office and start working to change things from the outside. Yo, Misty, you wanna work together?’ And Misty was like ‘Cool.’ So that’s how Heroes’ for Hire started.”

“Okay,” Scott Lang said after a long silence. “But, Luis… what’s that got to do with me?”

“They need our help on a job.”

“Any sign, Frenchie?” I speak through the three-way comm link.

“No. Nothing on the South side. Do you need me to pick you up?” DuChamp’s reply from the chopper.

“No. No sign of him here either, but there is enough to keep me busy...”

“Busy? You take care, Marc.” Marlene comes in through the ‘Home’ terminal.

I hurl myself off the Franklin Center with a laugh.

“I don’t know, Marlene. ‘Take care’? Might throw me off my rhythm.”

I cast my glider cape wide and catch a huge gust, riding the early evening wind as my eyes narrow inside of my mask. The target? The stickup boys who have a pair of tourists cornered down a back alley from the Loop. I circle around the building so I don’t drop in too hot, which also deprives them much of an opportunity to see me coming.

I plow through the main threat; a kid with a butterfly knife, as I sweep through boots first to make my landing. Silver flashes as a crescent dart pins a second to a brick wall by his jacket and I hurl my truncheon into a third’s chest, before pulling it back on its cord. The final one runs.
I grab the one pinned against the wall forcibly.

“Aww man… Why me? Why don’t you go-- I mean-- what about him, man?!”

With my off hand I grab another crescent dart, and quickly launch it using only a quick snap of my forearm.

“Him? He’s the cautionary tale. And why you’re glad you didn’t run from me...” I growl.

A bloodcurdling scream fills the back alley as the dart finds a home, sinking deep into the runaway’s calf, all the way to the bone.

My eyes narrow, and the stick-up punk thinks for a second that he saw them flash and glow a luminescent blue.

“He--he--heeere.” He says, meekly reaching inside his coat and producing wallets, and a second closed concealed flick-blade.



There’s not a dollar out of place.

Suddenly Samuels broke over the home line. “Sir, if I might interject, it is getting close to time. And by the time you’ve showered…”

“Yup. I hear you.”

“...and put on fresh clothes…”

“You’ve made your point.”

“...and gotten changed...”

There it was, the not-so-subtle dig.

“You heard the man, Frenchie. Pickup from the Loop.”



The day shift floor of the Chicago Central Detectives room gave way to the night shift. Flint stood in the corner and waited. Both for his partner to get back from the can and for the briefing to commence.

“Gwenn in?”

Flint nodded stoically. It was a reasonable question. Whilst a lot of detectives would fight tooth and nail for overtime hours, Gwenn had clocked easily the most absentee days of anyone in either shift at Central. His age and experience seeming to be the only reason this was not a greater issue. Captains would drag a younger detective over the coals, put the fear of god into them to bend them and make them change their ways early.

When they got to Gwenn’s age however, an age was senior even to that of Flint, such measures were generally no longer attempted. Whether it was because such men had been seen to earn their stripes already, or because grown men didn’t take kindly to swinging dicks, the general gist of the matter was the same:

You can’t teach old dogs new tricks.

Most of the others in the unit weren’t terribly concerned anyway. Gwenn was “one of the old boys”, his numbers suited Captain Miles Brennan-Kasser just fine as he’d closed off a number of murders earlier in the year - as they’d met their end crossing the path of notorious gangbangers, and half of the unit padded their paychecks with overtime hours scored off the back of Gwenn’s absences.

Except the guy who frequently got the shit-shifts because Captain Two-Dads wouldn’t give prime assignments to the one man car.

“Passed packets yet?” Gwenn asked, having just returned from the bathroom and referring to whether assignments had been doled out by the Captain yet.

“Nah." Flint replied. "Shake it off?”

“You know it.” Gwenn gave a lewd, wide grin. “Just like Taylor Swift.”

Detective Tammy Hall turned from the seat in front and gave a disgusted look.

“Let’s not act like we all haven’t seen or heard worse, Hall.”

Flint shrugged. “Hey, Tammy, least you know he has two layers of clean dry fabric between him and you...”

“Two? You’re not my Irish mother. Flint. If she couldn’t get me to wear underpants, God rest her soul, what chance you think you got?”

Flint bent down and gestured at his partner. “So however rough the next crime scene you go to Hall. Just remember I have to share a car with that guy. I’m terrified of letting the techs get too close to our car with the blacklight. At this point… I just don’t want to know anymore.”

“Alright knuckleheads, listen up!” Captain Brennan-Kasser broke up the smatter of chatter, and sought to press his weight on the briefing room… and the braces which held his pants up.

Flint zoned out throughout the Captain’s speech, only switching back on once he heard the distribution of assignments.

“…Hall and Stills, to the viaduct on this Slumcity Slasher beat. Flint and Gwenn, 610 and B & E out at North Center. Residents returned home and reported theft.”

“A burglary? C’mon, Hall. You want to swap? You really want to be interviewing bums all night?”

The Slumcity Slasher as he’d been dubbed last week, had the basic MO of attacking the native Chicago homeless community. Nobody really had a good look at him, and the fact he’d been targeting the city’s most underprivileged also played a role in why few real developments had come up.

“No swapping! Flint, don’t you have enough of a caseload as is?” the Captain called across the room.

Flint grumbled. He was loathe to see homicides go to less experienced detectives, whilst he and his partner got stuck with a two-bit burglary and break and enter on the rich side of town.

Gwenn had the address, and the pair went to the car.

*****

GENA’S DINER

“Crawley! Leave them boys alone to do their homework!” came the shrill order from the owner and operator of Gena’s Diner.

“If you would believe it, I was actually aiding them in their studies. A question pertaining to calculating compound interest, which was a matter that I was quite familiar with from…”

“I don’t care! Let them boys figure it out amongst themselves. They got the book there I can see it!”

Ricky and Ray Landers were sitting in a booth with scribbled on napkins bunched on the table and floor as they had tried to find the answers which matched what was listed as the solution in the teacher’s key in the back of the text book.

“Sorry Crawley, Momma gets a bit strict on our maths stuff at the moment.”

“Yeah, since you got a D last month!”

“I studied for geometry and teacher hit us with algebra. All them letters meaning numbers booshit...”

“Ray!”

“Sorry Momma. Thought we were going to be bisecting circles and putting equilateral triangles in ‘em.”

“Well, if I can’t be of any utility here, I might as well make my way to the domicile…”

“You’re leaving? You be careful, Crawley. I don’t like your skinny ass walking on out of here by yourself, you old coot. Been hearing all of this violence in the newspapers…”

“It’s quite alright, Gena, my good lady. Our mutual friend Jake Lockley has been good enough to provide a room and board for the time being, whilst this nonsense is taking place.”

“Let me get my coat. I’m driving you there. Boys, I’m locking up here in the meanwhile. Don’t you go letting anybody in, and just you make sure you do your homework while I’m out. I’ll be checking it when I get back.”

“Yes, Momma.”

“And just you watch out for your younger brother too, hear?”

“Yes, Momma.

Dad and I lounge on the couch, some meaningless college football bowl game on the screen, and the sun begins to slowly sink down below the horizon. Neither of us have changed out of our pajamas all day, which I would consider a perfect Christmas day. Well, Mom being here too would be a perfect day. But this is about as good as one can get from here on in. And I'm not going to complain about that one bit.

"So are we going to talk about it?" Dad asks after stuffing a cookie into his face.

"Talk about what?" I ask, not looking up from spinning the new drumsticks Dad got me. "The training thing again? I think I'm at least gonna go check it out, yea. Worse comes to worst I'll just run away or something."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," he looks at me sideways. "I was talking about the Stacy and Watson Cold War at dinner last night. We almost didn't need to refrigerate the leftovers."

Looking up, I meet his gaze. He's worried. Of course he's worried. Why wouldn't he be?

"It's complicated, Dad," I shake my head.

"Is it? My experience as a teenager says nothing that happens at your age is all that complicated," he deadpans.

"Really? Not even being bitten by a genetically chaotic spider, getting superpowers, and having to save the city time after time? You had a much more interesting childhood than you'e ever let on, Dad," my eyebrows raise at him.

He tilts his head at me, "You know what I mean, Gwen."

"Dad...she's just become ridiculous. Her and Harry both. Acting like the own everything around them, and they're better than everyone else," I explain. "And we got in a fight about it. She threw back that I haven' t been...well present recently. She's not wrong on that front. But still, she won't even admit that she's been totally different ever since Oscorp got the Goblin line into production."

"Sometimes that happens, sweetheart," he tries to explain. "But you want to be there for her when she realizes the mistakes she's made. We all do things we're not proud of when we're young. But you don't want to lose a friend like MJ over something like that. Okay?"

"Yea." I know he's right, but it doesn't make me feel any less mad at her.

Before either of us can say another word, a breaking news bulletin comes across the TV, interrupting the game.

"Sorry to interrupt your Christmas day, ladies and gentlemen, but we have breaking news coming across our desk. Several Manhattan banks have been robbed in the last hour, all reporting what could be massive explosions ripping off the vault doors, with masked men awaiting the money from outside. Police assume more robberies will be committed before the night is over, and are urging all citizens to stay at home and stay off the streets to ensure their safety. We'll update you with any additional information as it comes in. Now, back to the game."

Saved by the crime, I guess.

"Looks like superheroes don't get the night off," I say to dad as I head to my room to change into my suit. "I'll keep you updated."

"I might go into work as well," he said, heading to check his phone. "They may actually use me on this one."

"Sounds good," I nod to him. "Be careful."

"Yea...you too."



It doesn't take me long to follow the trail of blown out banks littering Manhattan this snowy Christmas night. The flakes started to fall as I began swinging into the heart of the city. On a normal Christmas, it would be the perfect cap to the perfect day. Now it just means things are going to be even more of a mess.

So far I haven't seen any flames in the destroyed banks, but it definitely looks like some kind of bomb went off in them. A few cop cars are at each site, but so far I haven't seen a huge response from them. The perils of calling people in on a Holiday, I assume. No one expects a crime spree on Christmas night.

Man, my life is starting to sound like a Monty Python sketch.

Not only are the streets devoid of cop cars, but there's not anyone milling about. Not all that surprising, Christmas is a kind of night where New York is quiet. But the utter lack of anyone is a bit creepy, if I'm being honest. The warning must have gotten out pretty well. Either that or people are celebrating a lot harder than they usually do on this night.

"So where are you going next?"

I don't need to search for long, though. Two blocks down, the first floor of a building blows out like a can of Coke stomped on from above, showering the street with glass and debris. A black van speeds towards the front of the bank, and men in yellow, old-timey hockey masks jump out and begin shuttling money from inside.

One of the men tosses a bag towards the van, and I snatch it out of the air with a webline, "Well someone is going on the naughty list for next year!"

"It's Spider-Woman!" he yells as I toss the bag of money back at him, knocking him off his feet.

"I'm gonna be honest," I land on the van, "I really don't understand why you guys are always so surprised to see me. Who the hell else is going to show up when you're robbing banks?"

"Waste her!"

With that, the gunfire starts. They always have to try and shoot me, don't they. Guns. So uncivilized.

The bullets fly around me as I corkscrew through the air, using my Spider Sense to stay perfectly safe. As I do, I fire weblines, clogging their barrels and causing them all to misfire. I land in the middle of them, and shake my head, "You guys never learn. I think I know what your New Years resolution should be."

"Down!" a voice yells from inside the bank, and all the guys in the yellow masks drop to the ground. Before my reflexes can save me, a pressurized vibration of air slams into me, sending me flying back. My hip hits the top of the van, sending a sharp pain radiating down my leg and causing me to windmill through the air until I land hard on the pavement.

Groggily I look up to see the men finish loading the van. They all get inside, and I see the one who just blasted me. He's wearing some weird, red and yellow padded suit, and on his arms are chrome, metallic devices that hum with a potent energy. He waves at me mockingly before saluting me.

The van speeds off and I try and shake the cobwebs out of my brain so I can give chase.

"I swear to god, next Christmas all I want is no super villains."

New Atlantis, Atlantis

Four days had passed since Orm had passed by Sue outside of Namor’s study but she thought of little since. Hours spent studying had revealed precious little about Namor’s ‘mad’ general and even less of his bloodline. Though even the king had spoken of Orm’s exploits at Xebel, the literature seemed to suggest that he barely existed. In fact, much of the literature around the Glorious Reclamation was pointedly short of detail – which was especially conspicuous given the many, many detailed volumes of almost every other period in Atlantean history.

Even today on a national festival set aside to celebrate the Reclamation, Sue found herself unable to answer even the simplest of questions about it. Though usually governed by strict, martial sensibilities, the festival was one of few joyful, expressive gatherings that took place in the nation’s capital – and for whatever reason, the king had insisted that Sue Storm be given pride of place at his side for it.

“Is this completely necessary, Namor?” Sue murmured as she tugged on the traditional Atlantean dress she was wearing. “I feel absurd in this get-up and it’s pretty clear that your subjects don’t appreciate my presence here.”

She looked anything but absurd. In fact, it had not gone unnoticed by some Atlantean subjects that sat beside their unmarried king on the podium, Susan Storm looked every bit the queen. Looking the part and wanting it were two very different propositions – and being wanted was an altogether different one. Though Namor seemed to enjoy Sue’s company, his subjects did not seem to share his regard. From the way they looked at her the very opposite seemed true.

“Nonsense, Susan. My subjects do as their king commands. They would gladly lay down their lives for me if I commanded them to. Enduring the presence of a surface-dweller is not beyond the capabilities of the average Atlantean, I assure you, no matter how pungent the smell.”

The insult was thrown out in such a passing manner that it took several seconds for Sue to process it. “Excuse me?”

“Oh,” Namor said with as near to a sheepish smile as Sue had seen the king conjure up. “I thought you were aware of it. You surface-dwellers give off an odour that is very off-putting to the Atlantean nose. I believe it’s all the pus you ingest from those ugly bovines creatures. Dairy?”

She simply shook her head at the inquiry and turned back to the festivities. From the pedestal that Namor and Sue were sat on, they could see the entire procession of revellers passing through the streets of New Atlantis. The princess Namora had insisted upon sitting a level lower than Sue, whose presence there she considered an affront as ever, but her mood had brightened once the festivities had begun.

The significant military presence did not seem to quell the celebrations. Atlantis had a long, almost Spartan history that made its inhabitants accustomed to the presence of trident-wielding soldiers on almost every street. With tensions high since the Drowned’s attack on Tlapallan, the soldiers seemed more on edge than usual. Sue stared down at them for a few seconds before directing an inquisitive look at the king.

“Tell me more about the Glorious Reclamation.”

A servant scuttered towards Namor and offered him a golden platter covered in food. The king looked through it, his hands dancing above the pieces of fruit and dried fish, before finally he reached for a heart-shaped plant Sue did not recognise. It was purple with thick vein-shaped lines running along it. As he bit into the plant it burst open and sent green liquid squirting down the king’s chin.

The king wiped the juce away from his chin with the back of his hand and looked proudly at Sue. “What is it that you would like to know?”

“Well, your highness, all I have read so far are glowing accounts of your glory in battle," Sue said with a diplomatic smile designed to ensure she did not incur the wrath of the Atlantean monarch's famously changeable mood. "And as enthralling as those accounts are, they are very light on actual facts. The more I know, the better I can advise you. So with that in mind: what was the great treason that the line of Atlan com-”

The proud smile on Namor’s face disappearing stopped Sue mid-sentence. The king stood up from his seat and threw the half-eaten plant down to the crowd of revellers in the crowd beneath them. The Atlantean’s fought amongst themselves for possession of it. Namor watched on whilst Namora and the other minor royals laughed at the commoners. He turned back to Sue and pointed down to the adoring crowd.


“All you need to know, Susan Storm, is that through battle I restored honour to Atlantis after generations of degeneracy – and so grateful are my loyal subjects that every year they celebrate the defeat of Atlan at my hand. What more is there to know? You need only look down at their adoring faces to understand the love my people hold in their hearts for their king.”

There was something there in the king’s gaze. Something that Sue couldn’t quite discern. Was it guilt? Shame even? Namor turned away from her before she could work it out but there was clearly something not quite right there. She considered asking another question when a fracas among the crowd beneath them caught her attention. A young girl no older than twelve or thirteen had managed to push her way to the front and was being set upon by armed guards.

“What are they doing? She’s a child,” Sue said as she leapt from her seat and shouted down at the guards. “You’re hurting her! Let her go.”

The guards looked towards their king for instruction. Namor felt the weight of the crowd’s gaze upon him – but the weight of Sue’s expectant stare seemed to wear on him more heavily than all the Atlantean faces staring back at him. He lifted a finger in the guard’s direction and with a dismissive wave forced them to stand down.

“Do as she says.”

They let the blue-skinned girl go and there was a roar of approval from the crowd. Sue smiled at Namor gratefully and, perhaps buoyed by Storm’s warmth, the king gestured towards the guards to help the little girl onto the pedestal with them. They lifted her up and Sue stretched her hand out and pulled her beside them.

“Are you okay?” Sue asked as she knelt before the little girl with a maternal smile. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

The little girl shook her head. She looked several years younger than her age, badly fed, and the rags that were hanging from her light-blue shoulders looked as if they had seen better days. Poverty was a rarity across Atlantis. The festival had brought beggars from across Atlantis to the capital to take advantage of the good-will created by the festivities. To be brought before the king was an act of kindness so wild that not even the most hopeful Atlantean could have dreamt of it. But Sue Storm had made it a reality for one girl.

Ignoring Namora’s protestations, Namor joined Sue and placed a hand on the child's shoulder. “Have you come to pay tribute to your king?”

A broad smile appeared on the girl’s face and she drew back the portion of the rags covering her arm. Emblazoned on the girl’s forearm was a tattoo of a whirlpool. Its significance was lost on Sue but she noticed the king’s face twist with shock. He opened his mouth to shout a warning to those around him but before the words had left it there was a flash of blinding light. The pedestal and much of the crowd beneath it were hit by an explosion so powerful it sent shockwaves through the entire capital.

The Fortress
Undisclosed Location in the Arctic
Two Months Ago

"Let....*hngh!*...let go of me!" I snarl as I strain against the snake-like tendrils of liquid metal that coil around my arms and legs.

Please do not resist, the voice of Kelex, the Kryptonian servitor robot floating in front of me, resounds in my head. It is against my wishes, my programming, even my very nature to cause you harm.....but you must stop this. If you continue to struggle, I will have to use more forceful measures to restrain you.

I manage to wriggle an arm free, and lunge at the silvery orb, which darts below my fist with no visible effort.

"You say you don't want to harm me," I say, wrenching at a metallic tendril that has wrapped around my torso, "but then you want to make me your prisoner?!"

I wish nothing of the sort, Kal-El, Kelex responds. I intend to keep you safe. This planet is in a state of flux that will, in all likelihood, lead to cataclysm. As more metahumans arise, destructive conflict becomes more and more of an inevitability. And far worse than that, this world has drawn the attention of forces beyond them. The entity known as the Silver Surfer is proof enough, but I also have reason to believe that the Collector of Worlds has found a way to establish itself on this planet as well. Acting in tandem, these 'heroes' may have the power to turn away some of these threats, but eventually one will come to pass. They will all die, Kal-El. And you with them. Unless I take preventative action.

The tendrils pull me down, and above me, I see Kelex begin to change shape again, his spherical form once again opening up like flower petals, then splitting into four parts.

These four segments of itself hover in the air in a square pattern, and between them, I see a shimmering light begin to form. Spinning slowly, the shimmering light takes the form of a flat square, like a sheet of glass, until it starts to crackle with light around its edges. The inside of the square grows darker, like looking down into a cave....or a pit.



You will be kept from harm in the confines of the Phantom Zone, Kelex's voice buzzes in my head. A lower spatial dimension where matter and energy exist, but have no substance. Where the electromagnetic patterns of consciousness persist even in the absence of a physical body. In that space, separate from this material plane, you will be able to wait out the impending crises in safety, until humanity and all of the threats it brings upon itself have passed.

As the translucent square-- some sort of gate or portal to this 'Phantom Zone,' I guess-- grows larger, I feel it pulling me towards it. At first a gentle tug, barely perceptible, but within seconds I feel it rip me away from the tendrils that were holding me in place, pulling me in like a black hole.

I put every ounce of focus I can into rebuilding my gravitational field, to fly away from the Phantom Zone portal. Resisting with all my might, all I can do is slow down its pull.

"I--*ngh!*-- I can't let you do this!" I shout, my body wracked with agony as I strain against the portal's grip. "Lock me away in another dimension, because--*rgh!*-- a disaster might happen? I won't--"

You must, Kelex responds. We were spared the destruction of our home world, Kal. I must do all in my power to spare you the destruction of this world as well.

The pitch black void inside the shimmering square, like a pit that falls forever, seems to reach out to me. Shadows erupt from within, flooding the cavernous chamber with veins of darkness.

I grit my teeth, and shift my thoughts away from my gravitational field, and instead towards the searing heat building in my eyes.

This thing, thinking it knows what's best for me, wants to take me away.

Away from Earth.

Away from all of the people I swore to protect, from all of the work I have to do.

Away from Ma.

Away from Jimmy and Perry and the rest of my friends at the Planet.

Away from Lois.

If it succeeds, I'll never see any of them again.

Kelex thinks the only way to survive his prophecy of doom is to run away and hide.

"Like hell," I say, and let loose with blasts of scarlet light hotter than the core of the sun.

The beams strike into the heart of the Phantom Zone portal, scattering across the crystalline surface. At first, it doesn't seem to have any effect, but the more scorching heat I pour into the darkness, the more I see the black shadows reaching out from the portal turn brown, then red, then orange and yellow, before giving way to a bright white and--



.

.

.

.

...OOF, HOLY MACKEREL, I ACTUALLY FELT THAT ONE!

ISN'T THAT JUST TYPICAL OF OUR BIG BLUE BOY SCOUT? HE LEARNS THAT THE RIDICULOUS SLICE OF TIME/SPACE HE CALLS A UNIVERSE IS JUST A TINY FACET OF THE UNTHINKABLE WHIRL OF REALITIES, AND WHAT'S THE FIRST THING HE DOES WHEN THINGS GET DICEY? SHOOTS SOME LASERS AT IT. ALWAYS WITH THE BRUTE FORCE, LIKE TRYING TO ATTEMPT BRAIN SURGERY WITH A CHAINSAW. FIGURATIVELY, I MEAN. THOUGH I GUESS THERE ARE A FEW INCARNATIONS THAT MIGHT TRY THAT LITERALLY....

ANYWAY, WHILE YOU'RE HERE, I'VE GOT A THOUGHT EXPERIMENT FOR YOU. WELL, IF YOU CAN REALLY CALL THE JUMBLE OF ELECTROCHEMICAL REACTIONS GOING ON IN THOSE SQUISHY GRAY LUMPS IN YOUR HEADS 'THOUGHTS,' BUT I DIGRESS.

YOU LIVE IN A MOSTLY EMPTY VOID WITH THREE MEASLY SPATIAL DIMENSIONS AND TRAVERSING IN ONE DIRECTION ALONG THE TEMPORAL ONE. IN THAT VOID THERE ARE SWIRLING BALLS OF GAS, AND AROUND ONE OF THOSE GAS BALLS IS A WET ROCK THAT STARTED GROWING THINGS ON IT. THAT'S YOUR WORLD, AND IT'S A REAL HORROR SHOW. WAR, POVERTY, STARVATION, DISEASE, AWFUL THINGS HAPPENING TO PEOPLE WHO DON'T DESERVE IT LEFT AND RIGHT. CHILDREN DIE IN AGONY FROM INCURABLE FORMS OF CANCER. KINDLY OLD PEOPLE GET ABUSED AND ROBBED BY PEOPLE WHOSE JOB IS TO TAKE CARE OF THEM. WHOLE TOWNS AND CITIES GET WIPED OUT BY TORNADOES AND EARTHQUAKES AND WILDFIRES, LEAVING THOUSANDS DEAD OR MAIMED OR HOMELESS. ALL YOUR FAVORITE MOVIES KEEP GETTING REBOOTED WITH TERRIBLE CGI AND OBNOXIOUS POLITICAL AGENDAS FORCED INTO THEM.

AND WHY DOES THIS HAPPEN?

THE FIRST SCENARIO IS THAT YOU ARE THE PLAYTHINGS OF DARK FORCES, CAST INTO THE WORLD TO SUFFER AND TOIL AND DIE FOR THE AMUSEMENT OF ENTITIES BEYOND YOUR ABILITY TO UNDERSTAND, WHO DEMAND YOUR WORSHIP AND GET OFF ON YOUR PAIN.

THE SECOND SCENARIO IS THAT THERE'S NOBODY IN CHARGE, THAT THIS WAS ALL JUST ONE BIG COSMIC ACCIDENT AND YOU PLAY YOUR PARTS ON THE STAGE OF THE ABSURD FOR AN AUDIENCE THAT ISN'T THERE, THAT YOU'RE ALL JUST PASSENGERS IN A CAR ON FIRE WITH NO DRIVER AT THE WHEEL.

ASK YOURSELF: WHICH OF THESE SCENARIOS IS MORE TERRIFYING TO YOU?

HONESTLY, THE ANSWER DOESN'T MATTER.

BECAUSE THEY'RE BOTH RIGHT.

SEE YOU SOON, KIDDOS!



......my senses start to return to me. My head is swimming, my body aches, and I feel simultaneously nauseous and incredibly hungry.

Around me, I see smoke starting to dissipate, flashes of white light and black shadows, sparking off of each other like downed power lines.

I sit up, and where the shimmering portal once was, I see two figures in robes.

"....I can hardly believe it," says one of them, a dark-haired man with a short beard. "And yet, here you are."

"Everything we've suffered, it's worth it all for this," says the other, a beautiful woman with bright blue eyes.

Alert, alert, anomalies detected! I hear the voice of Kelex. Kal-El must be detained before these anomalies--

"That's enough, Kelex," says the man.

"You have forgotten the virtue of our House, Servitor," the woman scolds Kelex. "You have let fear overtake your Hope. Yet the child--the man--before you shows that hope can be rewarded, even after the end of all things."

"I....I know you," I say, hardly believing my eyes as I stand to face them. "I've seen you....in my dreams, my visions.....you're...."



"I am Jor-El, last Patron of the House of El," the man says. "I am your father."

"And I am Lara Lor-Van," says the woman. "Your mother."

"Our time in this plane is short," says the man...my father... "but in that time, we have many things to discuss."

---

---

Metropolis, Delaware - Suicide Slum

The angelic cords of Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah flittered through the cold, winter air with a haunting grace. Spotted with sharp, angry static, that muffled tune slipped out through the cracks and dents in a conspicuously-inconspicuous van parked on that lonely, otherwise quiet street. Nothing moved through the snow banks but shadows and the whispers of a snapping breeze.

It was Christmas night and the only creature stirring was Paco Tejas.

His fingers danced across his worn and well-used keyboard like a decuple of musclebound ballerinas, occasionally pausing as their owner lost himself in the music. Paco loved this song; it was his favorite Christmas song, in fact, and he hadn't stopped blasting it since 2007 and wouldn't stop until the day he dropped dead. He cycled through different covers of it occasionally, but he always came back to Buckley in the end. There was just something about the way he sang that made it so beautifully heartbreaking. He was lucky his very Catholic parents had never paid close attention to the very Uncatholic lyrics.

As enthralled in the lyrics as he was, he didn't notice the approaching figures until one of them had already thrown open the van's driver side door. Paco gave a start, nearly leaping a foot from his seat at the loud churning of old metal that came with every attempt to move the door. His terror caught in his throat when his gaze met Brenda's tired eyes, her cheeky half-grin doing little to abate the embarrassment he felt. "You're...back!" He called, his voice cracking as he tried and failed to laugh the incident off.

"Observant as always, Paco." His best friend called from behind him, dragging Paco's head around. Jaime's shoulders were sagging, and there was something oddly subdued about his ton. Paco didn't catch it, however- not that that was in any way out of the ordinary. He hadn't even noticed Reyes open the double-doors that made up the van's rear, much less crawl inside and make himself comfortable among the blankets and pillows they'd called home for the last three months. It hadn't exactly been easy. Most nights they went to bed a little hungrier than the last, and it just kept getting colder and colder and colder...but Paco wouldn't trade it in for the world. Playing sidekick to a superhero and dodging their way around an international organization of spies and assassins had to be the most fun he'd ever had; he was basically living in a movie, and he was going to cherish every pulse-pounding second of it.

"Alright," Brenda let out a slight sigh, brushing the greasy, unwashed hairs from in front of her face. None of them had gotten a chance to shower that week. They stopped by the Kord Outreach Center as often as they could, but Brenda was adamant they avoid frequenting the same places too many times; it only took one person recognizing them, or one picture getting out, to bring SHIELD's hounds running. They could never be too careful. "Where're we holding up for the night? Find anywhere good, Pac?" She asked, her voice ragged and tired from a hard day's work. It wasn't going to be enough cash to get them through to the next care package, she knew, but it was way too late to start another job; not to mention just how exhausted she was.

Paco pursed his lips, glancing at Jaime through the rearview mirror. The two's gazes met, their minds seemingly going to the same place in that instant. "Well, I didn't find any five-star hotels, buuut..." He started, only for Brenda to abruptly cut him off with a laugh.

"No. Nooo, no, no- you can't be serious. Do you see the time?" She waved her hands in front of her chest, an incredulous look on her face as she swiveled her head between Jaime and Paco. Neither of them were laughing with her.

"Come on!" Paco protested. "It's close, and it shouldn't take long at all!" He turned toward his computer, punching in a few keys as he brought up a map of the city. There were colored, digital 'pins' stuck in the map at varying locations throughout Metropolis, and a little cartoonish version of their van pointing out their current location.

Brenda scrunched up her nose, looking back at Jaime in disbelief. "We've been shoveling snow all night, aren't you exhausted?" She asked, hoping to God that he'd agree with her so she could finally get some much-needed sleep. Much to her regret, however, he only shrugged.

"I mean...it's the whole reason we're out here, right?" Jaime reasoned, choking back a yawn. "Plus the sooner we find this guy-"

"-or girl-" Paco interrupted.

"...thing..." Jaime offered him the briefest glare before continuing. "...the sooner we can get everything fixed and head back home."

---

---

Metropolis, Delaware - Hob's Bay

Lines of warehouses stretched as far as the eye could see, their shadows cast long across the concrete and asphalt. There was nothing alive down here save for the rats; the sharp odor of old fish hung so heavy that even the most desperate of wanderers would find somewhere else to spend the cold, winter nights. Jaime practically leaped out of the back of the van, throwing the doors wide as he took in the horrific scent like it was cotton candy at a carnival. "Really wakes ya up, doesn't it?" He snickered, calling over his shoulder to the others. He appreciated the change of scenery a great deal more than he'd like to admit, and he was excited to finally be doing something. It felt like an eternity had passed since they had last pursued a lead.

Dr. Caulder's alien had been a ghost of a ghost, alluding them at every turn. Brenda and Paco weren't even sure the thing was real at this point, but Jaime never stopped believing. He'd seen that bastard's face when he told him about the second alien...The alpha, Caulder had called it. It was another of the doctor's obsessions. If they found it, they'd hopefully pick up on his trail again. It was...a long shot, to be sure, but it was the only shot they had.

"Unfortunately." Brenda replied with a heavy sigh, dragging herself up alongside Jaime with her hands stuffed into the pockets of her heavy winter coat. "And here I was thinking I couldn't smell any worse than I already do. Silly me."

Paco stumbled out of the passenger side of the vehicle, his backpack clutched to his chest like it was an old woman's pearls. His fuzzy Trapper Hat was secured rather firmly to his head, the unsecured flaps flittering with every awkward movement from the boy. "Oh, no, you smell- fine!" Paco assured her as he hustled to join the other two, only just realizing how that sounded. "Err, uh, I mean-"

"No she doesn't." Jaime stopped him.

"No, I don't." Brenda was quick to agree, hurrying that conversation away as quickly as she was to start down the rows and rows of warehouses. "Let's get this done nice and quick before I pass out." From lack of sleep or from the scent of dead cod, she didn't know, but Brenda would rather not wait around to find out which one would do her in first.

A look of shame and defeat crossed over Paco's face as he made his way after her, careful to only stay a few steps behind while not getting up into her personal space. "Place kinda gives you the spooks, huh?" He asked, trying and failing to start a conversation to get the last one out of memory; that, and he felt the need to keep the silence away. It was dark, and the looming shadow of all these buildings- and the knowledge of what had happened here- only emphasized his need to keep talking.

Once Brenda was well ahead of him, Jaime cut back, grabbing Paco by the arm to drag his friend back with him. The two kept their pace up enough that she couldn't get too far ahead, but far back enough for them to talk for a moment. Reyes leaned in just to be safe. "Dude, ya gotta take it easy."

"What do you mean?" Paco coughed, his eyes going everywhere but to meet Jaime's.

"You know what I mean, man. You're trying too hard!" Jaime said, slapping him on the arm. "Take it down a notch. Play it cool. All'a that stuff. Girls like it that way."

"Whadda you know about girls? You can't talk to Traci without bumbling like an idiot!" Paco countered defensively, his cheeks puffing up. "You get one suit of alien armor and suddenly you're an expert on everything."

"Like you do any better!" Jaime shot back. "You've known Brenda since you were twelve and you still haven't told her how you fee-"

'Unknown energy detected.' Khaji Da's voice rang in Reyes's mind for the first time in quite awhile. 'I recommend vacating the area immediately or arming yourself in preparation for attack.' The alien had gotten less and less talkative since the first incident with SHIELD, only ever popping in when Jaime asked for his help.

It was...odd, but Jaime hadn't felt the need to ask Khaji about it. 'Guess I can't really tell Paco off for doing the same thing, huh?'

"Eyes up, guys, we're close!" Jaime called, pulling himself back into the present and mentally preparing himself for whatever might lie ahead. It was just then that he noticed Brenda was no longer walking in front of them and had managed to disappear while he and Paco were talking. For a brief moment, he felt the pull of growing panic, but the sound of her voice in the distance calmed him- somewhat.

"No shit! Come check this out!" She yelled from inside one of the nearby warehouses. It looked like it'd suffered quite a bit of wear over the decades, several holes marring its walls, rust covering the metal and the wood chewed up by termites and the slow weathering of time. Jaime and Paco rushed inside to see what she'd found, an unexplainable anxiousness sprouting up in Jaime's chest.

He passed inside the warehouse, his gaze met by a wall of sheer darkness. He could barely see anything more than five feet ahead of him, save for the faint outline of several wooden crates stacked up on top of one another in front of him. Jaime sucked in air between his teeth, his eyes shifting back to Paco who was already picking through his backpack for flashlights. "Here ya go." He handed one off to Reyes, taking one for himself as he struggled to sling the bag back around his shoulder.

Jaime flicked the light on, illuminating the darkness in front of him. Every visible surface was covered in dirt and grime, a layer of dust hanging just above every box and discarded piece of trash in the place. Nothing in here had moved for months at the very least; maybe even longer than that. He started deeper into the warehouse, keeping the beam of light moving as he took in his surroundings. Old shelving covered in rusting tools, rotting plywood and marred pieces of sheet metal. "Brenda?" He called out nervously, shifting between his feet as she shuffled deeper into the cavernous chamber. "You're still alive, right?!"

"D-dude!" If Jaime was nervous, then Paco was about to pass out. He could barely stutter out that single word between his chattering teeth, that feeling of anxiety laying heavy on his shoulders as he advanced just behind Reyes into the mounting darkness. This was the worst part about adventuring, he'd realized: actually adventuring. Anything could be lurking in between the scattered and broken storage containers. His fears were far from irrational; the things he'd read about in the last eight months...all of the bombastic superheroes and excitement came with a healthy dose of demons, monsters and sadistic, superpowered serial killers. "M-maybe I'll go wait outside..." Paco gulped, slowing down significantly.

Reyes sighed, stopping to turn and look at Paco. "Why don't you tell me again about what we're doing here?" He asked, hoping to get Paco's mind off his fear and onto something at least semi-productive.

"W-well, uhh..." Paco nodded, trying to force the words out between his slicked teeth and wavering jaw. He'd read over the article on a 'Local Paranormal Mysteries' website at least three times. There was a lot of nonsense on that site, but this one looked the most legit. "T-the dock workers don't come by this part of the pier anymore. I-it started with them complaining about...a...a feeling that someone was watching them, y'know? But it got worse over time. They started wearing weird- weird noises coming from the warehouses, a-and they were finding d-dead animals a-and, like...one of the workers went missing around here, s-supposedly, b-but the cops never found..."

His eyes went wide, nearly bulging out of his head as he started to rapidly retreat backwards. "Oh God. They never found the body. God, Jaime, we're gonna die-"

"Get a grip!" Reyes hissed. "I can protect you guys, but only if you stick with me. Just stay behind me, watch my back and- and...why hasn't Brenda said anything yet?" He whipped around again, letting his light trace along the wall. The far wall. He hadn't noticed that they'd gotten all the way across the room, yet there hadn't been any sign of Del Vecchio yet. "HEY! BRENDA! This isn't funny, okay?! You're freaking me the fuck out now! Brenda!" And yet again there wasn't a reply but the cold, malignant whisper of the winter breeze.

"Fuck this." He muttered under his breath, dropping the flashlight to the floor. "Khaji-" Before he'd even finished, Jaime could feel the sickening movement of his flesh as it made way for the escaping carapace of his alien armor. That slick, chitinous stuff shoved it's way up through his bones and slithered over his skin until every inch of him was shielded from harm by it's living metal. "Scan for her. And gimme night vision while you're at it."

'As you wish.' Khaji Da gruffly replied.

The Scarab complied, a sonar-like ping being sent out in every direction. It would send back an echo of everything producing body-level heat in the vicinity. Provided Brenda hadn't been flash frozen like that freak in Gotham, Khaji Da would find her. In that same vein of thought, it had already activated the green-and-white specialized vision for Jaime that would let him search with his eyes as well as with the scanner.

Only it wasn't working like it was supposed to. Jaime's vision was popping in and out, filling with static for short, quarter of a second bursts before returning to normal or failing and shunting the world into darkness. The scanner wasn't working properly either- it kept giving multiple short pings, like there were several people right next to him. "What's going on, Scarab?" It didn't make sense; it only should've been pinging Paco once. It must've been broken or...or something.

'NOT' Khaji Da practically screeched, its voice echoing and distant yet blarringly loud in Jaime's mind.

"What the hell?" He breathed, a hand going up to grasp his head. "Scarab, what's wrong?" Something...something was hurting it- him. He didn't know what, or how, or why. But the Scarab was in physical pain, and it was leaking into Jaime's brain and sending bursts of dulled agony through his nervous system.

'NOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOTNOT-'

"J-jaime. Jaime, behind-" Paco screamed too, but it was already too late.

Something drapped in shadow had already wrapped its arm around Jaime's throat, dragging him backwards into the darkness. It wasn't particularly strong, but whatever it was doing to the Scarab made it impossible for Reyes to focus on anything but the pain he felt inside of his head. He let out a howl, flailing his arms like a madman in an attempt to tear the force off of him.

It tripped him, sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the floor, his back somehow passing directly through whoever was standing behind him. Paco was screaming, the Scrab was screaming, Jaime was screaming as shadows began to pass over his chest and limbs. Then they swallowed up him, and everything went quiet.

Heroes for Hire Offices
Midtown

Scott Lang didn’t look like much to Chase. He appeared to be on the schlubby side and had bad posture. Although Chase had learned in the past not to judge a book by its cover too much, he couldn’t help but be… whemled by the man. But Misty gave him her seal of approval. Well, she gave motormouth Luis her seal of approval and he had given his to Lang. Luis, Lang, and Misty were all in Chase’s office. Chas had Gladys hold all his calls while the four of them got down to something Chase thought he would never do in his life: plan out a heist.

“Branford Wilmont,” he said as he held up a dated magazine photo of a thin, white man with shaggy hair from the late 80’s. He looked uneasily at the camera and underneath his photo were the words SULTAN OF SMELL.

“His family made their fortune when his great grandfather invented the scentstrip.”

“The what?” asked Lang.

“If you ever get a magazine and there’s that annoying little pieces of paper with cologne and perfume samples stuck inside of it, then you have the Wilmont Family to thank for that.”

Misty picked up the thread. “Branford’s family was already old money by the time he was born, so he had all the privilege you expect of a scion.“

“He was a car?” said Luis.

“What?” asked Chase. “No. A scion isn’t just a car. It’s a child of a prominent family.”

“So like Chase,” said Misty. “Silver spoon and all that.”

Chase held out a finger. “Except little Branford’s silver spoon came with a nasty catch. Everyone knew how his family made their money. The Rockefellers and Gettys of the world had oil, the Wilmont’s had perfumes. He grew up with the nickname ‘Stinky.’ With a nickname like that, makes sense what he did as soon as he got the chance.”

Misty held up a photo of a US soldier carrying an assault rifle. Stamped on the side were the words BBW. “Branford sold off all the family’s rights to scentstrips and the company that produced them. With the money he parlayed the family fortune into a new business: BW Weaponworks. It’s one of the big three contractors the US Department of Defense uses for all its needs.”

“This was right around the mid 90’s,” said Chase. “So weapons and defense were going cheap in the post-Cold War harmony of America.”

“And then 9/11,” said Lang. “And two wars later--”

“Branford’s hundreds of millions are now billions,” said Misty. “And he has it all hidden on his island.”

Chase and Misty looked out the window of his office. Lang and Luis followed suit. Even from the modest Midtown walk-up, they had a clear view of the man-made island that sat in the middle of the river.

“Wilmont Island,” Luis said wistfully. “Scotty and I know all about it.”

“It’s like a thief urban legend,” said Lang. “Everyone claims to know someone who once got on the island. Everything from Nazi Gold to Walt Disney’s frozen head is supposed to be stashed there.”

“What we do know is this,” said Chase. “Wilmont is a prolific arts and antiquities collector and Wilmont Island is considered an impregnable fortress. Every inch of it is under some kind of electronic surveillance, patrolled by an ever rotating series of security guards so that no one person can memorize the place and become a potential inside man.”

“What’s worth a crazy suicide attempt?” Lang asked, looking towards Misty and Chase.

“A painting by an artist named Junior Hallinan,” said Misty. “A client of ours recently had it stolen from him and he says that Wilmont stole it.”

“Is it Atlas’ Resolve?” asked Luis. “It’s got like a buff guy flexing his muscles? A classic staple of the American Realist genre?”

“Yeah,” said Chase. “How did you know that?”

“Cause I stole it,” Luis said with a big smile.

“What?” asked Lang.

“Yeah. Kurt, and Dave and I stole it from Murray Sandoval.”

Lang looked hurt. “Why didn’t you cut me in?”

“You were working that job in Gotham, the one you won’t talk about.”

“Oh…" Lang cleared his throat. "Yeah.”

“Wait,” Chase held a hand up. “You were the one who stole the painting?”

“Yeah,” said Luis. “Someone emailed me about doing a job. They knew I had mad connects with Murray Sandoval. and this email was all like..."

Twenty-Five Minutes Later

"So we stole the painting from Sandoval’s house and delivered it to a storage unit up in Brooklyn.”

“Back up,” said Chase. “Back way the hell up. How do you know Murray Sandoval?”

“He buys my recreations,” said Luis. “I paint copies of artwork, he buys them and sells them to other people.”

Chase, Misty, and Lang all exchanged looks.

“Luis,” said Misty. “That’s art fraud.”

“We all got our side hustle,” said Luis. “Scotty, you work at Baskin-Robbins on the side, some people drive Ubers, I got my own thing between jobs.”

“I'm going to pretend like I didn't hear you admit to committing a felony” said Chase. “Instead I'm going to ask how good you are with your forgeries.”

“They’re recreations,” said Luis. “Tributes to the work of the original artist, those old masters whose art I hope to one day surpass... and I’m good enough that I get paid and nobody has come back on Sandoval since I been doing it.”

“Good,” said Chase, a smile appearing on his face. “I think I have an idea.”

My ears are still ringing from being blasted by that sonic weapon as I swing through the snowflakes trying to catch up to the getaway van. Whatever that weapon is, it's potent. While it may not have killed anyone tonight, thank god, it could, if the person wielding it really wanted it to. The question is who that person is, and where he got it from.

"Gwen," Dad's voice comes floating through the comms system in my mask. It sounds faint, however, like it's filtering through a few feet of water. Thanks, super-weapon-wielding robber. I'll probably have a crazy amount of tinnitus after this. "Are you okay? I assume you were in that blast?"

"Yea, I was," I respond, trying to make my ears pop and maybe get back some of my senses. "So you know how you always worried the drums would hurt my hearing? Well, it seems like super-heroics are going to be the thing that finally finishes them off. Hooray."

"Well we can worry about that later," he chuckles softly. "Do you have a beat on the van? We have to get this guy off the streets."

"Uhhh gimme a minute or two and I'll get back to you," I respond sheepishly.

"You let him go?" he asks with a sarcastic tone. "That's so unlike you."

"Hey, I got shot with some weird sonic blast," I grumble as I continue to swing. "Even Godzilla gets knocked down by Rodan now and again."

"That Parker boy has been a bad influence on you."

"I'll let you know when I find him."

Following the last trajectory I saw the van on, I swing as fast as I can. If there's one thing I know I can do well is move through the city with ease. The swinging has become a second nature to me, and the city is my playground. It's helped the few times I've come in contact with the Goblin patrols as well. Those things are strong, but they can't catch me. I'm better than they are, Norman Osborn's genius be damned.

A few blocks from where the guy put me down, I spot the van, speeding through the empty streets of New York. Thanks to the Holiday as well as the warning for citizens to stay inside, the gang has free reign of the roads, aiding their escape attempt. Unlucky for them, they have Spider-Woman on their tail.

I swing in low towards the van, the snow flying by me like I'm jumping into hyperspace. Before I can hop onto the back of the van and take a ride to where ever these guys are hanging out, the guy in the costume and the fancy gloves flings open the van's back doors. Warning bells go off in my head before he fires, allowing me to pull up and get out of the way. He lets loose with the gauntlets, and I feel the wave rippled through the air, even though it doesn't hit me. What it does hit is the building next to me, shattering the windows and showering me with shards of glass.

The blast may not have hit me, but it does send me off course. I flail wildly in the air before finally securing another webline to another building face. Looking up, I see that the van has put some ground between me and it. The other thing that catches my eye is that the guy in the quilt is about to fire at me again. Instead, he turns and fires at a cop car that skids around the corner towards the van. The blast hits the hood of the car, crumpling it like the hand of God slammed down on it.

Before it can land on its hood, I swing underneath it and catch the car. My knees scream under the stress of the weight of the car, but I'm able to put the car down gently on its side. Peering inside, I can see that the officers are okay. They may not be my biggest fan, but I'm still not gonna let anyone get killed on my watch. That's not what Spider-Woman does.

I turn and give chase once again. This guy is not going to be stopping any time soon. If I can get him off the streets tonight, maybe I can at least guarantee that he doesn't strike when the streets are full of people and more likely to lead to a casualty.

As I soar through the air, however, a beep rings through my ear piece, and I know that I'm in trouble.

"Goblin patrol approaching."

My Spider Sense explodes with warning, but too late. Either the snow has interfered with WEB's ability to track the Goblins at a long range, or the showdown with the bank robbers kept me too distracted to hear them coming. But the whir of the glider's engine fills my ears, and I know I don't have the time to escape them this time.

The hard, metal body of the Goblin robot slams into me, its glider going nearly its full speed. I can't manage to break free of the grip, which is like a vice around my waste. The snow and wind rush around us as we make an abrupt turn upwards towards the skyline. We crest over the roof, and I manage to fire a wad of webbing into its viewfinder. In order to clean itself off, it lets me go, and I drop to the rooftop.

I go to try and run, but instead find myself staring down two of the orange ones. The green one that captured me is the leader. The computer nexus for its group. Usually there are two to three orange ones for every green one, and at least this time I got lucky and this is only a group of three.

The sound of their weapons charging up fills the air, so maybe "lucky" isn't the optimal word.

Whatever the situation can be called, one thing is for sure. Norman Osborn has me cornered on Christmas night.

And he's out for my blood.

The Fortress
Undisclosed Location in the Arctic
Two Months Ago

"I....I have so many questions, I don't even know where to begin," I say, standing before the forms of two people who claim to be my birth parents-- Jor-El and Lara Lor-Van. At first glance, they seem as 'real' as me, solid enough that I could reach out and touch them. Then, for just a flicker between fractions of a second, they begin to turn fuzzy, like a camera suddenly losing focus. "If you're who you say you are, then....how is this possible? Kelex said that your w--....our home world was destroyed."

"It was," Jor-El answers, his head turning down in sadness, "And us with it. What you see is the residual electromagnetic patterns generated by our nervous systems. Our 'phantoms,' if you pardon the superstitious term. In life, we had experimented venturing into the lower spatial dimension of the Phantom Zone, and in our time there, our consciousness imprinted upon it, echoing even after the destruction of our bodies."

"When you destroyed Kelex's portal, it created a rift between this material plane and the Phantom Zone," Lara explains. "A small one, thankfully, that will only be open a short time. A few minutes, hours perhaps. Once it closes, our phantoms will fade and we will return to eternal rest."

"....is there a way to keep it open?" I ask. "I've spent my whole life looking for...for this, for you. I don't want to lose you again so soon."

"I wish we had more time," says Jor-El. "I truly do. But the longer the rift stays open, the greater the dangers that will befall this world. There are dark things that lurk in the Phantom Zone, my son, things no living being should ever encounter. Even for the short time this rift is open, it may cause other beings to slip between dimensions, some of which even have a physical form. The true horrors in the dark, however, would require the rift to remain open longer. I would gladly choose oblivion to spare you from the denizens of that nightmare realm."

"It is all right, Kal," Lara consoles me. "Your father's destiny was to look to the stars for a distant hope in the blackness. My own destiny was to explore the reaches of realms beyond the physical. And our shared destiny was to give our lives so that the legacy of Krypton could be born anew. For this, to see you here on the world Jor found, through the means of the dimension I explored.....it is more than either of us could have ever hoped."

She gives me a faint smile, one that's genuine but longing, tainted with the sadness that this will be the only time we speak.

"You said it was your 'destiny,' to do this," I say, years of emotions bubbling up, "Kelex was going on about 'destiny,' too, that everyone on Krypton had one special destiny or another that was determined from birth. Then why am I here? Why didn't you or anyone else come to look after me? What was my 'destiny' in this great plan of yours?"

Lara's smile fades, and her image starts to flicker.

"I wish I could tell you," she says, "that there was some grand design in sending you here. That you had a special purpose that only you could achieve. But the Virtue of the House of Van has always been Truth, and as such I could never lie to you that way."

"The truth is simple," Jor-El says, his hand reaching out to hold his wife's but passing through it like mist. "We sent you here to survive. This planet was the only one in our records where you had the optimal chances to survive. The pod I constructed for you was a prototype, with only enough power to contain you. There was a sister ship, designed by my brother, that was tethered to your own pod's Phantom Drive, containing your cousin Kara. She was to protect you, to oversee the Fortress, and ingratiate with the indigenous people. Sadly, her ship did not escape the blast radius in time, and was lost in the Phantom Zone with the other ghosts of our world."

"So you just.....shot me out into space and hoped for the best?!" I say, barely believing what I'm hearing. "What if my pod didn't make it? What if I hadn't been found by Ma and Pa? If I'd been picked by the government and raised in a laboratory? I could have been abducted, or dissected, or turned into a weapon or--"

"Or several million other horrific fates," Lara answers, her tone suddenly stern. "Or several other wonderful fates beyond your wildest fantasies. If we had not done it, there was only one fate that awaited you: the same fiery death that claimed us and the rest of our people."

"We would have chosen a better option in an instant, if any existed," Jor-El says, his own voice full of regret. "We simply ran out of time, and made the only decision we could with what he had left."

My frustration, my anger, all of the pent-up feelings of abandonment and longing I'd felt my whole life, start to fall away. I'd always assumed whoever sent me here, they must have had some grand design or purpose for me. As it turns out, my mother and father were just scared and desperate, doing whatever they could to keep their child safe.

"...so....what now?" I ask, unsure of myself. "What do I do?"

Jor-El and Lara look into each other's eyes, then back to me.

"That is for you to decide," my mother answers. "You were not born through the Birthing Matrices, no genetic sculpting to shape your destiny. You were Free-born, from an act of our love. Many in our society considered such an act vulgar, even heretical, but we always had Hope that the freedom to choose your own destiny would lead to greater things."

"We have seen the destiny you have chosen for yourself," Jor-El says, his smile returning, "and we could not be more proud. You could have become a tyrant, a ruler, a god-king. Instead, you choose to be a servant of the downtrodden, a protector of the innocent, a champion of justice. I cannot offer you a destiny, but I can at least offer you a gift. Kelex, activate the matter compiler, aligned to my present thought-pattern."

Yes, Master Jor-El, Kelex responds, and a silver pod rises from the floor.

"When I was a child," my father says, "I was enamored with a series of old legends, stories from our people's ancient past. They say our society was founded by a league of heroes, adventurers and explorers who challenged the unknown and fought back the forces of darkness."

"The Sons of Krypton," Lara interjects, her own eyes lighting up with excited reverence.

"Yes," Jor-El says with a slight chuckle, "Born free, and born of love. The Sons of Krypton founded the Eleven Great Houses, established the Virtues that were the bedrock of our society. Together, they fought off the Tyrant Sun, tamed the bizarre creatures of the Underverse, and outwitted the malevolent trickster gods of the Fifth Dimension. The Twelve Great Labors of the Sons of Krypton was a story that was told and retold through countless generations. All impossible nonsense, to be sure, but with perhaps a spark of true history somewhere in them. I would like to believe that at some point, there really were Sons of Krypton, fighting a never-ending battle for truth and justice."

As they speak, their forms begin to fade. The rift to the Phantom Zone must be closing for good. Neither of them seem to mind.

"And on this world, in due time, the things that were impossible to us will be a trifle to you," Lara says, beaming. "If you wish for it, you can give the people of this world an ideal to strive toward, unlike anything they have seen before."

Matter fabrication complete, says Kelex, and the pod before me begins to open.

"This is your inheritance, my son," says Jor-El, "your birthright. The Fortress is yours, and everything in it-- the archives, the family reliquary, the laboratory and everything else you may need. Kelex will obey your every command, without question or hesitation. You are now the master of this place, Kal, and the keeper of our legacy."

Their bodies are now translucent, the details of their faces fading as their forms lose focus. Their voices start to sound muffled, like hearing them underwater.

"We give you all of our love, and all of our Hope," Lara says, reaching out to stroke my cheek, her arm fading into fog before it can touch me. "You may carry it with you for all of your days, and know that even if you truly are the last of us....you will never be alone."

"Born free, and born of love," Jor-El says, his smiling face the last bit of him that remains as the pod opens and reveals what is inside, "this is who you have chosen to be, Kal-El....."



"....the Last Son of Krypton....."