Staten Island, New York City

---

Joy Meachem impatiently tapped her foot as she stood at the door of her childhood friend's house. The car was idling on the street. She was only here to bring him in for the board meeting, after all. Her patience was wearing thin, however, and it only took a few idle minutes for her to kneel down and inspect under the doormat, where she found a spare key to her surprise. Despite her better judgement, she decided to enter into the house.

"Danny? It's Joy! I'm here to pick you up for the meeting!" Her calls towards the upper floor from the foyer were met with silence. She gave a slight sigh, looking down at the ground as her internal monologue began debating whether to go upstairs to fetch him. But her mind shifted gears as she noticed dried blood spattered in a trail leading towards the parlor. She reached into her purse, clutching the sidearm her uncle Ward had insisted she keep on her at all times.

She nearly had a heart attack as she saw a bloodied figure lying on the ground of the parlor. It took her a moment to recognize that it was Danny himself, his shirt and hoodie lying in a bloody pile near the entrance. She circled around him, moving her hands to try and shake him awake. But her hands fell limp as her eyes fell upon a tattoo on his chest: the tattoo of a dragon. She took a few steps back, her eyes widening in recognition. Her mind was taken back to the security camera footage she was shown of her father's death. And that the one person seen entering his apartment minutes before he died was a shirtless man with the same tattoo. The same skin tone. The same muscular frame. The message her father had left... it was his name.

She rushed towards the entrance, her mind racing as she tried to figure out what she was going to do next. The next thing she knew, Joy found herself in the back of her car, the driver looking at her through the rear view mirror. "I take it he's not joining us, Miss Meachem?"

She took a moment to catch her breath before her eyes raised to meet her driver's. "No... and I don't think I will be able to make the meeting today, Richard. Take me home. I have some work to do."

"Can you believe what we've come to, loyal listeners?" J Jonah Jameson rages in my ears. "The Times Square New Years Eve Party! One of New York, nay, America's greatest holiday traditions attacked by some video game obsessed nerd with some fancy toys! Not to mention that ever present menace, Spider-Woman! These two freaks teamed up to spoil our party! Sure, some will claim that Spider-Woman was merely saving the people trapped by this so-called 'Arcade', but I know better! If there's one thing ol' Triple J knows, it's media! These two costumed creeps set the whole thing up to make money off their YouTube clips! We've all see it! We all know it! Why am I the only one saying it!?"

"Man, Jonah," I say to myself as I perch above the location a drug bust is about to go down, across the street from the warehouse, "I wish I could say I was making money on this gig. Web fluid is expensive, ya know?"

I got this location from Dad's phone. He thinks I'm staying in tonight and doing homework, but I couldn't do that knowing he was going into a raid. He doesn't know I know that, of course. Probably thinks I would have come to help him. Which I did, but that's beside the point. I'm not letting my old man go in without some super-powered backup. I'll only go in if they need me, thought. Otherwise I can let him do his thing.

Plus, it would be nice to get back to stopping some good old normal crime for once. No more force fields and real life arcade games for a little bit.

Now all that's left to do is wait.

Which means more J Jonah Jameson.

I have a problem, don't I?



"You ready for this?" Jean DeWolff asks George Stacy as he straps his kevlar vest on.

"Yea, why wouldn't I be?" he responds, acting like the question is out of the blue. In reality, he knows she's talking about. It's been a long time since he went on a raid like this. He had been the one to do the work. He hit the streets with the officers of VICE and undercover officers to find this drug shipment. It has been a long time since he did anything like that. But ever since he was kicked off the metahuman squad, he's been going crazy. Now, he has the opportunity to stop the tsunami of drugs coming into his city. He isn't going to stay on the sidelines for that.

Deep down, he struggles with the feeling that maybe he's doing this to overcompensate for Gwen's...nightly activities. She's the hero now, and maybe him trying to regain past glory isn't going to do anything but make trouble for her.

But he can't think about that now. He's got a job to do, and he's gonna get it done no matter what.

"George," Jean looks at him from the side of her eye, "you know you can talk to me if you need to, right? We were partners for a long, long time. If anything is bothering you..."

He shakes his head in an attempt to ward her off before she got any further, "I'm good. The only thing bothering me is the fact that this city is losing its fight against addiction. If this bust is going to help stop this 'Ink' infestation, then that's going to make me feel a lot better."

"Okay," DeWolff shrugs, realizing that she's not going to get what she really wants out of this conversation. George could really be a stubborn bastard when he wanted to. Now is one of those times. Maybe she could try to get some real emotion out of him next time. "I'll tell the SWAT lead that we're ready when they area."



From my perch above the warehouse, I can see the police getting into position. I can't pick Dad out, but I'm sure he's there. In the alleyway behind the building is the truck where the drugs are. Seems like a bit of an obvious drop off point, but maybe that's the runners' plan. Better to do something almost completely out in the open. make it seem like you're not really doing anything at all. I don't know if they're clever or dumb.

The truck backs up to the warehouse as if it was unloading some cargo during normal operation. The driver gets out and starts talking to his contact in the back. Not sure what gang is getting this delivery, but it doesn't matter. They way things have been going, it'll end up in the hands of the Octopus if the police don't get their hands on it first.

Of course, that's when I notice someone on the rooftop above them. The way the form slinks towards the location of the truck tells me all I need to know. It's the Cat. The one that is working for the Octopus. Which means she's gonna steal the truck.

Not on my watch.

I swing down and land next to her on the roof, "Hi! Isn't it weird that you always see the people you least want to see out and about? Annoying, right?"

"Move along, Spider," she stands and drops into a stance. Now I can see it. I can see Dragon's training in her style. Good. That means I'm definitely going to beat her this time. "You're outnumbered."

"Okay, so, I can count, and that is definitely not true," I mock her.

"Maybe," she smiles wickedly, "but you also need to know all the variables."

From below, I hear the cops breach the warehouse doors and start their assault. But what I hear in response isn't gunfire. No, it's like the whirring of the wind on a dry, hot day. I look through a skylight to see Flint Marko, the Sandman, form out of seemingly nothing in front of the officers. They fire their weapons at him, to no avail of course. Even the criminals who thought they were receiving the shipment join in, but he swats them away with a huge, sandy fist.

If I don't get down there, the cops are going to die.

"Better get moving, Spider," the Cat still has the Cheshire grin on her face as she moves towards the edge of the building. "We all know which one you're going to choose here."

With that, she jumps onto the hood of the truck, and I jump through the skylight.

Manhattan, New York City

---

In a small, dark office in a building designed for the city's trash sat a man in a two-thousand dollar Italian suit smoking a Cuban Cigar as he checked his watch. He gave a small smile as it turned 6:00 on the nose, and picked up the office landline. He waited a few seconds, the number he dialed ringing for a few seconds until he heard the phone get picked up. No voice greeted him, just the static. As always. "Target: Daniel Rand. Open contract. Contract is worth one million dollars, due date is January 1st." As soon as he finished speaking, the sound of rapid typing could be heard for a few moments. Once finished, a robotic voice answered. "CONFIRMED." The line then went dead, and the man lowered the phone back onto its receiver, giving a short nod to himself before fetching his coat and briefcase.

Manhattan, New York City

---

A few rather plain looking heating & cooling repair vans sat in the loading dock of Rand Tower. The men in their blue jumpsuits were moving large barrels of labelled "coolant" towards the loading bay doors. A security guard greeted them, and escorted them into the heart of Rand Tower. To the outside observer, there was nothing particularly off about the scene. But once inside the maintenance areas of the Tower, they got to work. The workers pulled out a set of blueprints that marked certain areas of interest. The workers began connecting the barrels to the air-conditioning units. They gave short, curt nods to each other as they silently exited the building when their work was done.

A couple blocks away, on the top floor of an apartment building, a lone individual was whistling as he set up his telescope. He bobbed his head along as he pointed it towards Rand Tower, examining the upper-levels of Rand Tower. He smiled as he saw a single individual in one of the large conference rooms. After a few seconds, he picked up his cellphone and lifted it to his ear. He watched as the person inside lifted a phone to their own ear after examining it a moment. The man inside answered first. "Someone needs to confront you about your obsession with voyeurism, Cross."

The man behind the telescope smiled. "The reward is high, Arson. Heard the League is even considering getting involved. Doesn't hurt to prepare early."

Arson looked around from the conference room, scanning the New York skyline before settling in on Crossfire's apartment building. "Fifty dollars says you're there. Another fifty says you killed the tenant and you're keeping them on ice in the bathtub."

"Am I really that predictable? I will admit, I expected you to go after the house. That's your usual MO."

Arson gave a small smile. "You have no idea what I have planned, darling. Text me the room number. Figure if you're just sitting there, we might as well share a drink. I've got Fireball."

Mount Sorcista, Latveria

The Future Foundation trudged their way up the side of the Latverian mountain trail. Given free reign of all of Latveria, the five of them had decided that Mount Sorcista, Latveria’s highest mountain, was ripe for exploration. They had travelled unescorted from Castle Doom to the mountain. The journey had been easy enough. Latveria’s public transport system was without equal. They made use of the regular mag-lev trains that ran from the centre of Domstadt out to its outskirts. Loring in particular found it hard to believe when they were allowed to disembark without paying.

A cable car carried them up towards the beginning of the carefully-cultivated mountain trail. Once there Thinker had charted a course that ran off the trail that he had calculated would result in something he had described as “optimal ocular divertissement” – and the others had happily agreed to follow it. It was only after a good thirty-five minutes of hiking that it became clear how arduous the undertaking they had entered into was going to be.

Though breathing heavy, Cho found the time to shout toward to the sentient AI. “You know, Think, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”


“Don’t think you maybe this whole “STATEMENT” thing is a little redundant?” Amadeus said with a sympathetic smile. “I get that we might not all be sentient super-computers, but I’m sure we’ve all got enough going on upstairs that we can work out when you’re asking a question.”

The Thinker’s empty eyes stared off towards the Doomstadt skyline. At least, it looked almost as if he was staring at it. Cho had learned by now that half of the time when “Think” – as he had taken to calling the artificial intelligence – was looking at something, he was almost always looking through it. The numbers on Think’s body ran wildly as he considered Cho’s statement and tried to formulate a response of his own.


“Come on. Throw me a bone here, Think. Just try speaking one time without it and I promise if you don’t like it I’ll never ask you to do it again.”

This time it was clear that the Thinker was looking at Amadeus. Though Holt and Khan had pulled ahead of them, there was still time for the two of them to stop to talk. Loring was lagging way behind the four of them, to the point that Cho and the Thinker had been stopping from time to time to ensure they didn’t lose her altogether. This time the cause of their delay had been to allow the AI to attempt to break with the code that governed his every action. It seemed to cause him great discomfort, but with the reassurance of Cho, he managed to find the strength to do so.

“See?” Cho said with a warm smile. “You can’t tell me that didn’t feel a little liberating? Next we'll try to work on the whole 'inside voice' thing.”

From behind them, Loring appeared. Her face was red from exertion and were it not for the white Future Foundation costume she was wearing, she would almost certainly have been soaked through. She stopped for a moment, resting her hands on her knees, the Atom logo on her chest expanding and shrinking rhythmically as she fought for breath.

“Could you two shut up for a minute? You’re using up all the oxygen," Jean complained with a tired glance at them. "Well, Cho is anyway.”

Michael Holt came sprinting down the trail. He stopped in front of Loring. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on him. He was in incredible physical shape compared to the rest of them. Cho was certain he could have run up and down the mountain half a dozen times without his heart rate increasing at all. He seemed to take particular pleasure from the sweat pouring from Jean’s every pore.

Holt extended a patronising hand in Jean’s direction. “What’s wrong, Loring? Are you struggling? I’d have thought all of daddy’s millions could have bought you a half-decent personal trainer or something.”

“I am not struggling,” Loring growled through gritted teeth as she slapped Holt’s hand away.

Cho let out an ‘oooh’ at the smack. Khan appeared just in time to see it and raised an eyebrow at the scene, but the Holt and Loring melodrama seemed no closer to ending. They had been at each other’s throats from the moment they had met – pointed silences followed by slanging matches followed by pointless competition after competition. To Loring’s frustration, Holt always seemed to win.

“Oh right, you’re still annoyed about the way that Doom blew you off back there. God, that must have been really tough for you, not feeling like the most important person in the room for all of … what, fifteen seconds?”

Never one to miss an opportunity to lob a grenade onto an open fire, Cho corrected the Future Foundation’s de facto captain. “Ten at most.”

Holt and Cho laughed among themselves, Khan seemed so taken with the horizon that was was barely paying attention to the argument, and the Thinker, as always, was next to incapable of reading. The expression on Jean’s face however was instantly recognisable. Loring's embarrassment swelled into an impotent rage that finally came jutting out from her mouth in the form of a particularly ugly insult.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t grow up in some ghetto in Southside Chicago like you, Holt.”

Kamala Khan gasped in shock. Even she had been torn from staring at Castle Doom in the distance by the sound of Jean’s Ivy Town accent spitting ‘ghetto’ at Holt with such intent that it might well have been a weapon.

“That’s really not cool.”

“What?” Loring said with a shaky smiled that seemed suddenly conscious of the fact she had misread the room. “You’re all allowed to make jokes about my upbringing but if I make one joke, I’m suddenly the bad guy here? Come on, Mike. You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?”

Mike. It was the first time that Loring had called Holt by his first name. She was staring at him apologetically in the hope that he might provide her with some support. Unfortunately for Jean, she was met only by an icy stare. Holt’s hands were balled into fists and Cho and Khan exchanged desperates glances, both unsure how to cut through the tension. When Holt began walking towards Jean, they considered getting between the two of them but froze in the moment.

Holt lifted one of his balled fists towards Jean and unclenched it. His index finger pointed in her direction and Jean smiled at him uneasily whilst she was trying to deduce what was happening. Slowly Holt’s stare faded and a comradely grin replaced it.

When he finally spoke it was correct Loring, not to fire a barb back in her direction. “I grew up in New York, not Chicago.”

Thinker watched on in silent, calculating bemusement as the four of them burst into laughter – all with varying levels of sincerity and nervousness. Holt gestured to Loring to jump on his back and after a minute or two of arguing reluctantly agreed to it. The students made much quicker time up through the mountains, eventually finding an isolated pool of water that was almost emerald green. There was wildlife all around it. Deer and rabbits hopped around freely only minutes from the harsh cold of the mountainside.

Kamala almost exploded with joy at the sight of the luscious clearing. “Whoa, this place is beautiful. What did you say it was called again?”



The sound of clapping caught the Future Foundation off-guard. They turned to face its source and found a slender fifty-year old man stood on his own. His skin was grey and lifeless. His lips were so thin that it was almost difficult to discern where one ended and the next began. There was not a single grey hair out of place on his head. Most telling of all, he was wrapped in the deep, distinctive Von Bardas pink that had once adorned every flagpole in Latveria.

“Very impressive. For a piece of machinery, you seem to have quite the understanding of Latverian myths. In fact, finding the Lake of Refuge alone is no mean feat. For that, I applaud you – I applaud all of you. But I am afraid that having ventured this far, I cannot allow you the five of you to return home. You see, though we may not be adventurers, as such, we do have our own demon that needs to be felled.”

Holt's attempt to make a move was met by a tut from Wyncham. In the cliffs overlooking the Lake of Refuge, two dozen men appeared with state-of-the-art weaponry pointed in the Future Foundation’s direction. Holt and Loring looked at one another as if silently trying to devise an escape plan but both drew a blank.

“I take no joy in what happens next,” the Marquis of Death smiled unconvincingly. “Oh, why pretend? I shall take a great deal of joy from it.”

"Marko!" I call as I slam down on top of the super villain, driving my fist through his sandy face. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own genetically altered size!"

"How is it that you always show up when I'm tryin' ta pull of a job?" the Sandman grumbles as he tosses a crate of something my way. I duck underneath it, and it smashes into a wall, spraying the room with splinters.

"Okay, Marko. I'll tell you my terrible secret," I respond as I motion for the police officers, and my Dad, to get out of the warehouse. "I'm stalking you, Flint. I just can't get enough of following loser criminals around New York."

"Raaaaaaah!" he turns his hands into sand wrecking-balls and swings them down towards me. I manage to make it out of the way in time, and they crack and crumble the concrete floor of the warehouse, sending a spray of pebbles into me. "Why are you so damn annoying!? The Octopus is right about you! Nothing more than a kid playing dress up!"

"Who does he think he is? My father!?"

I snatch two fire extinguishers off the walls nearest to me, and bring them in a violent arc towards Marko's head. They smash together right in front of him and explode, sending pressurized CO2 all over the place. I can hear the yelp of surprise and frustration come out of my opponent as the chemicals blind him. At least I assume that's what they do. I still don't understand if Marko sees like we do, or if he even still feels pain. Or anything for that matter.

Pete is fascinated by Flint. He says what happened to him should be impossible. I would agree, but then again I would have said being bitten by a radioactive spider would have meant my painful, horrible death instead of super powers. So maybe possible just doesn't mean what we think it does in our world. Who knows.

The biggest problem with the impossible Sandman, though, is that he's a bear to take down. Water helps, and it seems like the CO2 is affecting him more than I figured it would, but he still keeps coming. I have no idea how I'm going to put him in jail for good.

The chemical fire suppressant eats away at his limbs, and partially disintegrates his body. He falls apart completely before reforming in a smaller version of himself, leaving behind the parts I had covered with my impromptu move.

"You think you're so smart, dontcha?" he growls at me. "But we still got away with the drugs. And you ain't gonna stop us. We're gonna get our revenge, and leave you in the dust!"

Suddenly, the part of him that he left behind leaps off the ground and surrounds me in a choking sandstorm. I fight against the buffering particles, as they start to fit between my mask. I can feel the sand trying to choke me, and I fire off a desperation webline. It hits something solid, and I pull myself out of the maelstrom, ready for Marko to press his advantage.

But instead I find myself alone in the warehouse. It was nothing more than a diversion. Yet again the Octopus's lackies got the drop on me and came out ahead.

Great.



"So the fire suppressant destabilized Sandman's bonding ability?" Peter asks as he spins around in his desk chair, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom. "I can definitely work with that. I'm done homework for the week anyway. Maybe I can mix the web-bomb and a fire extinguisher? Seems easy enough."

"Well that's good, because I think I'm gonna have to fight them on their own turf," I grumble.

It's not my first choice. I already know Tombstone doesn't want me there, and the last thing I want to do is set off a gang that more or less rules a part of the city. But I can't keep dancing around the Octopus and his drugs. Sooner or later I'm going to have to deal with him, and at this point it's gonna have to be sooner.

During my run in with the Sandman, the cops who I bailed out, including Dad, followed the truck into the Bronx. They were lucky to get out of the area with their lives. Not only did they get attacked by the Pale Horses, but the Octopus's lair now has its own defenses.

Dad says the police are taking a beat to decide how to continue, but I already know that an assault is coming. There's no way the new mayor is going to let both the Octopus and Tombstone's haven slide for long. When that time comes, a lot of people are going to die. No way can I let that happen.

"You're gonna risk Tombstone getting mad at you?" he raises his eyebrow.

"No choice," I shrug. "Better that than a bunch of dead cops and metahumans in the middle of New York. Besides, I seriously doubt they're going to get the Octopus. Dude always seems to be one step ahead of me. I can't imagine he won't see them coming from a mile away."

"Good point," he concedes. "Do you have a plan?"

I nod, "Yea. So I'm going to need those new web bombs ASAP."

"Yes, ma'am," he winks. "You wanna help me build them?"

I sidle up next to him, "Thought you'd never ask."

Amnesty Bay, Maine

Black clouds hung over the small coastal town. Black waves crashed against its cliffs. There was a storm in the air the likes of which Amnesty Bay residents swore they hadn’t seen for years. Only the light of Amnesty Bay’s lighthouse could be seen through the torrent of rain and wind. Out at sea, the trawlers that had braved the storm charted a desperate course back to shore by that light. Over the years it had seen many a trawlerman, young and old, safely home. Yet tonight safety was in short supply in Amnesty Bay.

From the depths of the sea, musclebound Atlantean soldiers came marching. They were clad not in the proud, regal armour of the Atlantean honour guard but the black, featureless combat suits of Orm Marius’ stealth unit. The blackened water disguised their approach as they climbed the jagged cliffs and stepped onto the shores of Amnesty Bay with silent determination. It was for most of the unit their first contact with the surface-world. The respirators pumped water into their lungs and protected them from the noxious gases the surface-dwellers inhaled. They had fifteen minutes.

The unit leader, Iqula, had cut his teeth serving under Orm at Xebel. Time and time again, he had proved his worthiness in battle – laying waste to the Xebellians, sacking their temples, and exacting the bloody revenge that Orm had demanded for the colony’s support of the traitor Atlan. Though the war was ended and the throne returned to a leader that was truly deserving of it, Iqula’s unit had been called upon on countless occasions since, most notably in the struggle against Black Manta and the Drowned. They had managed to push them back, indeed they had almost wiped them from the face of the Earth, until their attack on New Atlantis. Sixty-two dead.

Iqula and his men wanted blood. Orm demanded revenge. The king would rest on his laurels no more – he would strike against all his foes in one foul swoop, above sea and below it, and Iqula’s unit had the honour of striking first. Amnesty Bay would be the site of King Namor’s revenge. The honour of all Atlantis would be restored. The boy, whose existence was spoken of only in treasonous whispers, would be killed.

A sudden beam of light shone towards Iqula’s unit and he signalled to his men to get down. They clung to the rocks and waited for the lighthouse’s rays to pass over them. Satisfied, Iqula climbed to his feet and surveyed the approach to the lighthouse. There were no signs of life for as far as he could see. He signalled once more to his five insubordinates to follow after him silently.


They ran across the shoots of green towards the lighthouse, each staying low to the ground as they did so without losing speed. Once at its large doors, Iqula reached for the handle with a cautious look. His hand hovered over it as if he expected it to be booby-trapped or wired. When his webbed fingers wrapped around it safely, he breathed a sigh of relief and pulled the door open. A purple eye looked in, scanning the first floor of the lighthouse, before being trained on his men. Two slimy, scaly fingers commanded soldiers to climb the outside and a simple point of the head insisted the other three stick with him.

The four Atlanteans stepped inside Amnesty Bay Lighthouse quietly with their weapons primed. Iqula, the largest of them, silently directed two of the soldiers towards a door at the other side of the ground floor room that seemed to serve as a greeting area. He pressed on with the other at his side and quietly inspected the room. He was taken aback by its contents, offended by the smell of the place that permeated even his respirator, and desperate to see his general’s orders out.

A shock of lightning made the soldier look out of the lighthouse window and out at the sea. There was a truck out on the road that seemed to slow as it passed the lighthouse. Iqula’s finger tightened around his trigger as he prepared for battle. The driver, a fat mustachioed man with a red hat on, peered out of the passenger side window, squinting in an effort to see through the rain, and then shrugged and carried on. Iqula’s finger relinquished its suspended grip on the trigger and was about to relax when a sudden static noise sounded.

“Well, you've got your diamonds and you've got your pretty clothes
And the chauffeur drives your car
You let everybody know
But don't play with me, 'cause you're playing with fire”

He looked at the other Atlantean and was met only with a confused look. They both hugged their weapons tighter and began looking for the source of the noise. Iqula lifted what looked to be a toaster to his ear and shook it. Old toasted crumbs came tumbling out and he wrinkled his nose, aghast at the scent. The other Atlantean soldier pointed towards a box that he deemed to be the source of the noise and Iqula nodded.

“Your mother she's an heiress, owns a block in Saint John's Wood
And your father'd be there with her
If he only could
But don't play with me, 'cause you're pla-”

The soldier clamped his fingers tight around it and the music stopped dead. The other soldiers on the ground floor returned and shook their heads to Iqula to confirm that they had found nothing. He grimaced and then walked towards the stairs slowly with the soldiers following after them. Despite their efforts, their feet made the slightest of squelching noises as they climbed the steps of the lighthouse. Two-by-two they entered rooms as they ascended, each confirming upon their reappearance that they had found nothing. When Iqula reached the last door he found it open and the two soldiers he had sent to climb the lighthouse from the outside were stood inside.

It was a teenager’s room. There were clothes scattered across the floor and the walls were adorned with pictures. Iqula entered slowly, making sure to inspect every last inch of the room as he walked, before stopping in front of a cabinet covered in medals. He lifted a trophy to his eye and made an effort to read it. The words “All-State Swimming Champion 2018” were engraved into the base. He threw it contemptuously to the ground and then ran his scaly fingers along the dozens of golden medals that adorned the cabinet.

The scaly fingers formed a fist and Iqula sent it smashing through the cabinet. The trophies and medals fell into a heap onto the floor among the broken varnished wood. The soldier turned, breathing heavy with frustration, towards the table beside the unmade made in the corner of the room. There was a picture atop it that Iqula’s fingers seized upon angrily and lifted to his purple eyes.

“Bay Harbour High School” read the words across the swim team’s chest. They were all dark-haired and unimpressive looking, even to Iqula’s untrained eye, but one among them stood out. There in the centre stood a teenager that looked more man than boy, with hair as fair as the sun. Iqula’s eyes looked down at the names that were listed beneath the boys and rested on one: Curry, A.

“Kordax,” Iqula murmured as he stared at the picture of the surface-dweller he was there to kill. “The pretender bears the curse of Kordax.”

Iqula smashed the frame and pulled the picture free from it. He took one last disapproving look around the room and then signalled unhappily to their men that they were leaving. They made their way down the stairs and out of the lighthouse. As they approached the sea, Iqula thought only of the punishment they would face at Orm’s hand when they returned to Atlantis.

If he were to return home empty-handed, he would enjoy some destruction tonight.

He lifted his weapon from beneath the waves and held it at chest height pointing at Amnesty Bay Lighthouse. One of his long fingers flicked a button on his weapon and it made a confirmatory noise. With a squeeze, a blast of energy was launched from the nozzle of the weapon towards the lighthouse. There was a loud boom as it tore into the side of it and sent the light atop it dark on impact. The building set fire almost instantly and piece by piece it crumbled, falling into the sea.

A smile crossed Iqula’s thin blue lips and he turned to follow his soldiers into the sea. One by one they disappeared beneath the waves leaving only a crumbling lighthouse in their wake. The fire raged so strong that even the tempest looming over Amnesty Bay could not extinguish it.

Some fifty metres or so along the shoreline, two shivering figures watched on in silence. A young red-haired woman named Mera hugged Arthur Curry close to her with her hand clamped around his mouth. She felt the soldiers stalking through the sea on their way home, using her Xebellian gifts to bend the water around them and hide them from their gaze

Amid the rain, she could feel the surface-dweller’s tears against her hand as he watched the only home he had ever known burn to the ground.

”The Ranchero of Miracle Mesa” - The Magnificent Seven: Part Three

---

---

The lobby wasn’t much like Vig had expected, but he didn’t suppose anyone would’ve expected a bunch of folks in suits sippin’ their Starbucks and tippity-tapping at their phones. It was maybe naive of him to expect a buncha bikers crushin’ beers and throwing knives at hostages on a giant dart board, but either way he couldn’t take these folks lightly.

He could sense an air of menace around the place. It weren’t nothing physical, no freaky architecture of skulls-on-pikes or anything overt like that, of course. No, it was a feeling in the back of his mind, almost like his head was underwater. Doctor Occult had told him once it was called psychic pressure. Most folk couldn’t feel it, but puttin’ it simply, Vigilante wasn’t most folk anymore. All things considered, his head was quiet for once. The Spirit should’ve been going hog wild here -- even he could sense the evil emanating from this place. But he supposed that the both of them knew that from the start, n’ he was just waiting for his chance to be useful.

Vigilante was all done up, his hair slicked back and his duds hidden under a peacoat that was a size too big. At The Kid’s insistence he’d stuffed his hat into the thick briefcase he carried and taken the spurs off of his boots. “Stealth mission,” he said, “try to get to the man upstairs without arousing suspicion,” he said. City slickin’ boy ain’t keen on no firefight ‘cause he don’t carry a gun for no damn…

The plan was shit simple, just like Vig liked it. Saunter up to the front in disguise and pretend to have a meeting with the boss man. They were expecting The Punisher, not some fast talkin’ southern businessman with some proposition or other. Least that was the way Stripsey figured it -- no one else had much better a plan than trying to wedge Frankenstein through the ventilation pipes, or just running in guns blazing.

Vig smoothed the wrinkles in his coat, mostly to feel the subtle press of the holsters hidden beneath. It was a kinda comfort, they were about to be knee deep in hostile territory. They hadn’t passed the metal detectors yet, but Frank’s friend Micro had sent ‘em a handy dandy little bug to circumvent that particular problem. Stripsey and The Kid were by his side, idling around the lobby. The Kid flipped through a magazine, but kept his eyes squarely on Vig. Stripsey, on the other hand, was trying his damnedest to figure out how the new-fangled auto-Barista machine worked. He’d be ready, when the time came. Probably.

”Scuse’ me ma’am.” Vigilante tapped on the desk twice. It was a long marble thing, dominating the center of the lobby. It was flanked by two gleaming elevators on either side, about a half dozen yards away. Her eyes came up to meet his, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. Her eyes didn’t crinkle.

“Welcome to The Solomano Building! Home of Solomano Incorporated! How can I help you today, sir?” One hand came up to the monitor inlaid in the marble of the desk. The other drummed silently. Impatient.

”Well, I, uh, would like to see the Boss-man, if at all possible. Uh, Mr. Solomano, that is.” Vigilante swallowed. The woman nodded and tapped at a handful of buttons on her computer. Her other hand stopped drumming.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” Her eyes came up to scan his face. They lingered at his scars. On his eyes. Her other hand drifted below the desk. Around the room, iffin’ you listened real closely, now, you could hear the subtle shift of fabric. Folk leaning against water coolers and casually putting their hands on their hips. Some scratching at an itch just under their shoulders. Vig could see The Star Spangled Kid tense up across the room. Stripsey straightened his coat and turned, eyes to the elevators. He fiddled with his watch.

“Well, no, but I was hoping I could arrange one, iffin’ it was at all possible…” Vigilante calmly placed his hand in his pocket and broke his gaze from her face, keeping and eye on her hands. One still typed at the computer. He could see the tendons in the other flex.

“Let me just pull up Mr. Solomano’s schedule…” Tap. Tap. Tap.

She was quick at pulling out her handgun, but not quick enough. Vigilante thrust his hand through the holes on the inside of his peacoat pocket and annihilated the fabric of his coat with the pump action shotgun slung across his chest.

”Action!” Vigilante hurled his briefcase across the room, popping the buttons off of his peacoat as his hand tore it open from the inside. He grabbed the stock of the gun and brought it around, waving it at the hostiles, givin’ ‘em something to think about while they tried to draw.

Stripsey snagged the briefcase out of the air and brought it down against the skull of a nearby goon. He carried the strike’s momentum through to the next, planting it inside the stomach of the nearest henchman. “Cover!?”

”Comin’ right up.” Vig swung the shotgun around and fired a buckshot into the mass of the crowd. Goons fell as guns clattered out of their hands, clutching at their injuries.

Across the room, The Star Spangled Kid flicked his wrist and seemed to snatch a length of steel pipe from thin air. A man pulled a gun as the pipe seemed to grow into a bowstaff; The Kid swung it around with a purpose and knocked over a row of the suits and then flung himself into cover.

The room erupted into gunfire as the city-slickers managed to wrench their guns out of their holsters. Vig fired his pump with one hand, sighting up on the biggest masses of ‘em, and with his other, unloaded his revolvers. Chunks of marble were shorn off in an instant as fire shredded Vig’s cover. He threw himself down on his back and plugged more rounds into his pump. The three of them more than had the element of surprise, but if things didn’t change soon, they’d get beat by sheer weight of fire. Luckily for the Soldiers, they still had an edge to call in.

The glass revolving doors of the Solomano building were reduced to twisted metal and glass fragments as a mottled mass of flesh hurtled through it, swinging as a sword as long as Vig was tall.

“Jesus!” Across the room, fire redirected to Frankenstein, but the big feller ate the bullets up for breakfast and pressed on, cracking skulls with the hilt of his blade. On Frankenstein’s back was the Crimson Avenger, all strapped up to the dead man like a backpack. He had what looked like a grenade launcher resting of Frank’s shoulder, dropping tubes of sleeping gas en masse.

While the two of them drew the bulk of fire, Stripsey had taken the time to unfold the suitcase into a great big shield, complete with gaudy SHIELD Eagle on the front. They’d felt a little sour for takin’ their equipment like that but… Desperate times, right? Stripsey threw over the one thing that the suitcase had actually held -- Vig snatched his hat out of the air.

He fired the pump’s last round as The Avenger finished his launcher and dropped off Frankenstein’s back, scurrying over to Vig’s piece of cover. Frankenstein continued to mow down the rest of the floor’s opposition, with occasional help form Stripsey and The Kid.

“Security Office is on the fifth floor!” Vig could scarcely hear him over the gunfire. “If you can get me up there I can send you right to the top!”

”Will do!” Vig pulled his second revolver and fired over cover. The crowd was starting to thin out, by now. First floor almost cleared.

Only forty-nine more to go.

Staten Island, New York City

---

Daniel Rand stood outside of the tower that had his family's namesake, looking up in admiration at the legacy his father had left him. Everything that he had at his disposal... he was dedicated to giving it to those in need. But his mind wandered to the events that had transpired only days before, on Christmas night. His own brother...

He shook his head, placing one foot in front of the other to head in to the building. Rand-Meachem Inc. was holding a small party for the higher-ups in the company on New Years Eve. A tradition that Danny's father had started decades ago. Danny couldn't possibly miss out on this sort of party. So he waved his way past security and to the elevators, making his way up to the elevators to get to one of the upper-floor conference rooms.

Daniel entered into the elevator and leaned against the back wall, tapping his foot as he was nervous to head up there. He never really fit in with the business types. He was raised to be a warrior, not a monkey in the suit he was currently wearing. So he closed his eyes to begin calming himself down.

His eyes jolted open as he heard a quiet thud right in front of him. As he opened his eyes, he noticed a man in a skintight set of armor slamming his fist into the elevator panel. The elevator screeched to a stop as the emergency brakes engaged. The assassin quickly flicked his wrist, revealing two thin whips of sorts that were hidden within the wrists of the armor.

Danny moved in to strike the opponent in the gut, only to see the assassin sidestep and flick one of the whips around that wrist. A second punch was thrown, and the second fist was caught up in the whip. The assassin kicked out Danny's right knee, forcing the millionaire to the ground and letting the assassin wrap the wrists up towards Daniel Rand's neck. It was almost too easy.

As Danny began choking for air, he managed to squeeze out one quick question. "Who... are... you?"

The assassin smiled, believing he had his target exactly where he wanted. "The Constrictor. I believe you're the one who locked up my brother."

Danny grunted in acknowledgement, remembering his fight with "Backlash" about a week prior. If he didn't act fast, he would be dead in only a few seconds. So Danny dropped his left leg and threw his weight to the side, forcing the Constrictor to lose his balance and fall as well. A swift kick to the Constrictor's left wrist short-circuited the device, releasing the grip of one of the whips.

Danny quickly untangled his throat enough that he could breath, before delivering another quick kick to the Constrictor's face, knocking him unconscious. Danny took a moment to breath before finishing untangling himself from the Constrictor's whips and standing up. Now, lying in the elevator was a ridiculously dressed assassin and the broken remnants of Danny's phone, which must have been destroyed in the scuffle. He shook his head and started the elevator again.

Peter sits in the lab at Oscorp, monitoring the rats, as he always does. The best thing about this job is that it is predictable. Sure, he isn't being challenged, but that's what working with Gwen is for. Putting all his scientific work into helping her protect people makes him feel useful, something he definitely doesn't feel at Oscorp.

Still, it is nice to see Doctor Connors around more, he has to admit. With the disappearance of Doctor Octavius, Connors is the only one that can make the project work.

And surprisingly, it has been working more and more. Connors seems to have solved the aggression problem, and even believes that human testing could start within a few years. It's all incredibly exciting, especially since Connors seems to be more interested in mentoring the young scientist.

"How's Gwen doing, Peter?" Connors asks, not looking up from a microscope. "I miss having both of you working here."

"Yea, so do I," Peter responds, taking some notes for the scientist. "She's doing pretty well. Trying to enjoy her final year at school. Applying for colleges. All the normal kind of stuff.

Lying doesn't come easily to Peter, and he definitely doesn't like it. But it's necessary to help Gwen.

"That's good, that's good," Curt smiles and pats the boy on the shoulder. "The two of you, so young, but being so devoted to science. We need more people like you in the world. You can do a lot of good."

"Thanks, Doc," Pete smiles. "I'll do my best."

"You already are, my boy!" Curt exclaims. "Jotting down notes and observations may seem mundane, but much of science is mundane. It takes a keen mind to notice the differences in notes and data to find the breakthroughs. I can't tell you how long I've stared at notepads and computer screens in my career."

So he knows I'm bored with this, Peter thinks. It makes sense. Connors is a genius, but he knows what it's like to be on the bottom rung of the ladder.

"Yea," Peter agrees. "I get what you're saying."

"Good, let's get back to it."



I watch as Aaron Davis moves supplies from one truck to another, thanking the man for his help. I still don't know what to really think about Tombstone and his men. Yes, they're protecting the people, some of them metahumans, that were affected by the Silver Surfer's attack on the Raft a few months ago. That's something to be commended. But they were also keeping other res ponders out of the Bronx claiming that they do more harm than good. That might be true in certain situations, but keeping the from helping where they can isn't something to be celebrated.

Still, I need these guys on my side if the police really are about to raid the Octopus's hideout. I need to make them understand that a war with the police isn't going to workout for anyone.

"You know you should lift with your knees," I announce my presence to him. "Otherwise you might hurt your back."

The man jumps with surprise, drawing a gun from his waistband and pointing it at me, "Christ! I almost just shot you. Can't you just say hi or something?"

"I dunno if that fits my specific idiom," I shrug, dropping down on top of his car. "We need to talk."

"Oh yea? Do we?" he responds sarcastically, putting the gun away. "You need something, you talk to Tombstone. That was the deal."

"Yea, well, I need someone else on my side before doing that," I make sure to highlight my seriousness when I say this. "The police are going to come into the Bronx, Aaron. They're done waiting. They're going to take down the Octopus."

He looks at me seriously, "You're kidding me, right?"

"I wish I was," I shake my head. "But they followed a truck of supplies stolen by one of his lackies. It went into the Bronx. I'm sure they're preparing a raid. I don't know when, but it's going to happen."

He becomes defiant, "Then we'll be ready for them."

"No, you won't," I shake my head. "Cassidy isn't going to let you guys start a war without repercussions. You really want the entire force coming down on you? Because even I don't think you guys are going to win in that situation."

He ponders what I say. I hope he's realizing that this is going to end with their clandestine group being arrested or wiped out. That isn't something either of us want, no matter how much they fight.

"Fine," he sighs. "But Tombstone ain't gonna like it."

Briefing Room Six, Pegasus Helicarrier

Guy Gardner and Ben Grimm walked side by side into the briefing room. It had been two hours since they had boarded Guy’s old ship, the Pegasus, at the Triskelion on the orders of Dum Dum Dugan. They had been told next to nothing. Gardner had spent most of that time catching up with old colleagues. Valentina Vostok, Gardner’s old commanding officer, had showed him pictures of her new baby whilst the rest of the crew clamoured over Ben. Even on a SHIELD helicarrier, a walking, talking rock monster was something of a novelty, after all.

Dugan was stood with his back to Guy and Ben. The old SHIELD agent was inspecting a holographic reenactment of what looked to be an assault on a convoy of trucks. His eyes remained trained on it long after the two SHIELD agents had taken their seats in the briefing room. After a few moments, Guy grew restless and cleared his throat in the hope of catching his mentor’s attention.

“You mind telling us what’s going on here, Dugan? Something tells me you didn’t drag us back onto the Pegasus so I could see my friends.”

“Heh, friends?” Ben murmured through a mischievous grin. “You ask me, your “friends” didn’t seem all that too happy to see you, Carrot Top.”

Guy scowled. He still quite hadn't gotten over Ben's little "Condiment King" prank the other day – which was made worse by the lecture he'd been given by the eggheads down at the infirmary when he'd explained how he'd broken two of his fingers. In light of both of those things, ribbing Gardner about the Pegasus proved a step too far and his famous, or perhaps infamous, ability to laugh at himself failed him for once.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I was the best damn ca-”

“Enough,” Dugan shouted as he finally turned to face them. “This is serious. We don’t have time for … whatever this is. I’m going to need the two of you at the top of your games if we’re going to make our way out of this godforsaken mess. So you both need to settle the fuck down.”

It was clear from Dugan’s voice that he would brook no further argument or interruptions. Usually an affable man, the weight of the task facing him was clearly wearing on him. Perhaps more than he would like to admit, his regret about what had happened to his longtime partner Nick Fury was making him second guess his every decision.

Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Ben nodded earnestly to Dugan. “We’re all ears.”

“Chin escaped,” Dugan sighed. “His transport convoy was attacked just outside of China. Nine MSS officers and four of ours are dead. Needless to say, the Chinese are livid. We’re talking the kind of angry that might end up with them pulling their support for SHIELD altogether.”

Suddenly the holographic images of a vehicle under siege made sense to Guy and Ben. The reenactment had been stiched together out of bits and pieces of CCTV footage that SHIELD had been able to collate from different sources near the scene. It wasn’t perfect, but it created some sense of what SHIELD had been up against. The attackers moved fast, using deadly force as if it were nothing, and had Chin out within a minute – in short, they were professionals.

Sensing that Dugan wasn’t telling them all of this out of the goodness of his heart, Guy frowned. “So what do you mean for us to do about it?”

“See, that’s where things get a little problematic," Dugan said gingerly. "We’ve got our hands on some reliable intel that suggests that Chin has taken refuge in Lowtown. No prizes for guessing why he's holed up in the only town in the world that SHIELD isn't authorised to operate in.”

The words left Dugan’s mouth as matter-as-factly as if he were describing water as being wet. They were accepted as much by Guy Gardner too. Next to him, Ben Grimm’s mouth was agape. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The shock was writ over his face long before he had a chance to voice his disapproval vocally so Dugan was almost prepared to field the inevitable follow-up question.

“Now I know you're yanking my chain? I thought SHIELD had the UN’s authority to go in wherever it needed. You’re trying to tell me that Madripoor is off-limits for the world’s biggest peacekeeping body? That place is as big a hive of criminals as there is on the face of the Earth.”

Guy shrugged. “It’s not a matter of legality, Ben, it’s ... well, the complete opposite. You thought Juba was bad? Lowtown makes Juba look like one of those Scandinavian countries where all people do is ride bikes and congratulate each other on how frigging perfect-looking they are.”

Ben pinched the bridge of his nose as he struggled to try and make sense of what Guy had said. Whilst his eyes were closed, Dugan shot Gardner a disapproving look, as if to compel him to silence, and then set about trying to explain the grubby little compromise that he and Nick Fury had helped broker with the Madripoorians nearly three decades ago.

“SHIELD entered into an agreement of sorts with some of the local criminal element to turn a blind eye to all the drinking and whoring that goes on in Lowtown. We don’t go after them for trying to have a good time occasionally, and they keep things fairly above board in the region.”

It was clear from Ben’s sigh that he thought that the Madripoorian agreement was ridiculous. “Just when I thought I’d heard everything.”


”It’s not perfect,” Dugan conceded. “Heck, it’s not even close to being right, but it works for both parties. Neither of you were around to see what Madripoor was like before – or what the helpless sons of bitches that lived there had to put up with. If you had, you would understand.”

It felt like a lifetime since the war in Madripoor – though no one was allowed to call it that, of course. Dum Dum had spent eight summers fishing the bodies of dead SHIELD agents out of the drink without so much as putting a dent in the colony’s drug trade. It was too ingrained in its culture. They hadn’t realised that when they went in, but they soon realised it once the bodies started to pile up. Since SHIELD had stopped operating in Madripoor, it had cleaned its act up some. Now it was mostly casinos and brothels – and fugitives from SHIELD like Zhang Chin.

Ben rolled his eyes. “Well if SHIELD can’t operate in Lowtown, then why the hell are you telling us all of this? As much as I want to see Chin's narrow butt taken down, it doesn’t sound like there’s anything we can do about it. Not unless Chin suddenly decides to take a vacation.”

Suddenly there was intent in Dum Dum's eyes as he looked at Guy and Ben, but there was also doubt. Of the two of them, Guy knew Dugan better and was quicker to sense that something was amiss. “Why are you looking at us like that?”

Dugan swallowed hard.

“Guy Darrin Gardner, Benjamin Jacob Grimm, effective immediately you are stripped of your positions as Agents of SHIELD. Director Hill has asked me to thank the you both of for your distinguished service over the past three months. You will be escorted off board this helicarrier by SHIELD security staff at the next possible juncture. SHIELD wishes you the best of luck in your future endeavours – whatever they may be.”

A knowing smile crept onto Guy Gardner's face as the true meaning of their sudden dismissal from SHIELD sunk in. “Oh, you son of a bitch.”

Staten Island, New York City

---

Once the elevator reached the 86th floor, Danny stepped out looking like he had just been mugged... which he sort of was. The two guards standing outside raised their eyebrows until they saw the unconscious body in the elevator. He nodded his head. "Jumped me in the elevator... I'm fine, just going to go freshen up." Before the guards could respond, Daniel pushed his way into the men's restroom. He made his way to the sinks, loosening his tie and examining his neck to notice the bruising on his neck. Even for someone like Danny, it would take a couple hours to clear up.

There was a distinct click and flush as a man emerged from one of the "rooms" that passed as stalls. It was a rather large man in an expensive Italian suit wearing shades indoors. That was always a sign of trouble. His five o'clock shadow and long, jet black hair weren't exactly welcoming either. Danny's eyes remained focused on the individual in the mirror as he spat out a few drops of blood in the sink.

In the blink of an eye, things changed. Drastically. The figure had a silent pistol in his hand and was raising it towards his target's head. Danny's head. In that blink of an eye, instincts took over. Daniel Rand quickly stepped towards the right and ducked out of the way of the first bullet as it pierced the mirror. The second bullet impacted the wall where Danny had moved to, but the Iron Fist was nimble enough and smart enough to move his head just enough to the left as he lunged for the assassin, fist extended and glowing. The third bullet impacted against the glowing fist, and there wasn't time for a fourth bullet. The gun was crumpled up in the assassin's hand, and a swift move of the Fist to his stomach knocked the opponent back through the doorway of the stall he exited. A loud crack filled the bathroom as the hitman bounced off the brick wall and fell to the ground, creating a spider fracture in the brick work like it was glass.

Danny walked slowly towards his opponent, circling around him before lifting him up by the back of the shirt and lifting him up to lean against the wall. The assassin was in serious pain, blood slowly drooling out of the corners of his mouth. The Iron Fist squatted down in front of him, fists clenched but no longer glowing, as his words dripped with anger through gritted teeth. "Who are you? Why is everyone trying to kill me?"

The hitman had trouble staying conscious, his head bobbing around sluggishly as he attempted to fight off the pain. "It'll cost ya."

Danny gave a small smile. "Are you seriously expecting me to pay you? In case you haven't noticed, I could..." He found he couldn't finish the sentence. He wasn't a killer, or a masochist.

"You aren't gonna kill me. And I've got information that could keep you alive to see the new year, Mister Rand."

Danny sighed, reaching to his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. He pulled out a couple twenties. The hitman shook his head in response, and Danny sighed as he pulled out a few hundred dollar bills and tossed it onto the man's lap. The hitman grinned. "They call me Cool Million. The bounty on your head was a million dollars. I typically don't pick up these short term contracts, as I'm better under pressure... but I thought you were just some rich punk who tipped off the wrong person. Maybe a corporate thing. Didn't expect ya to be some sort of whitewashed Jackie Chan."

"Someone is offering a million dollars to kill me? Who was it?"

Cool shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno. We don't do names in my business. Contract on ya is open, which means anyone from the local street toughs to the heavy hitters are coming after ya. When I was doing some surveying, I noticed that there are a lot of interested parties. Even the League of Shadows."

Danny's head turned slightly, his attention hyper-focused at the mention of that organization. He had heard rumors in K'un-Lun... myths about a group of assassins with the power of immortality. Enemies to the light of K'un-Lun. A league that had killed the former Iron Fist. Now... a league that wanted to kill him. "I need to get everyone out of here... but first..." Daniel struck Cool in the cheek, knocking the assassin unconscious. The Iron Fist removed his suit coat and kicked off his socks and shoes, before reaching to his shoulders and ripping off the sleeves of his dress shirt. He wrapped his tie around the knuckles of his left hand and up his wrist. He took a deep breath before opening the door to get back out into the hallway.

He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

---

---

---

---

... while the Flash was occupied in the Badlands fighting the infamous Weather Wizard it appears that several criminals broke into Iron Heights prison to free Hydroman. Reports are still coming in at the time but it appears as if the prison break was orchestrated by Heatwave as well as another individual who used some form of cold gun technology.

Iris sighed as she continued typing into her LexBook. She was tired, the fight with Weather Wizard had taken a lot out of her, Christmas was coming. She looked outside her window to see fresh snow falling outside. It calmed her, something about the snow was so pure and innocent. Like the earth beneath it was being reborn. Leaning back she raised her right hand to rub the bridge of her nose, massaging away the migraine that she could feel building within her head. How had she been so foolish to think that Weather Wizard was doing anything other than playing her? She was going to have to come up with some kind of early warning system, rather than simply relying on Jay, in order to direct her movements. Stumbling around in the dark wasn’t exactly working out for her, and it’s not as if she had super hearing like other heroes she knew.

As a door banged she closed the lid of the laptop, eying the redheaded interloper that was currently residing in her apartment. ‘Cousin’ Wally, who was actually her Nephew. She still felt bad for not telling the kid the truth, that her piece of scum brother was his father instead of Uncle Joe who was an upstanding member of the community, or at least he had been. From what she had been gleaming from Wally he had taken retirement from the Keystone PD pretty hard, hitting the bottle as he didn’t really know who he was anymore. The kid was going through a tough time, she just… she just wished that Barry was still around. He would know how to connect with him, Iris knew how to find a story but that was pretty much the range of her expertise. “Hi Wally.”

The teen didn’t even look up from his phone, murmuring a very pathetic “Hey” as he continued his way into the kitchen fixing himself something up to drink.

“What did you do today?” She heard a sigh from the kitchen, and could only assume he was rolling his eyes at his cousin attempting to make small talk.

“Not a lot. Did some school work, watched the news.”

“Central City News?”

Wally came up to her as a he let out a breathe laugh. This was going to be interesting. “No offense Cuz, but that isn’t really a reliable News Service. I mean don’t get me wrong a lot of the stuff is good, but most of the time it’s just ‘Flash Fan Club!’-” He raised his hands defensively. “-Now don’t get me wrong, I think the Flash is great. I have to admit I’m in love with the new lightning bolt look on the outfit. I have to say though that the News does seem to be missing a beat in other areas. Have you noticed the decrease in crime recently?”

Now it was her time to scoff. “Of course I have, I’m a reporter. I’ve been reporting on the decrease in crime, it’s attributed to the Flash. A lot of the big stuff she’s handled, leaving the police free to devote resources to other pursuits such as investigations and petty crime.”

Wally shook his head. “Did you hear about the break in at Iron Heights?”

“I’m writing a report on it right now.”

He nodded along. “I think that’s proof.”

“Of?”

“Come on Iris, do I really need to spell it out?”

“Humour me.”

“I think the criminals are getting smarter. The Flash has been around for over a year now. She’s dealt with different Metas along the way, fought the Surfer, Heatwave, Manfred Mota and a handful of other bad guys as well as petty criminals. She’s a pretty public figure and people are learning how she operates, and take that into account. Surely the whole distraction method proves that.”

A gear was knocked out of place in her head as the gears came grinding to a halt. This couldn’t be the case could it? Was it possible that she was just taking the clumsy criminals off the street, making it easier for the smarter criminals to keep moving untouched? If this was the case there was a massive criminal element gaining power without her seeing it. Just then there was an explosion, followed by the lights going out. Jumping up she ran, at a normal speed, to grab her camera. “I have to go Wally. Stay here.”

“Where the hell are you going?”

“Hey. A girls gotta eat.” She closed the door behind her, and that’s where she really took off.

I walk through the makeshift "streets" of Tombstone's shantytown warehouse. It's still just as amazing as the first time I walked through it. Like something out of a post apocalyptic dream, but the people seem to be thriving. They seem to be happy. As great as that is, it doesn't change the fact that they're all going to be in danger sooner rather than later. Mayor Cassidy isn't going to let a place like this run a part of the city. Especially not when the Ink is flowing from this part of the town.

Walking behind Aaron Davis, I'm led to Tombstone's meeting room. The stark albino skin of the mountain of a man is still a bit surprising. It's like the most terrifying thing you've ever seen of, but made of snow. It's a baffling thing for the mind to wrap itself around.

"Welcome back, Spider," his voice rumbles like thunder. "Davis says you have something to tell me? Something about cops coming into my part of town? You know that's not going to fly, right?"

"You know what you think flies and what doesn't is irrelevant in this situation, right?" I shoot back before even thinking of the repercussions. A hush falls over the warehouse around us. I keep my cool outwardly, but really hope my suit doesn't show nervous sweats. "So let's forget I said that in that tone. My point is they're going to come into the Bronx, Tombstone. Whether you like it or not, they're going to come. And if you fight them, people will die. Your people. Their people. Either way, people are going to die. And then it's going spiral out of your control. And then more people are gonna die. And then more. And then more. Until there's none of you left."

The imposing gang leader's eyes squint at me. I almost flinch, thinking he's going to burn a hole through me or something. He has a presence to him. It makes it less of s surprise that so many of these people believe that he can protect them. Still, he's hiding something. I can sense it. Or maybe I'm just hoping he's hiding something so that the inevitable fight I see in our future will be easier on me.

"Okay," he grumbles. "The cops can go after the Octopus. If they come anywhere near this warehouse, I'm gonna make sure that never happens again."

I shrug, "Deal."

Turning towards the exit, I see that Davis is following me, "You my escort out as well?"

"Nah, nothing like that," he shakes his head. "But the way you talked to the big man...he's not gonna like that."

"Aaron, I'm gonna level with you," I respond, "I don't care. He's doing good here. I'm not gonna deny that. But if he keeps up this lone gunslinger versus the world thing, he's going to get you people killed. And I'm not going to sit back and watched that happen. If I have to take him down, I will. But I don't want to have to do that. I hope you know that."

"Yea, I got you," he looks down at the ground. "Just try to make sure that doesn't happen, okay?"

"I'll do my best."



The incense hangs heavy in the air, the smell centering me into meditation. It's been a while since Sensei Dragon and I had a training session, and I could use one to center myself after the confrontation with Tombstone. The more I played it out in my head the other night, the more I realized that Tombstone acting like the king he fancied himself was even more dangerous that I thought. He is going to go up against another megalomaniac in Cassidy. It's not going to end well.

"You're not centered," Dragon opines with closed eyes. "How can you meditate if you are not centered?"

"Sorry," I shake my head. "Got a lot going on in the world of superheroics."

"Yes, the police are going to raid the Bronx looking for the Octopus," he sighs. "Or so I've heard."

"Jeez if you know about it the whole city is gonna know about it," I sigh. "So much for the element of surprise."

"I may have some sources on the force," he shrugs.

"If you do, imagine what someone with money has," I joke back.

"That's a low blow."

"You walked right into it, sensei," I pat him on the shoulder.

"Maybe so. Maybe so," he concedes. "What part are you going to play in this?"

This is a test, of course. Basically all of his questions are tests. That's how it goes with kung fu masters, I guess. One of the few things that the movies got right. Who would have guessed?

"I'm going to observe," I explain. "At least as long as I can. I want them to flush the Octopus out. When they do, I'll swoop in and take him off the board."

He nods in agreement, "Sounds solid to me."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Don't let it go to your head."

A black tie event on a full moon evening. Steven Grant and his plus-one, Marlene Alraune adorned in a knockout evening dress picked specifically for this Gala event schmooze, intermingle with the high society movers and shakers at ARTIC’s biggest calendar event. Marlene hunched over admiring the fine details of a Grecian amphora, immaculately preserved over the years.

“Exquisite isn’t it?”

Marlene turned and caught herself staring at the chest of a large, well dressed man. He stood around six feet, five inches and sculpted musculature was barely veiled by a tightly cut-to-fit tuxedo. He was easily recognizable, every other day he was on local news with his upcoming mayoral campaign. Deputy Mayor Carson Knowles.

“Quite.” She replied, returning to her focus on the vessel.

“Amazing to think that it dates back to 1,000 years before Christ…”

“500 or so, I think.” Marlene gently corrected.

“I’m fairly certain it was 1,000. Those Cretians really knew their craft...” Knowles persisted.

“They did, but I’m fairly certain that this was from no earlier than 530 BCE, and was done by an Athenian in the Corinth style…”

“I’m sorry, I thought I knew all of the benefactors of the Institute. What did you say your name was, Miss..?”

“Marlene. Marlene Alraune.”

“Alraune? As in… Professor Alraune of the University of Chicago?”

“My father.”

“So that would mean…” Marlene could see the cogs working in the Deputy Mayor’s mind. She looked back on the amphora to save Knowles the embarrassment.

“Well… 1000 year, 500 years… ‘When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou sayst, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’”

“Keats. Nice save, Casanova.”

“Thank you, I was proud of it.” His smile held a humour that likely held him in good stead with the electorate.

“...but out of interest, the Sosibios Vase that inspired Keats ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ was dated even later still. Around 50 BCE.”

“Ouch. You just couldn’t let me have it.”

“Nope.” She said with a cheeky grin, and walked past the amphora to the next exhibit.

Knowles followed her. “It surprises me that you’re here. I know we often extended offers to your father to become a benefactor for the institute, to my knowledge I wasn’t aware he finally accepted…”

“He hadn’t. Whilst my father was certainly a believer in the importance of the arts and the preservation of much of the work you do. He couldn’t justify the $50,000 fee for what he saw as the wrong sort of people who had questionable taste using it to validate their own sense of self importance over the rest of the city at events like these.”

“If that’s the case, then how did you get in--?”

“Knowles! A pleasure to meet you! Steven Grant. I see you’ve already met Marlene.” He extended a hand to the Deputy Mayor.

For a fraction of a second, Grant saw fear in Knowles’ eyes, fear and discomfort from being knocked off balance by his sudden appearance. Or as if he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, before the handshake quickly put him back on auto-pilot campaign mode.

“I trust I can count on your vote, Grant?” Knowles straightened his back, showing off his full height as he shook Steven’s hand. A full height that had him standing a few inches over the other man, a rare thing for him since he stood at six feet, three inches himself.

“Well, I’d still like to bend your ear and confirm what I’ve heard on policy, should I get the oportunity at some point, but if what I hear is true, I would say so.”

“Name the time and place, Steven!” He offered a warm smile, this time more rehearsed, somewhat more saccharine, compared with what he previously gave Marlene.

“Well it will have to be later, Carson,” Grant offered, his eyes raised on a familiar face in the distance. “Because I’ve just seen a friend I haven’t seen in a while…”

Grant wandered away as suddenly as he’d appeared, he swapped his empty champagne flute for a full one on a waiter’s tray as he crossed the floor.

He slowed as he got closer as he realised the company he was keeping was an on-duty police detective.



Flint stood with a smouldering cigarette in his mouth and a notebook in his hands.

The smaller man coughed in an exaggerated passive aggressive style, whilst Flint posed questions.

“So, what’d you say your name was again?”

“Anton Mogart.” He coughed once more. This time with his eyes open and nodding, gesturing towards the cigarette.

“Mogart… and you said you’re some kind of an art dealer.”

“I’m an art buyer’s agent.” He quickly drew a business card from a stainless steel box within an inner suit pocket and in a rehearsed manner he flipped it to Flint’s partner Gwenn.

“I represent clients who have fine interests and tastes, and act on their behalf, looking to secure items desirable to their palette and ensuring the authenticity and valuation of items my clients may stumble upon themselves.”

“So you’re an art collector?”

Mogart, squirmed in displeasure at the inaccurate oversimplification of his job.

“No. Well, yes… as a hobbyist as well, I suppose you could say I am, but that’s not my job. I’m a buyer’s agent.”

“And Mister and Missus Stepson in North Center? Were they clients?”

“The nature of the service I provide means I know all of my clients intimately. I had a great many clients in and around North Center, but I can safely say, no. They were not.”

Flint lifted his eyes from the notebook and levelled them at the smaller man, Mogart. He took a beat or three before he returned to writing notes. The fishing expedition not turning up anything worth a follow up question.

“Arthur Stepson and his wife?” Grant interjected, approaching the three men. “I was wondering where they were. Not like them to ever skip a Gala. I believe he was more of a hobbyist, than a connisseur. They’ve had me around their house before, I think Anton would likely be horrified if anyone tried to lay claim that he had any input on their decor...”

“And where were you about a week ago, Grant?” Flint turned and levelled his gaze at the newcomer. “Since you knew the owners and are aware of the layout of their property?”

“Probably living one of four lives... with only one having any kind of reasonable alibi at any specific time...” Steven thought to himself silently.

“Care to narrow that down at all? A whole week is a pretty long time to have to account for every minute, Officer--”

“Flint. Detective Flint. This is Gwenn. Detective Sergeants in Central Precinct.”

“Are the Stepsons alright?” Grant asked with genuine concern.

Flint shot Grant the same thousand mile stare he’d used on Mogart earlier. Three beats later he cleared his concerns.

“Physically they’re both fine. However they returned home from a holiday in the South Pacific to find their home had been burglarized and quite a bit of property damage to antique items of significant sentimental value. Would anyone else here be familiar with the Stepsons?”

“Wow.” Steven said, taking a solid gulp of champagne as if to anesthitize the news. “Yes, I’d say they’d be known here.”

“By who?” Flint said, scribbling notes.

“Well… they’re long-time benefactors of the Institute, so…”

Steven grant waved his arm out, gesturing to the entire Gala floor.

“Hrmm…” Flint grumbled at the task ahead of him. Gwenn walked off to halve the job and start questioning those in attendance.

"AAAT-CHOOOOO!"

"Bless you."

"Eeugh, thanks," mutters Jimmy as he grabs a spare napkin from the Chinese takeout on his desk to wipe his nose. "Sinuses have been killing me all day. Anyway, Perry's got me covering the dockside strike with Ron after getting that cease-and-desist from the FAA about my camera drone-- which is BS, by the way; I mean, you're seriously going to get hung up over 'airspace violations' in Metropolis?-- but anyway, we're there covering the story, and getting all these great sound bytes about labor and unfair wages and corrupt management and all that, and then BOOM! A freighter coming out of the harbor gets a hole blown in its side like it was hit by a torpedo!"

"Is that what that was? I thought I'd heard something about an explosion this morning," I say with concern.

I was helping Lombard with stats for this year's national high school varsity wrestling tournament when I heard it. In a city as busy as Metropolis, it's easy for noise to all sort of blend together. Voices, car engines, radio chatter, it all becomes a dizzying haze of sensory input that can get overwhelming if you don't focus. But the sound of explosives, the sudden punch of changing air pressure, the smell of smoke and chemicals in the air, that's unmistakable. After blaming too much coffee for a sudden bathroom break, I excused myself from the sportswriter's company, and was out over the bay seconds later, to find a large container ship had been bombed and was quickly taking on water.

"Crazy, right?" Jimmy continues. "Anyway, I'm arguing with Ron because I want to get my drone out to take some pictures of the ship and Ron's all 'no, you can't do that, the FAA will be mad,' and I'm all 'but I can't get a good picture from here, the ship's too far out,' and he's all 'meh, a real photographer shouldn't have to rely on toys to do his work for him,' like he has any idea how hard it is to fly one of those things into dangerous airspace and get an angle for a great shot. And we go back and forth like that for a bit, and then, hey, the problem solves itself!"

"A sinking ship solved itself?"

"Well, I mean, technically Superman solved it," he corrects himself. "But I get my regular camera out, and when the Big Guy gets close enough, I'm able to shut Mr. A-Real-Photographer-Doesn't-Need-A-Drone up with a real winner."

Grabbing his camera from the desk, he scrolls through his saved photos until he finds the one he's looking for, and shows it to me.

"Boooom, baybay."



"Oh, wow," I say with widened eyes. "That's....pretty nuts."

"I know, right?!"

That ship had to been carrying somewhere in the ballpark of a 150,000, maybe 200,000 tons of cargo. That's around the same weight as the Willis Tower in Chicago, and I really felt it trying to get that thing out of the water. The real killer is that since there was no ground underneath me to push off of, I had to rely purely on my tactile kinesis rather than my muscles with the lifting. Frankly, my lower back is killing me.

But seeing it from the perspective of someone on the ground, well....I hate to come off as arrogant, but I make it look easy. If people picture me in action doing things like that, then it's no wonder I can walk around with nothing covering my face but a pair of glasses-- no one's going to suspect some guy from the office of being able to hoist a skyscraper overhead.

"Anyway, I'm betting this pic gets me back in Perry's good graces, then it's drone o'clock all day every day," Jimmy says, leaning back in his chair with as much swagger as he can muster, before he catches sight of the new intern and leaps up like an excited puppy. "Hey Linda! I got an awesome picture of Superman this morning, saving that cargo ship? Wanna see it?"

"Hm? Oh! That's, erm, that's really cool," Linda says, a sheepish smile on her face as Jimmy scrolls through his photos.

Linda Lee Danvers started working at the Planet about a month ago, taking Jimmy's old spot as the newsroom's general purpose gofer. She's not very talkative, a little nervous at all times, but she seems nice enough. Jimmy took an instant liking to her, mostly because she's the only person at the office roughly his age, and has started going out of his way to impress her at every opportunity. Reminds me a bit of how I used to act around--

There's a tap on my left shoulder, and I glance over to see nobody as Lois sneaks up on my right side. I go along with it and act surprised when I turn and see her, and we share a playful grin.

"Afternoon, Smallville," she says as she gestures over to Jimmy and the intern, "Is Don Juan Olsen showing off his latest magnum opus that's sure to get him out of the doghouse with Perry this time?"

"It's a pretty good one," I admit, "from the cargo ship this morning. Still don't know why someone would try to blow up a--"

"I'm working on that," she says. "I was just on the phone with the harbormaster, and he says the ship in question, the LCS Milton, was supposed to disembark the day before. The Milton's captain says they were late due to the strike, that he had to get a replacement crew. This morning, a whole crew of scabs show up, ready to march past the picket lines and get that ship on the water. Nobody's saying where this crew came from, though."

"So, maybe this replacement crew had something to do with the bomb?" I ask.

"Don't know yet," she answers, "But something's definitely-- AT-CHOOO!"

"Bless you."

"Thanks," Lois says, pulling a tissue from her purse. "Some kind of crud must be going around. Perry could barely get through tearing me a new one over the serial-head-explosion story without hacking up a lung."

Lois has been following a string of fairly gruesome unsolved murders over the past month-- each one, the victim is seemingly killed through some unseen explosion from within, leaving no traces of the cause, but a very grisly crime scene in the aftermath. Thus far all of the victims have been somehow connected to what's left of the city's criminal underworld, but the pieces haven't quite fit together get.

"Speaking of that case, what's--"

"Hang on, babe, I'm getting a notification," she cuts me off, pulling out her phone and pulling up her newsfeed. "Nationalist rebels in Sokovia have taken hostages in a school in the capital city. Hmmm, I think international news sounds like it's something more your speed, doesn't it?"

Lois's thinly-veiled hint is about as close as she can get to saying "this sounds like a job for Superman" in public without giving it away.

"I'll look into it," I nod, before heading towards the elevators. "In the meantime, you take it easy. We're not gonna get anything done if everyone at the Planet gets sick."

---

"Yes, I'm aware the crew was a day late. There are some rather unfortunate realities of my trade in the current climate that make operations more difficult than they used to be. My apologies."

"Oh yes, everyone's sorry about something, everyone's got their reasons for falling short of expectations. Everyone's a day late and a dollar short, but they've got a story that makes it all okay."

"You still got the attention you wanted, didn't you? That was the whole point of this, right?"

"Oh, I got what I wanted. And fortunately, thanks to my successes, by this time next week, no one's going to catch onto your little blunder because they'll all be too busy chokin-- ohhh, but I shouldn't give away spoilers."

"Excuse me?"

"You're excused. Anyway, I didn't call to express my displeasure-- I called to see how you're enjoying the new toys I gave you."

"They work like a dream. All I have to do is think about the person I want to remove, and your gizmos do the rest. It's beautiful."

"And yet, you haven't made a real bid to reclaim control of Metropolis. Even with the power to destroy anyone you can think of?"

"Well.....almost anyone. They don't work on....him."

"On it, not him. They don't work on it."

"Fine, fine. It was one of the first things I did, trying to use them to get rid of....it. I don't think it even noticed. I could wipe out everyone else in this whole damn city if I wanted, but it wouldn't mean a thing if I don't have a way to deal with it first."

"Oh, but you do have a way to deal with it. You just have to think outside the box. That's what I want from you, my friend: some real, genuine, honest-to-goodness creativity. That's the only way you're going to come out of this on top."

"Well, if you've got any bright ideas--"

"I've got nothing but bright ideas; I want to see some from you. Do something other than turn snitches and rivals into chunky salsa. Give me a reason to keep investing in you."

"....right. I'll let you know what I come up with."

"Looking forward to it, Bruno."

“Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Dr Kavita Rao, and as of right now Benetech is working to bring peace to this world. Benetech is working to bring a mutant cure.”

The flash of cameras erupted around Dr Rao as she spoke, the reporters accompanying them whispering eagerly among themselves. The press conference was taking place at one of Benetech’s industrial facilities, a place which had been closed to the public since the company formed many years ago. Being allowed here now was a miracle in itself, however that fact was now clearly overshadowed by Dr Rao’s statement. In the months since mutantkind had been introduced to the world, nothing like this had ever happened until now.

“You may be wondering, why mutants? Why must mutants be cured of their powers and abilities, when beings like Superman, like the Flash, exist?” She paused, letting the question sink in. “Mutants are different. They are the future of humanity; Mutants are changing the human race every day, and they may not even know it. You can't tell them apart by looking at them, you'll never know if your best friend, child, or partner is a mutant unless they tell you or you catch them in the act of using their powers, and with every generation, more and more of the human population will be comprised of mutants.”

The room seemed to become smaller as she spoke, as the reality of the world around the reporters seemed to dawn on them. The whispers had stopped and now they stood in awe, an eerie silence filling the demo area in which they stood, save for Rao’s words.

The only other sound was the ever continuing sound of cameras. The flashes continued as she spoke. However now they seemed different.

“And each one could be a walking weapon of mass destruction.”

The camera flashes seemed to grow more frantic. The lights on the ceiling seemed to flicker as well.

“They’re dangerous.”

Brighter.

“The unpredictability of these abilities is dangerous.”

Larger. The men and women wielding them had noticed now. They moved the cameras away from their faces, yet the light kept coming. Ever so brighter.

“And what more…”

That was the final straw. Before she could finish, screams and shouts filled the air, as the camera’s seemed to explode into a flash of colour. The lights coating the ceiling and stage followed suit. It seared into everyone’s vision. Seeing was impossible. All there was was light. A bright white blinding light that seemed to last forever.

Then as quick as it started, it was over. The white died down. The world returned to normal, as everyone clutched their faces in pain. As they regained their senses and their struggling eyes made their way back to the stage, they saw that to Dr Rao's horror, she was no longer alone up there. A man in black stood omniously behind her, flanked by a group of all shapes and sizes.

“Dangerous you say? You’ve not seen anything dangerous yet.”

The figure in black stepped forward, an insidious smile forming across his face. He wore a suit of dark spandex, adorned by a cape nearly as bright and as difficult to look at as the previous surge of light.

”My name is Arthur Light, and this is my Brotherhood of Mutants.”

Manhattan, New York City

---

The high-piercing wail of the klaxon triggered by the pulling of the fire alarm began to instill a calm confusion. The executives seemed reluctant to want to leave, but the various security officers cut through the party and began slowly herding people towards the primary stairwell. Caterers and executives were pressed against each other in the mild rush downstairs. Daniel Rand, unfortunately, was not in their midst. After pulling the fire alarm, he found himself in the restroom pulling the unconscious form of Cool Million away from the stall door and into the corner. Just as the work was finished, the door to the restroom slammed open and a voice called out, "Is anyone in here? We're in a fire alarm procedure!"

Daniel Rand emerged from the stall, giving a slight nod as he closed the door behind him and made his way towards the sink. It was hard not to notice the traces of blood around the tile floor. The guard placed a hand on Danny's shoulder, leaning forward to look over his employer's bruised neck. "Mr. Rand... are you alright? Is something going on? I can-"

"Once everyone's outside, report a bomb threat. Someone has been threatening to assassinate me, and I want to make sure no one else gets hurt."

The guard gave a curt nod. "You should come with me. I'll can call some guards, and we can escort you home."

Danny finished washing his hands and grabbed a cloth towel to dry his hands. He shook his head, giving a small smile. "No offense, but you'd only slow me down." He briskly exited the bathroom, the guard following close behind.

The sleek hallway, complete with a futuristic white aesthetic and a couple potted plants. Standing in the midst of it all was a single, smiling figure. At his feet were the corpses of three Rand guards. Danny's new "protector instinctively reached for the gun at his side and went to unholster it. The guard only managed to grip the handle of the pistol before a sliver of metal protruded from his neck.

Danny raises his hands defensively. The figure standing opposite him in the hallway gave a small smile behind her yellow tinted sunglasses, readjusting her red leather coat. "Let's not make this more difficult than it needs to be, Daniel Rand. Judging by the mess in the elevator, I'm not going to make the same mistake as my competitors."

In the blink of an eye, she managed to flick another metal sliver down to her hand. She flicked the dart towards Danny, who lifted up his right fist in reaction. It began to glow just in time, and the dart crumbled on impact. The assailant gave a sigh and reacted by tossing more darts. Danny rushed forward, trying to block as many as he could. He was about fifteen feet away before the assailant gave a sigh and knelt down, grabbing one of the guards' guns and lifting it. She didn't aim towards Danny's body, but instead fired a bullet into Danny's knee. The Immortal Iron Fist crumbled and slid a few feet, and the Red Dart rose to her feet with the gun aimed towards her target. She gave a small smile. "God damn... this was almost too easy."

The door to the warehouse slowly crept open as Michael stumbled through, keeping himself concealed in the shadows, there was a noticable chill in the air, but ever since his infection, Michael had stopped seeing his breath in cold environments. "Victor?!" He called.

"You really don't understand the concept of Subtlety, do you?" Came a voice.

"Victor, please, i don't have time for this." He grunted. From across the room, he heard the stomping of feet as a large, glowing ssuit walked into view. "My god... Is this the real you?" He asked.

"Not quite..." Victor replied, looking down at his hands. "But it is the me that can survive in your world of heat." Freeze was a very intelligent man, but still just a man, not being able to see into the shadows. Morbius, seeing Victor's disfigurements, exitted the shadows a little more confidently.

"I had no idea, i thought it was just propaganda." He couldn't look Victor in the eye. Victor slowly pointed his freeze-gun at him. Morbius put his hands up. "Wait, no, don't!" he called. "This is... Just a setback." Fries stared at Michael.

"I did not believe you about the vampires, but i would take any help i needed for..." He gulped. "You plan to make Nora the same?" He asked.

"No, quite the opposite. I want me to not be this. If we can stablize this, i'm sure that we can cure Nora and Rachel's cancer's too." Michael sighed. Seconds later, he heard a strange sound, before everything went white.

****

Victor slowly began to regain his senses. "What the...?" Everything seemed distorted, even his hearing was acting up.

"Well, Michael, your blood samples are very interesting." Came the heavily dampened voice. "You cultivated the serum in Vampire Bats you say? Well, it show. You share an alarming number of DNA sequences with them." Morbius slowly looked around, he could feel intense cold, he then saw Victor without his armour on.

"Victor, i'm going to ask you this once... Did you shoot me with a freeze ray?"

"My apologies, but i cannot have anyone knowing the location of my hideout, not even you, my friend." He was sat at a computer, staring at the analysis. "Unforutunately, i've not been able to lock down how many, your DNA seems to still be mutating. A combination of multiple different sources vying for dominance..."

"So... I am only part Vampire?" Michael asked, slowly struggling off of the bed, he could see his breath.

"As far as i can tell." Victor rubbed his eyes. "It's like nothing i have ever seen. But, from what i can tell, your cells have become EXTREMELY adaptive. Come, look at this." Michael walked over to the computer to see a shot of his own blood cells, they looked... Strange. "Look what happens when i introduce some of my blood into them." He said, before pressing a few buttons. Some blue blood-cells float into view, before Michael's merge with it and adopt a strange blue tinge. "Now look what happens when we try to freeze it." He then showed a side-by-side of Michaels blood and the new blood as the temporature fell. Michaels blood freezes at -2, but the mutant blood remains unfrozen, even as he stops at -12. "Your DNA seems to be able to take the most desirable traits of your victims and change them to your advantage."

"Are you saying that if I bite Superman, i'd get the ability to crush a planet?" He asked.

"I have no idea. We don't even know if this will cause problems to your mental state. The one downside that i can isolate is that your blood is hungry. I've never seen blood with a metabolism before, but yours seems to, that's why you have the overwhelming urge to feast on blood. Your brain has figured this out and is now causing you to feast in order to keep your blood cells from killing each other."

"So, if i don't feed on blood-"

"A death so painful, i cannot imagine..." He got up and walked across the room to a drawer. "Take this." he said, before pulling out a briefcase. "It will help in a pinch."

"You're going to freeze me again, aren't you?" Michael asked.

"Yes, but it's only until i can move you somewhere else. He said, reaching over for his freeze-gun. "Just know, once you find a cure for this, i'm sure you will be able to step out of the darkness and into the light... Everything went white.