---

"Her presentation was amazing."

"Can you top that?"

"Remember, you hate being the center of attention."

"You're going to fail this project."

The multiple whispers in her head were suddenly interrupted when the professor called her up to make her presentation. "Rachel, dear, we're closing with you."

The young student cleared her throat. She did not enjoy getting up in front of her peers, not with her ability to tap into their minds and make some sense of their thoughts. The temptation was strong, but more often than not she knew better than to explore such territory while engaging in public speaking. As she walked up to the front of the class, Rachel did her best to organize the mess within her head. Her face was devoid of emotion, as was the usual, and no one was the wiser.

"The floor is all yours," Professor McCann smiled from behind the desk.

Rachel simply nodded. "My research is on suicide notes. These notes area viewed as providing insights into the psychodynamics of a suicidal person. To contrast the idea, I am proposing that some suicidal individuals—" She stopped for a moment, looking up from her paper and focusing on Octavia, one of her classmates whom she'd worked with in the past. Octavia was shifting uncomfortably in her seat, and even though she shouldn't have probed, the moment Rachel violated the girl's privacy, she came across a great deal of anguish. Slightly perplexed, Rachel quickly apologized to the class. "Um, some individuals use their suicide notes to present a picture of themselves that they want others to remember." Rachel then turned her back on the class to write on the board. As she was reaching for a marker, she heard a slight commotion from the crowd. Rachel turned around to see Octavia rushing toward the door.

"I'm sorry, I need to..." Rachel didn't waste time explaining herself to Professor McCann. Instead, she rushed after Octavia, pleading the girl to stop. "Octavia! Wait!" Once Rachel was outside the classroom, she wasn't too far behind Octavia. In fact, her classmate turned around to face her.

"You're right about one thing, Rachel. My suicide note is how I want others to remember me by."

As she spoke those last words, the girl brandished a handgun from her backpack and aimed it at her right temple. "Goodbye."

The next few moments felt like an eternity. Rachel ran over to Octavia's body, kneeling down beside her and only hearing her irregular breathing. She instinctively grabbed the gun to prevent further harm when Professor McCann called out to her.

"Put it down, Rachel!" Her voice was distant at first, but then it got clearer as she continued to communicate. "Put the gun down!"

"Professor McCann, I didn't..." Rachel placed the weapon on the ground then stood up, circling around to face her instructor. "She had—"

"Let me see your hands!" Another voice, that of a man. Rachel turned to look at a campus safety officer tactically come around the corner with his weapon aimed at her. "Get down on the ground!"

"She has a weapon officer!"

"Ma'am, get inside the classroom, now!"

With her hands raised adjacent to either side of her head, Rachel slowly sank to her knees. She was facing Octavia who was lying in a small pool of blood, and unexpectedly, her familiar voice played in Rachel's head.

Help me, please.

"Octavia?"

Rachel, help me.

There was a lack of regard to her actions as Rachel started to get up to help her classmate, but she was subsequently pushed down to the ground. "Don't fucking move!" The officer was on top of her, one knee digging into her back and a hand pushing her neck into the ground with such force that the experience turned painful rather quickly. "This is Officer Costello, we need Police and EMS outside of Lerner Hall. One victim possibly dead, shooter currently in custody."

Shooter? It took a moment for her to make sense of what had occurred in the last minute or so. Rachel simply stared at her dead classmate not too far from her position. She went with the motions when the handcuffs were placed on her, and again when she was ordered to stand as she was roughly pulled to her feet. Her sight never left Octavia, not even when sirens were heard in the distance.

---

---

The Daily Bugle had never been a paper of particular repute. In Ben’s words they were mostly two-bits, preying upon the stories and hardships of the working person to string together a rag just barely strong enough to get pity purchases. A paper that would never rise out of the shadow of the New York Times, or even The Daily Planet over in Metropolis. There were no Pulitzers out of The Daily Bugle. Yet still, the Bugle’s investors gave it enough strength to have its own building, a blazing pillar of neon red against the black of the night, proclaiming a half-hearted message of ‘freedom of the press’, or something like that. It was a towering monolith to slipshod reporters everywhere, and unfortunately, it was the one place Peter Parker had to be tonight.

He crawled along the brickwork, fingers tracing the inlays and channels of it was he went, trying to make sure he was on the right floor. With his luck, he’d wind up smack-dab in the middle of the security office. He crept up the side, checking each window for signs of a floor number inside as he passed.

”Finally! Half worried I was gonna run out of floors.” Peter mumbled to himself as he stuck his fingers to the plate glass. He could feel it in all its detail through the fabric of the suit, every minute imperfection in the surface of its construction. It felt raw and uneven to the touch, and improperly seated in its housing, by the way it jiggled underneath his fingertips. One push and the window crashed silently into the thickly carpeted editorial office.

Peter flipped off the windowsill and onto one of the plaster pillars supporting the few floors above this one. It was an ocean of cubicles stacked high with keyboards and reams of paper, spilling over with pencils and multicolor sticky notes. There was one light source in the far corner; a corona of blue monitor screens and ancient mounted Tube TVs playing a half dozen twenty four hour news channels. Peter dropped from the pillar and began snaking between labyrinthine cubicles. Editor’s office. A fine place to start.

The office was separated from the rest by a thin wall of wood-framed glass, and all was silent but for the steady din of sleepless newscasters. Can’t turn these off when no one’s here? Save the planet, man. The door was frosted glass announcing the editor of this department, “Jameson, J. Jonah; Local News”. Peter tried the handle and popped the lock as he twisted, forcing the door across the carpet.

“Anyone home? The Spider-Scouts brought thin mints.” Spider-Man said. There was a flash of movement in his retinas and he was on the wall, scuffing the craquelure wallpaper and aiming both hands at the slowly turning swivel chair that sat before a network of interconnected monitors. No Spider-Sense again? Thing really must be bugging out on me…

“I hope you have cash in that kooky costume of yours, those locks aren’t cheap.” The man that turned to face him had salt and pepper hair that stood up like a paintbrush, and thick bushy eyebrows that gave shelter to two eyes that shone like burning coals in their darkness. He had a thick block of a mustache, and one hand on his wireless mouse, with the other on the meanest cigar Peter had even scene, unlit, with its end chewed to hell and back.

“Woah, picklepuss! Why are you here? They won’t let you shave that dead rat off your face without a hundred hours’ overtime?” Peter’s shoulders slumped and grinned beneath his mask. At least he doesn’t keep a gun in that desk. “Spider-Man assaults working stiff.” Great way to get my name out there.

“You’ve got thirty seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t call the police.” The reporter rolled his eyes and turned back to his monitors. He jammed his cigar between his teeth, stabbing at the gel caps of his keyboard. Peter tapped his palm and a glut of webbing stuck Jameson’s hand to his keyboard.

“Christ, the nerve of you to--” Jameson’s response was cut short as another glob nailed his other hand to his desk.

“Shh, Spider-Man talking now.” Peter dropped to the floor and his suit receded across his leg, revealing the battered copy of The Daily Bugle pressed to his thigh. He threw it onto Jameson’s desk. “Old man gets shot and left for dead. Bugle are the only ones to report on it. What do you know?”

”You think I remember every story that passes across my goddamn desk?” Jameson spit the cigar out in a cloud of spittle. It bounced across his desk. Peter shook his head.

“It is your byline, Triple J, and I don’t think you’re at the age for dementia just yet.” Peter dropped to the floor and knelt beside a neglected file cabinet, buckling under the weight of the dozens of folders stacked atop it. Peter sorted through them, tossing them into the trash as he went.

“So? You think I’m gonna help some webhead punk like you that muscles his way into my office?” Jameson grunted. He strained against the webbing, his feet dragged on the cheap carpet as he tried to gain leverage.

“Well, I was just gonna search your office, but why go without your pithy commentary?” Peter said. He turned from the folders and zipped to the ceiling, considering Jameson as he sat upside down. The man’s neck veins bulged as he fought the webbing, struggling with every ounce of his muscle. “The faster you tell me what you’ve got, the sooner you can see your whole paintbrush-head family.”

“Murder rates are up fifty percent this year, and I have more assholes like you flying around this city every goddamn day -- I don’t even know who the hell you are. You expect me to remember how some no name took a bullet?”

Peter’s hand cracked against Jameson’s desk and the corner splintered into a shower of sawdust. “Say that again. One more time.” Peter felt a tickle across the back of his mind, ice brushing his head. Is that…? No. No way.

“I’m not afraid of you. You go viral swinging around for five minutes and suddenly you --” Peter focused as Jameson droned and the sensation grew in his skull, spreading across his senses, at once unifying and dividing them. Hairs prickled on the back of his neck. Spider-Sense. His eyes flashed out the window, scarcely detectable from this height, but Peter saw the pulse of red and blue.

“What did you do?” In an instant Peter was on Jameson’s desk, scattering a hurricane of documents. Jameson howled, rocking back as far as he could in his seat.

“You really thought I didn’t already call the cops? Amateur. NYPD’s shitting themselves over the chance to grab a freak like --” Jameson was silenced with a burst of webs before he could finish and Peter closed his eyes, reaching out with his sense. The tendril fibers of his suit tuned and resonated, searching for a way out. Thump of jackboots up stairwell, safeties being released outside, rustle of equipment behind cubicle walls… Perfect, they already rolled out SWAT.

Peter opened his eyes and saw the PA microphone astride Jameson’s desk. His eyes flitted across the room, back to the file cabinet. “I really hope you don’t need that for anything.”



“Hold position…” Voices crackled over NYPD closed comm channels as SWAT officers tightened their grips on their rifles. Over response for a B&E, sure, but the promise of a bag and tag of a live mutant or meta-freak? The bureaucrats wanted a win, and by God would the NYPD deliver. Armor rustled as the officers shifted, double checking armor and munitions. They were sheltered behind and beneath desks, automatic rifles poking out from cubicles tracked the figure that bobbed and weaved inside the editorial office. Another squad would be up the stairs in moments, and then they could --

Four speakers situated at the corners of The Daily Bugle’s 42nd floor began to thump, in steady time with a drumbeat.

“What the hell is --?” The plate glass of J. Jonah Jameson’s office exploded behind the force of an steel filing cabinet, launched through the glass and exploding into fine metal shrapnel across the pillars strewn about the office.

“Contact! Contact!” Rifles chugged through their magazines as a black and white specter emerged from the shadows of Jameson’s office, swinging through the air on white strands of webbing. Spider-Man landed like a bomb, sending chipboard particles flying in the air as he grabbed an NYPD officer by the collar, hauling him up and webbing him to the ceiling.

The unit was already in chaos between themselves, diving between cubicles and ducking under each other’s gunfire. Peter pulled a monitor off of its housing and flung it like a frisbee, it exploded across the chest of the nearest officer and he was gone again in the shadows, barely revealed by orange bursts of gunfire.

“Guys, I swear this song was supposed to be White Wedding! I promise!” Peter’s voice was almost lost to the report of the gunfire and the thump of the beat, bullets trying to find him amid the office space and whizzing off into random directions.

“Where is he?” A stapler detonated into a million pieces against a riot helmet and another officer fell, slumped against a pillar.

“I can’t see shit!” Peter was a tornado through the newsroom, slinging tight packages of OfficeMax goods and laying high tensile weblines, clotheslining cops as they ran in the madness.

“Hold this.” Peter launched an officer from the skyscraper with a shove, the man dropped three stories before catching on a hair thin strand of webbing, but Peter was already gone, webbing another SWAT officers hands together and bowling over another pair with his body.

“Hey! Backup is cheating!” A steel door flung upon as more officers piled into the destroyed office, trampling over paperwork and the dropped forms of their friends as they hit cover and thumbed their safeties. Peter flicked his wrists and the stairwell slammed shut with a gout of webs, smashing back a half squadron of SWAT goons.

Peter was in the air again, webbing cops to printers and walls as he ducked and dived through the gunfire, weaving between the bullets as if they weren’t there at all.

“I’d love to stay boys, but I’ve gotta run. Early Spider catches the worm!” Peter slid beneath a cubicle and pounced up and over one of the last officers, thrusting into a front flip off of his shoulders and through the plate glass of the Bugle’s window, into the cool New York air.

The bursts of shots died in the background as Peter swang, webline to webline, faster and faster, further and further.

No leads? Check.
Hatred of the news? Check.
Property damage? Check.
Assaulting the cops? Check.
This superhero thing is working out great…

Gotham Central
11 PM

Jim Gordon lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag off of it. He was trying to quit, but it felt so good to inhale the smoke and to feel the fire in his lungs. He blew a column of smoke into the air and watched it disperse into the night. The cigarette seemed to rejuvenate him slightly. He’d been at work for over fifteen hours now and was exhausted, running on nothing but caffeine for the last four of those fifteen hours.

He was on the rooftop of Central and listening to the nighttime sounds of emergency vehicle sirens warbling across the city. There was more chaos, always more, he would have to deal with, but that was a task for tomorrow. After he was done up here he’d go home and crawl into bed without even bothering to take his clothes off. In the morning, he’d wake up and go back in for another fifteen hours of punishment. That was what he did. Keep calm, carry on, and pray like hell the next day would be better.

“Smoking isn’t good for your health,” a voice rasped from behind Gordon.

“Neither is sneaking up on a man with a gun,” Gordon said without looking back. “I’m glad you got my message.”

“What have you got for me?”

“There’s a folder on the ground behind me.”

Gordon heard the scrape of boots and the rustle of fabric. He still didn’t look back. It wasn’t fear that made him look away, he’d seen him before after all, it was his own strange sense of morality. If Gordon didn’t see him, then he could at least defend his decision not to arrest him.

“SWAT found a cache of those weapons during a drug raid,” said Gordon.

His eyes tracked an ambulance speeding down a street ten blocks away with its lights flashing and siren blaring. Suddenly the sound cut off and the ambulance slowed to normal speed. He sighed as he blew smoke from his mouth.

“This is military grade hardware. Too high tech for these guys. Who owns the stash house your people raided?”

“Skeevers,” said Gordon. “Which means--”

“Thorne.”

“Or so we think. ATF is working with us on the weapons. They have a likely suspect. You ever go out into unincorporated Gotham much?”

“Not if I can help it.” A pause then he said. “Crusaders Motorcyle Club.”

“It’s sheriff’s territory,” Gordon said as he flicked the cigarette butt on the ground and stomped it out. “And the sheriff is hesitant to take on highly armed outlaw bikers. Can't say that I blame him. Regardless, my hands are tied. But yours?”

“Say no more.”

While he didn’t see or feel any movement, Gordon knew he was gone. That was how all their meetings worked. When he turned around, his suspicions were confirmed. He was gone, along with the folder that had been on on the ground.

“Good luck,” Gordon said to himself. “You’re going to need it.”

---

Gotham Palisades
11:21 PM

Rupert Thorne’s mansion was small by comparison. If Buckingham Palace was your comparison point. Less than five miles away from the Narrows, but it may as well have been on another planet. There was no trace of the junkies on the corner, doing the dope fiend lean as they shot up and fried what little brains they had left. No sign of the hookers who walked the streets, selling their bodies to feed themselves and their children. No dilapidated buildings with its copper piping and electrical wiring ripped out by money hungry fiends looking for a quick payday.

He never felt comfortable out here, given his line of work. The people out here were tantamount to American royalty with their fleets of cars, jets, and boats. Thorne’s people downtown peddled drugs, Thorne’s neighbors peddled Democracy to any third world country with finite natural resources to exploit. They robbed pension plans and left retiring employees penniless. Society condemned guys like Thorne and his men, saying they were the problem with America all the while the guy three houses down from him overthrew governments to avoid paying fifty cents on the dollar for exports. The only difference between Thorne's empire and the empires of business were that those criminal enterprises were deemed too big to fail by the government.

Thorne had a cuban cigar wedged in the fat fingers of his left hand. His right hand cradled the letter that had arrived earlier today inside a manilla envelope. He glanced out the window and could see the olympic sized swimming pool down below. He couldn’t remember the last time he swam in it. There was a good chance he never had. Just one of the many things he collected, a symbol of his status. But it was being used right now. Two of his security guards, muscle bound men just a step above gorillas in the evolution chart, had Arnie Fischer strung up over the water with a clothesline tied around his ankles. Water dripped off Arnie as he dangled in the air. Even from this far away Thorne could see his panicked breathing as he begged for mercy. Arnie was Thorne’s accountant, and this was all his fucking fault.

Thorne looked down at the papers in his hands. Photocopies of financial information that nailed him cold as the crime lord he actually was. Things that the police had been trying to get for years and had never been close to ever touching. Who the fuck had gotten it? The message that accompanied the photos was written on black paper with garish lime green ink. Thorne couldn't tell if the sloppy handwriting was a deliberate measure or not.



Thorne gritted his teeth as he stubbed out his cigar into the letter.

---

Downtown Gotham
12:11 PM

“You come highly recommended, Ms. Kyle.”

Selina looked over her sunglasses at the fat, old man. They were sharing a table on the outside patio of the swanky coffee shop. Thorne looked Selina over like a piece of meat, the old man doing what he thought was a charming smile. She would have been creeped out by it, but he had bits of pastry flake on his tie and it made him more comically sad than anything.

“I do my job well, Mr. Thorne.”

“I can only imagine,” he said with a sleazy smile. “The only thing they wouldn’t tell me was your asking price.”

Selina sipped from her latte before answering.

“Forty.”

“Forty thousand seems steep.”

“Percent. Whatever you want found, I get forty percent of it.”

Thorne frowned “It’s… it doesn’t work like that. What I want is only valuable to me.”

Selina spread her hands “Then forty percent of whatever it’s worth to you. That’s my price.”

“That’s highway robbery!”

“Then call the cops,” Selina said with a smirk. “But if you were able to call the cops, you wouldn’t reach out to a… procurement specialist like myself. And since it sounds like something pretty valuable to you, the longer you haggle the more my price goes up.”

Thorne put his balled up fists on the table. They were squeezed so tightly that they were beginning to turn white. As fun as it was to see him squirm, Selina knew that a delicate touch would be needed here on out if she wanted the job. All these rich, old men. For all their power and arrogance, they just couldn’t handle a woman even appearing to get the upper hand. It was time to put on the motherly concern.

“Start at the beginning, Mr. Thorne,” she said calmly. “Tell me what’s been taken and we’ll go from there.”

Selina listened intently as Thorne told his story. She wasn’t the only one interested in the tale. Inside the coffeeshop, a young man sat in front of a laptop with earbuds in. To passerbys he looked like another would-be writer trying to write a screenplay.

But Bruce Wayne’s earbuds were relaying to him every word of Thorne’s story. The small listening device embedded in the band of Thorne’s wristwatch had amazing sound quality. He was able to perfectly transcribe the details of what Thorne was saying. Since Falcone’s fall, Thorne had become top dog in the criminal underworld. Without the ties to the Italian Mafia, Thorne ran his criminal organization like a business. And like a CEO of a Fortune 500, Thorne kept trade secrets close to the vest. He was too careful. Compared to Falcone and Maroni, Thorne and his men had the discipline of monks. After a year of intense surveillance, Bruce was nowhere near finding any evidence that proved Rupert Thorne was a criminal kingpin.

But now?

Now there seemed to be a path to see Thorne thrown behind bars

He just had to make sure he beat Selina Kyle to it.

Kitimat, British Columbia

All through the night the captive wildman had thrashed and thrashed. Heather MacNeil and James Hudson had taken it in turns to watch him, but now in the cold light of day the seriousness of the situation they had found themselves set in. What would they do with him? What could they do with him? He was unconscious now but to set him free would be to risk certain death. Heather quietly damned Hudson’s big heart. Were it her decision, they would have left him to bleed out – instead they were trapped in their own home with a creature chained to their bed. James was cradling the shotgun whilst staring down at their captive. She called out across the room to him in a soft, sympathetic voice.

“What are we going to do? We can’t keep this thing tied up in our living room forever, James.”

There was a flicker of annoyance in Hudson’s face. “Don’t you think I know that?”

“I still say we should call the Mounties,” Heather responded matter-of-factly. “If we explain what happened, I’m sure they’ll understand. I mean, it could be a fugitive for all we know ... it could be some kind of kind of escaped mental patient. I bet they’d just be glad that someone got it off the streets.”

James sighed. He flicked the shotgun’s safety on and from his seat opposite the bed set the but of the gun on the ground. There was a weariness to the motion that made Heather realise that Hudson wasn’t annoyed, he was tired. There were heavy bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. He had looked drawn out yesterday after finding out the bad news about the Guardian project, but now Hudson looked like a wraith.

“You shot him at point-blank range with a shotgun and there’s not a scratch on him, Heather. I think it’s fair to say that whoever our John Doe is, he’s not just some oddball that caved in his mother-in-law’s skull with a clawhammer, he’s … well, he's obviously a mutant. That means the poor bastard is going to end up at a government black site on a lab table if we get law enforcement involved.”

Heather walked towards the living room window and stared at the snowy hills that surrounded their home. “That’s not our problem.”

“You don’t mean that,” James murmured weakly as if he was trying to convince himself more than MacNeil. “I know you can’t mean that.”


A sudden pang of guilt ran through Heather and she stepped away from the window and walked towards Hudson. It hurt her to see the disapproval in his eyes. She knelt down in front of him and placed a loving hand atop of one of Hudson’s thighs. The disapproval softened somewhat and he set the shotgun to one side.

“All I know is that you are my world, James, and the longer this thing stays under our roof, the more dangerous it is for both of us.”

“He,” Hudson said with renewed disappointment in his voice. “He is a human being, Heather, just like you and I are. He's not a thing.”

MacNeill nodded eagerly in an attempt to recapture the tenderness that had she had lost through her clumsy choice of words. “You’re right.”

James abruptly stood up from his seat with a tired grunt. Heather’s hand slipped from his thigh and she watched as he reached once more for the shotgun and claimed the spot beside the window where she had been standing. His tired eyes were surveilling the hills, though for what he wasn’t sure. Heather looked towards the man, wrapped in the thickest chains that Hudson could get his hands on, and repressed a sneer.

The next half an hour passed in silence. Occasionally their sleeping John Doe would let out a moan, but otherwise Hudson and MacNeil had only the sound of the savage winds hitting their cabin for entertainment. When an electronic whirring came from one of Hudson’s pockets, it acted as a welcome respite from the sound of the wind. He stared down at the name on the screen and sent the call to voicemail with a sigh.

“Is that Jaxon calling?”

“Yeah,” Hudson nodded. “He’s been trying all morning.”

“Why haven’t you picked up? He’s going to want answers and the longer you leave it, the worse it's going to be. You say that Guardian is dead but I still think we could win Jaxon around. We’re not going to be able to do that if you’re screening his calls.”

Hudson sighed and lifted a hand up to acknowledge his mistake. “Alright, alright, you don’t need to lay it on thick. I’ll call the man back.”

“Now, James.”

“Okay, I’ll only be a few minutes,” James agreed as he handed Heather the shotgun. “If you need anything, if he so much as moves a muscle, you shoot first and ask questions afterwards, alright? At the first sound of trouble, I’ll come running.”

“Don’t worry, if I was able to nail him with this thing last night, I’m pretty confident I’ll be able to now that he’s been pumped full of painkillers and chained to a bed.”

The door to their cabin flung open and a vicious, bracing wind came snaking inside. Hudson stepped out onto the porch and slammed the door shut behind him. Heather watched him through the window, making sure he’d dialled Jaxon back, before slowly approaching their captive with the shotgun in her hands. She prodded the sleeping man with it and he didn’t stir at all. Once she was sure he was sleeping, she pressed the barrel hard against one of his cheeks and then leant towards him.

“I want you to listen to me. I don’t care what you are, if you so much as think about laying a hand on that man, I’ll kill you. Do you hear me? James might be soft but I’m not. I know a cold-blooded killer when I see one, and that’s what I see when I look at you. Human, mutant, you could be the missing link for all I care, you’re a monster in my books and I’m not going to risk losing everything for you.”

Suddenly the man’s eyes opened. They looked different this time. Still beastlike, but haunted almost, and fixed on Heather’s shock of red hair in confusion. She attempted to stagger backwards but her feet wouldn’t seem to move. Worse still, she noticed that one of the man’s hands had wriggled free from beneath the chains. It was clamped around the barrel of the shotgun. It took half a dozen empty, frantic clicks before Heather realised the safety was still on, and by the time she had flicked it off the emergence of noise from the man’s throat stayed her hand.

“No, not ... not a monster,” he pleaded in a hoarse growl that seemed to carry a hundred lifetime's worth of suffering and anguish. “Logan...”

"This is wrong," I say to myself, pacing back and forth across the dusty concrete floor of the storm cellar underneath the farmhouse. "This is all wrong."

It's not the first time I've said something along those lines since I woke up in the bed upstairs, in a house I'd apparently just purchased, in a world somewhat familiar but definitely not my own. I'd say to myself watching the news, seeing people I'd known for nearly a century only just starting out, or the successor to a heroic legacy being the originator instead. I'd say it looking at the state of the people who populate this world, the crippled and dying culture that could have made them great now spun into the pursuit of cheap distractions and easy outrage.

Now I'm saying it as I look down on the old metal work bench and the form laid across it....at the bleached, dried bones of another version of myself, left unceremoniously in front of my house while I was out on my morning patrol.

"How could anyone know about me, here?" I ask, staring at the grinning skull, a pair of darkened sockets which used to hold eyes that could see to the farthest ends of the universe, observe quantum-level events, or spew heat that could slice through a planet like a knife through hot butter. "Superman never existed on this world. Kara came to Earth instead of Kal-El. Diana was the first public super-hero, showing up years before even I did in the rea--...in my timeline. Jonathan Kent was killed by a tornado in the late 90s, Martha Clark remarried and moved away to Missouri. The name Clark Kent shouldn't mean anything to anyone on this world, let alone Superman. So for someone to have found me out, to kill one of me and leave it at my door, it's imp--"

Impossible? HAH! Imagine you, of all people, calling something 'impossible.' Ridiculous.

"Be quiet; you're not real," I dismiss that annoying brassy voice. "I'm imagining things, hearing voices to keep myself company, that's all."

Oh, you wound me! And why exactly is the thought that you're cracking up your first guess?

"Because I watched you die, Mxyzptlk!" I shout, my hands curling into fists that could punch through the fabric of reality in my younger days. "Because....because I killed you."

Awww, and so I'm some manifestation of your guilty conscious then, is that it? The ghosts of your pasts, your biggest failures come back to haunt you? Maybe you're right. Maybe after all this time, you've finally gotten a screw loose. Or maybe, juuuuuust maybe, it has something to do with what's under that tarp behind--

"Enough," I cut him off, gripping the edge of the workbench, steel squishing like clay between my fingers. "That's something to deal with later. Right now I've got a murder to solve."

Oh? And since when were you the detective type?

"I was an investigative journalist," I answer. "Now then. I picked the site clean before moving the corpse. No tracks, no fingerprints, no residue from a Boom Tube or trace elements of magic in the air. The bones don't show any signs of damage, no cellular decay or leftover radiation, which rules out Kryptonite."

And what about the big question, eh?

"What question would that be?"

The one you're afraid to ask yourself. The one that's literally staring you right in the face right now! Who is the victim?

"That's obvious. It's a Su--"

Of course it's a Superman, you ninny! But whichSuperman is it?"

That stops me in my tracks.

This world doesn't have a Superman, does it? And why would that be? Did Super-gal just swap places with lil' baby Kal at the last second? Or did something else happen to him?

"If that's the case, then--"

Or maybe, it's some rando from another universe, the first in a trail of breadcrumbs to lead you on a merry chase against a multiversal Super-Serial-Killer. After all, it's not like you're a stranger to this kind of thing. Maybe Darkseid or Mandrakk ain't quite as defeated as you thought, an' they're targeting anyone an' everyone with an S on their chest.

"I'm not afraid of Darkseid, or--"

Or maybe, that stiff on the slab isn't just from another set of space, but a different stretch of time. Maybe someone's drawing you out by sending you, well.....you.

I hadn't really considered the possibility, but the thought of it......the thought that someone could be sending me my own bones as some kind of sick message, well......I can't imagine that would sit well with anyone. You stare down death as many times as I have, and the thought of your own mortality starts to lose its meaning. I've survived catastrophes that sundered entire galaxies, been exposed to enough Kryptonite and magical attacks to wipe out my home planet all over again a hundred times over. I lived through my entire universe collapsing. The idea that I could die at all, just doesn't seem possible.

Then again, like he said, the idea of Superman calling something impossible is ridiculous in and of itself.

"All right, then," I say, squaring my shoulders and putting on a brave face. "I may not have access to the Fortress in this universe. I don't have the technology from the Watchtower at my disposal. I don't even have the password to use the Bat-Computer here. But I can think of one way to get an idea of who this Superman is."

I snap my fingers. Then again. And a third time. Each time, I listen to the sound, the sharp click of my fingertip slapping against the meat of my thumb. I focus my hearing, closer and closer, beyond the immediate sound....and I start to hear the deep vibrations.

All matter in the universe is composed of atoms. These atoms are in turn composed of smaller subatomic particles, which are then composed of quarks, gluons, gravitons, et cetera. These break down further and further, until finally reaching one-dimensional 'strings' that vibrate on certain frequencies. At the core level, everything in every potential universe is composed of vibrations, entire timelines and universes separated only by the frequencies at which they vibrate. Barry used to take advantage of that fact to hop between universes. As did Ultraman and the Crime Syndicate. And the Anti-Monitor, who killed Kara....

I tune out the noise of reality around me, and I focus on that sub-quantum, nigh-imperceptible frequency, the starting tone of my old universe. Literally nothing in this world should make that same sound.

I rap my knuckles against the edge of the work bench, and sure enough, the deep vibration of this universe's matter is ever-so-slightly different, just a hair's breadth higher in pitch.

Now for the moment of truth, pal.....

I hold my hand over the skull of the Superman laid out before me......

*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*

I flinch, so focused on my test that I'm genuinely caught off-guard by the knocking from upstairs. Krypto is barking again. Someone's at my front door.

"Erm, one second!" I call out, frantically searching for something to cover the dead Superman's bones before using the tarp draped over an object in the corner. I'm nearly blinded by the opalescent light the object lets out, but I figure that will be easier to explain than the skeleton on the table.

Draping the tarp over the bones, I head up the stairs, closing the door to the cellar behind me. I undo the dead bolt to the front door and open it, to find.....

"Hi, I'm sorry to bother you," she says, a warm smile brightened by glittering green eyes. "I wasn't sure if there was anyone here, but I'd heard in town that someone had bought the old Kent farm, and since I live in the next one over, I thought, well, I ought to say hello to my new neighbor."

She's older than the one I knew, probably in her early to mid fifties. Her striking red hair has faded to a strawberry blonde, her eyes lined with crow's feet, skin starting to wrinkle and sag. Her smile, though, is every bit as infectious as the one I'd spent all those days and nights with so long ago.

"I, erm.....well, hello," I stammer for a moment. "Sorry, I was in the middle of--"

"Oh! Well, I can just come back later if you--"

"No no, it's not a problem," I say, "I just...haven't had a visitor since I came here."

What are you doing, Clark? This isn't your world. This isn't your timeline. She isn't--

"Well, I'm glad I could be the first to welcome you to Smallville, Mister...."

For a moment, I juggle all of the different aliases I've used through the years-- Smith, White, Clayton, Ellis--

"Kent," I blurt out the truth. "Clark Kent."

She smiles and extends her hand.

"Lana Lang," she introduces herself. "Nice to meet you, Clark Kent."

Silence surrounded the God of Thunder. He wasn't sure whether he was alive or dead. Considering what was happening the last time he remembered having thoughts, dead was the most likely answer. Still, being dead would be a welcomed respite to Ragnarok. So much fire, noise, and death had consumed him there. Even to a legendary warrior like himself it was nearly too much to bear.

Through the void he remembered the sight of Surtur standing as tall as a mountain, towering above Asgard. He could feel it when the demon plunged his fiery sword into the heart of his home, ending it in the blink of an eye. Around Thor his friends and family fought valiantly against the invading hordes, but it was all for not. They were not prepared. Ragnarok was not to come for years, yet it had happened just that day.

The faces of the dead floated through his consciousness. The Warriors Three laid hewn on the steps of the palace. Lady Sif slumped over in his arms. His father Odin yelled defiantly as Sutur's blade pierced through the skin of Asgard and into its heart. The Allfather was consumed by blinding light as Asgard was obliterated.

And Loki...Loki was in the great library when the attack came. It was where Sutur's hordes breached the wall. Thor knew his brother had perished, even if he did not see the body himself. While he and Loki had often not seen eye-to-eye, often leading to some prolific clashes, he was still Thor's brother. He was still family.

Now he was gone. All of them were gone.

Thor had no idea how he survived. He was strong, of course. Possibly the greatest warrior Asgard have ever known. But how he could survive when so many other brave and worthy warriors did not made no sense. He was no more honorable than another Asgardian warrior.

Someone had defied prophecy. Someone had moved the cogs of the universe forward. Whoever had the power to do that was a threat...A threat worthy of a battle with the mighty Thor. Yes. That was what he would do. He would find the one responsible and he would extract revenge. Revenge for the warriors he lost and the destiny that was stolen from him. Asgard and its people were his to protect, and they were taken from him.

A bump into a rocky surface let him know it was time to take stock of his surroundings. Thor cautiously opened his eyes to find himself stuck to a large asteroid in some god forsaken spit of space. The explosion of Asgard was powerful and vast. For all he knew he was on the other side of the cosmos.

Luckily for him, he heard the hum a familiar tool nearby. His heart skipped like a child with anticipation. He may have been nowhere, but he had Mjolnir. The great hammer had never failed him. It was nearly as feared as he was in the Nine Realms. It had taken him from one side of the universe to the other countless times, and had slain ten times as many foes. As long as he had it, he had hope.

Thor stood on shaky legs. He must have been unconscious for longer than he thought. His muscles were far more out of work than expected. It took him a few moments to gain his footing, but then remembered that Mjolnir always made him feel stronger. Holding the hammer would do him good at a time like this.

His hand shot out to the side and he called for the legendary weapon. But it did not come. He waited for far longer than it should have taken, and peered down at his hand.

Odd.

He began a trek towards where he sensed the hammer was. The rocky, uneven terrain of the asteroid made it a tough time, but he had been worse places. Jotunheim was just as rocky, but everything there was also covered in a maddening layer of ice. It made sticking one's feet for a proper blow on a Frost Giant tricky. But he could do that with little effort. Few others could. As far as Thor knew, Odin was the only other one as adept at fighting there as anywhere else.

After a short trek, he saw the hammer's metallic, brick-shaped head glisten in the starlight. Its dragon-leather wrapped handle pointed up like a sign post pointing Thor the way. He could see the runes carved into the Uru metal that comprised the hammer. They were the spells Odin and the Dwarves had inlaid into the hammer at its creation.

The God of Thunder smiled and approached. He bent down to pick up the weapon, but as his hand pulled he felt the weight of the universe pull back against him. Confused, he pulled again but the hammer did not budge. Thor attempted to pull with both arms and still it did not shift. Becoming panicked, he pulled with all his considerable might. His feet began to dig into the hard rock of the asteroid. He felt its crust cracking beneath him.

Yet Mjolnir did not budge.

"Unworthy."

The word slipped from his tongue as a whisper. Mjolnir was not like other weapons. The various spells and incantations that had been placed on it gave it something of a mind of its own. If it did not feel its bearer was worthy, it could not be picked up. And Thor had now been deemed unworthy.

The Asgardian prince fell to his knees in despair.



The alarm went off, rousing Peter Quill from his bunk on the Milano. He fumbled for the switch, but decided to let the song play instead. It had been too long since he had heard it, and for whatever reason it helped nurse his hangover. He needed to remember to stop drinking with Skrull outriders. They could change their tolerance levels on a whim. It wasn't fair.

"Ugh," the Ravager grumbled. "Status report."

He squinted through blurry eyes at the display screen. The ship's sensors had picked up something valuable in the nearby asteroid field. Didn't look like much according to the readout. But maybe it was some sort of ancient crap that some collector would spend way too many units on. Those were Quill's favorite things to find. Something that took no effort to collect and paid off enough to satisfy Yondu and allow Peter to pocket some money on the side.

"Quill!"

"Speak of the devil," Peter groaned to himself as the blue face of the Ravager leader appeared on the screen.

"You're late in getting your share. We don't get no profits, we don't enjoy life. So what you waitin' on?"

"Yondu," Quill rubbed his temples in an effort to quell the headache that was rising back up in his head, "I've got something coming in later today. I'm about to pick it up. Once I do, we'll be square."

"You best be right, boy," Yondu sneered as the feed cut out.

The human flashed an obscene gesture at the screen as it went black. Yondu may have saved Quill's skin years ago, but he was a gigantic prick. Still, life as a Ravager wasn't half bad. He got to see the stars, drink, steal, and screw whatever the hell he wanted to. There were worse ways to spend ones time as an insignificant speck in an unforgiving cosmos.

Now it was time to collect his trinket and get paid far too much money for far too little work.

Quill allowed the Milano to track into the location of the object, and brought the ship down deftly onto the surface of the asteroid. He slapped on his breather mask and sauntered down the ramp. At the end of it, he saw whatever the ship's sensors had picked up. It was some sort of warhammer. Whatever it was it looked ancient. Definitely something some crusty old collector would pay top dollar for. He couldn't believe his luck on that.

"Well my friend, you are coming with me," he chuckled to himself as he bent down to pick up the hammer.

Before his hand touched the pommel, however, he felt a presence move behind him. Not much could survive in the vacuum of space, and whatever did wasn't friendly, generally. In a fluid motion he pulled the Element Guns from his belt and pointed them at whatever drew his attention.

Standing there between him and the landing ramp of the Milano was the most impressive figure Quill had ever seen. Standing at a solid six-foot-five at the very least and with broad muscular build, a blond guy that looked like he fell off the cover of a trashy romance novel glared at Quill with grossed arms. His hair seemed to billow in the wind, which of course was impossible because there was no wind.

Peter cocked his head to the side, "I clearly have been in space for far too long."

"Thou shalt not defile Mjolnir with your touch, mortal," the blond bodybuilder replied. "How did you find us?"

"Okay, first of all, Hasselhoff, I wouldn't be defiling anything. I just washed my hands," Quill didn't drop his guns. "Second of all, my ship picked up your, what did you call it, Mojang? So relax. If it's yours I'll just-"

He fired with the Element Guns, but the half-linebacker, half-model dove out of the way with frightening speed. Before Quill could react, the man had slapped the guns out of his hands and had the pirate by the throat.

"That was a grave mistake," the other growled through the blond beard on his face. "Not many attack the God of Thunder and live. So give me a reason not to crush your throat."

"*Ack*," Quill struggled against the strength of the man. He was stronger than he had any right to be. He was big, but this was superhuman. Through a struggled, horse tone he explained, "Because you're clearly stuck here. I have a ship. I know how to fly it. I can get you where you want to go."

The mountain of a man considered his words while staring him down with narrowed eyes. After a few moments, he dropped Peter back to the rocky crust of the asteroid. He turned and began to board the Milano, "Be warned, pirate. If thou darest to fire on me again, thou shall receive a swift chariot to Hel."

"Yea, sure Shakespeare," Peter responded with a chuckled. Before he went to join the hulking individual on the ship, he bent down to pick up the hammer. But it was heavier than a freaking elephant. "Geez..."

A few moments later, the Milano took back off into the far reaches of space.

Life as the BatGirl

Issue # 1

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---

Harvey Bullock surveyed his surroundings with disinterest. The typical dingy gray buildings in a seedy part of town where no sane person would walk at night. It was the dreadfully normal setting the crass detective found himself nine times out of ten, partially because such settings were somewhat of his specialty and partially because most of the department liked to put him in such places just so they wouldn't have to work with him. Harvey peeled away the wrapper off of a candy bar he had kept in his coat pocket so he would at least have something enjoyable to munch on during the night shift.

"So Montoya, have poor scum bag do we have in the alley tonight? Druggie? Maybe a dealer from a deal gone south? I would give you my emergency rations if it was the corpse of one of those psychos from Arkham." Harvey smirked at the thought as crumbs sprayed from his candy bar as he bit down like a starving man.

Montoya glared at the older man's atrocious manners near a crime scene but she didn't bother reprimanding him, he would just ignore her anyway and he was technically her superior. Why she had gotten stuck with his lout she would never understand, maybe she had just been the unlucky sacrifice in the department so they wouldn't have to deal with Bullock. He certainly was a pain in the Bollocks.

She had already been observing the scene for a while now before her 'partner' had finally decided to show up. It was one of the more disturbing crime scenes she had seen in a while.

"The thing is Bullock, frankly I have no idea who this guy is aside from the fact his attire says mobster."

"The hell? How can you have no idea who they are? It's a freaking mobster they're always easy to identify from their mug alone!"

"Well, that's the thing...you'd better have a look for yourself." Montaya walked Bullock over to the covered corpse and lifted part of it off so Bullock could get a better look.

Bullock nearly choked on his butterfinger.

"Christ! What sick demented freak did that to him!?" Bullock gaped at the bloodied corpse, a strange animal mask, a sheep perhaps, had been grafted onto the man's face, making it impossible to identify him with just a look. From the amount of disfigurement done to his face they were going to need a finger print or even dental records just to know his name.

"You know what's even sicker? The mask graft is older than the time of death. This ex-mobster had been alive with that face for who knows how long? He only recently died to what appears to be a knife wound to the chest."

"Cover it up Montoya, God that's just sick." Bullock swallowed some bile in his throat, he had seen plenty of disgusting things during his time on the force but this was certainly up there among the top things he'd want to forget seeing. "Got any idea who the perp is, for either the death or...that."

"Well, as there is blood from another individual on the scene we are fairly certain he was in a fight right before death, as for the face graft, all I can tell you is the perp knew what they were doing."

"Bleh, let's hurry up and wrap up this crime scene, dead guys don't tell us the killers on their own."

---

---

Barbara Gordon had her ear to a listening device as she looked down at the cops below. She was currently hidden on an old fire escape, making sure her cape was positioned just right to help her blend in with the shadows. Her police scanner had alerted her to the location and to make sure she could hear as well as observe, she had dropped a listening device near the alley dumpster. The sound wasn't the best quality but she could make it out well enough thanks to Bullocks loud voice.

She knew she shouldn't be so biased but whenever she found herself listening to Bullock on patrol or at her internship, she kind of hoped she'd find some incriminating evidence showing he was a bad cop, she just couldn't like the old, grizzled detective.

Waiting in the cold, hunkered down to chilling stone and frigid metal while she tried to glean whatever tid bit of information she could was not really her idea of a good time. Her suit certainly helped but sometimes she wondered if she needed to put a little bit more underneath the suit to make sure she didn't freeze to death. Maybe some long underwear or some thermal pads would be a good addition to have.

"I'll try to remember to add some extra warm padding next time." Barbara complained her herself as she watched the two wrap up their investigation. As much as she wanted to explore the crime scene herself, she would have to wait for another time, she didn't dare show herself to try and get more info as Bullock especially had a distrust of bats of all kinds.

Barbara carefully slinked away under the cover of darkness, she would come back later for her bug and to further inspect the crime scene. While she hoped further investigation would reveal who the killer was, frankly she was more interested in finding out why the victim's face had been turned into a horror show. Someone out there had one sick hobby, but that would stop if Batgirl had a say in the matter.

Barbara sneezed as she rushed off into the night to make it back to the Gotham University dorm before dawn. Being Batgirl part time was the best she could do for now, college courses waited for no man or woman after all. Bad guys were a lot less complicated than negotiating the social hierarchy of Gotham University, that was for sure.

For now she just hoped she hadn't caught a cold.

---

’Shocking news story here at Stark Industries Corporate Headquarters in Los Angeles. Tony Stark has announced that the armored hero, Iron Man, is a product and employee of Stark Industries. Calling for an end of hostilities in Transia, where Iron Men have been sighted. Warning those using the suits that if they don’t cease their activities there will be swift retribution, the state department has yet to release an official statement on this however our sources say…’

---

---

As Tony walked through the double doors he nodded to the Iron Man suit, which continued to walk out. Completely ignorant to the dumbfounded looks on Peppers and Obadiah's face, once clear of any obstructions it launched. He couldn’t help but smirk at that the looks on their faces. “Alright, who’s first?” Tony looked between the two of them. They both looked at eachother, not entirely sure who was going to go first. “Well come on then. Spit it out.” Pepper put her head down, shaking it as multiple phones in her pocket started to ring, walking out of earshot Tony looked directly at Obadiah. “Well. I guess it’s going to be you then.”

Obadiah just started to laugh, pulling a cigar out of his pocket and into his mouth. Chewing the tip slightly as he placed it in his mouth he withdrew a lighter from one of his other pockets, lighting the cigar. All the while shaking his head and chuckling to himself. It was only after he had blown out the first cloud of smoke that he stopped laughing. “I thought we promised no more of this ready, fire, aim business?”

“Well, I’ve promised a lot of things. I promised Sandy Graceman in Year 10 that she was my first.”

Obadiah shook his head as he placed a hand on Tonys shoulder. “You know, when you came back from that hell hole near Gulmira. You had me seriously worried when you shut down the weapons division of Stark Industries.” He looked over to where the suit was walking out of the door and flying away. “Then you unveil this? Five years later.” He chuckled. “I’m not sure if I want to give you a hug, or a slap.”

“Well, there were some, minor, hiccups in the earlier development phases. The Mark Six so far hasn’t had any real kinks or issues. A testament to my genius.

“So, when do we sell the designs to shield I think we could charge several million per unit-” Tony held up his hand, ducking back from Obadiahs attempt to put his arm around Tony's shoulders.

“We’re not selling the Iron Man technology. That belongs to me, I’m selling them the most advanced technology known to man in order to counter extreme threats. I’m not arming them.”

“Tony, this Iron Man suit. That’s what they’re going to be wanting. R&D are going to be drooling to get their hands on it, all kinds of upgrades they’re going to want to make. You can’t just keep this technology to yourself.”

“That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure that’s what I’ve been doing for the past five years. I revealed the technology to let the people perverting it know that I’m going to be sending Iron Man after them. Not so that I could create a bigger problem than there already is.”

“The board can always file a motion to get the designs-”

“They can sure try. They’ll have an issue though when I funded, constructed and built the suit all at home. They’ve got no right to it.”

“Tony…” Obadiah may have never been his actual father, but he made a good attempt at the Dad voice.

“No Obadiah. I’ve proven this company can make money without producing weapons. The Iron Man suit is a way of cleaning up the mess that we’ve caused all over the world. It’s a way of saying we’re not going to accept this abuse of technology anymore.”

“The board will file a motion.”

“Let them. I’ll rise to the challenge, I always do. How many times has the board tried to kick me out? I’ve lost count of how many times, and it’s still my name on the side of the building.”

Obadiah shook his head, sighing. Kicking the cigar onto the ground and stomping it out. “That it is. Listen Tony, we’re a team. Talk to me about these things first, we’ll come up with a plan of attack and then strike. You don’t need to do it alone.”

Tony sighed, a grin crossing his face. “On the note of going it alone. I’m going on a yacht trip with a group of people, and by people I mean ladies. I met them at a party last week. They’ve never been sailing before so I thought, there’s no time like the present.” He flashed a smile as turned around to walk backwards through the door. “You’ve got this right? Yeah. You’ve got this. I’ll see you in a week. I won’t need longer than that.” He flashed a wink at the balding man. “You know what I mean, you old dog.”

Tony walked out of the building sighing, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket and dialing the only living person who knew about his alter ego. “Rhodey, yeah it’s me. I need a favour, meet me at the house.” Tony slid his cellphone back into his pocket and placed a button on his wristwatch. There was a beeping noise as a car silently draw up before him, red with a gold trim around the edge decorating the car. In hindsight he kind of judged the media for not figuring out his connection to Iron Man earlier. He kept their lives secret but at the same time he wasn’t entirely subtle. One of the main benefits he had was the fact that his personality was such where people couldn’t believe he was the one in the suit. Little did they know how much the cave, and building the suit of armour, had reborn him.

As the car approached the door raised, letting him climb into the driver seat. “Good afternoon Mr.Stark. I hope my performance during the demonstration was adequate.” The electronic, decidedly English, voice of JARVIS came through the cars speakers. Like all the Iron Man suits JARVIS’ AI construct was inbuilt to his car, and thankfully he was better at driving his car than he was at flying the suit.

Placing his foot on the accelerator, left foot down on the clutch he revved the engine. “You did good Jarvis, I would have given it a little bit more flair but then that’s just me.”

“I’m sorry Sir. You have yet to update my showboating subroutines.”Tony chuckled. Smartass A.I. “Shall I drive?”

“No. I’ve got this.”

---

The car whirled into the drive of the Malibu mansion, built on top of a cliff. A beautiful house by any standards. As the car drifted silently down into the drive Tony noticed the large black pickup truck sitting in the guest bay. Rhodey was already here, and probably waiting. Which meant that he was probably going to be agitated, and when he was agitated he became a pain in the ass. He sighed as he walked over to a random part of the garage floor, a blue light appeared scanning him before the floor opened allowing him to walk down into the cliff below the house.

Tony walked in on Rhodey walking between suits, prototypes and former models. Currently he was holding a briefcase, as if trying to figure out why it was in one of the pods that held the suits. “You might want to be careful with that, I don’t think your boss would cover the cost if you broke it, and I’m pretty sure your salary wouldn’t.” Rhodey put the case back in the pod.

“Yeah he’s a real jackass. Always keeps me waiting around for him, I wouldn’t recommend working for him.” Tony smirked. He could always trust Rhodey to give as good as he got. The two shook hands, pulling each other in close with a one armed hug.

“Thanks for coming.”

Rhodey just shrugged. “Well, when the CEO of the company you work for calls, you typically have to turn up-” he then signalled around the room. “-Especially when that CEO is Tony Stark, and Iron Man.”

Tony chuckled as he moved through the workshop. “Yes well, that Iron Man part is a secret so if you could do me a favour and not go around saying that I’d really appreciate it. I’d hate to file a lawsuit against you.”

“So what’s the favour Tony? I may not be a genius but I’m smart enough to know you’re going to Trasnia, and I support it. These Iron Men are causing a lot of damage, they need to be stopped before the entire country becomes a mass grave. The problem is, you can’t go. The CEO of a major tech company, who sells technology to Shield, isn’t going to get into a veritable hot zone of civil unrest and extremist activity. You’re going to be in enough trouble with Iron Man going in. The D.O.D has already been on the phone to Pepper, me and Stane. Declaring they’ll have you subpoenaed for any and all information on Iron Man if he’s seen anywhere near Trasnia. You can’t have any involvement in this.” Rhodey walked right up behind Tony, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Before freezing at what he saw right in front of him. “What the hell is that?”

It looked Rhodey right in the eye, without Tony as such as moving or giving any form of verbal command, it’s face identical to that of his best friend. Albeit missing a little bit of the charismatic Stark charm. “Greetings Mr.Rhodes. I am LMD#4459. You may call me Mr.Stark, or Tony.” Tony turned back to him and smirked.

“It’s a life model decoy. I worked with some shield eggheads years ago. They found some kind of technology years ago, and they came to be to reverse engineer it. Shields struggled with the programming, can’t get them to do much more than stand and walk. I tend to be smarter than most people though and, voila. It’s not perfect though, it wouldn’t fool someone that would know me but-” Tony pulled out his cellphone, keying in details of the planned week away and slid it over to Rhodey. “-Thankfully only one person there will know me. How about it Rhodey, can the boss bribe his way into your good books with promise of a holiday with some gorgeous women?”

“You’re sending me on a yacht weekend-” Tony nodded “-with a group of gorgeous women-” Tony nodded again, a smirk across his face. “-and your body double?”

“It’s flawless! You’ll have all ingoing and outgoing records of any communication, and we’ll be in international waters so they can’t easily come subpoena me. By the time we get back, I’ll have convinced Shield that this was a good thing and to not put me in prison. If not-” Tony shrugged. “-I’m probably the smartest man alive so I’ll figure something out.”

Rhodey shrugged. “I’m not so sure, I always felt that Lex Luthor would one up you. I mean he did build his company from scratch.”

Tony moved his hand over his chest, placing it over the miniature arc reactor embedded in his chest. His face a mix between horror and disgust. “You wound me sir. To think, should I die the company goes to you in my will-”

“Tony…” Tony held up his hand to stop it, his voice still holding the tone of fake disdain.

“No more sir. Pepper gets the house, the company and the kids.”

Rhodey signed, hanging his head in shame, before looking up at Tony with a grin on his face. “So when does my dream vacation start?”

Tony smirked back as he walked over to the Mark 7, giving it a tap on the shoulder, it’s head lifted as its eyes started to glow a light blue. Power building within the suit. “Right now.” He turned to the LMD version of himself. “Grab your coat Tony, you’re going on holiday.”

The LMD smiled, a smile that didn’t quite light up it’s eyes the way a normal humans would. “I can’t wait, thanks me.”

Rhodey shook his head. “That’s just plain weird.”

_{30,000 ft. above the Atlantic Ocean - April 29, 1945}

Issue 1.01.2: The Cruel Sea

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Issue 1.01.1: Army of Shadows

Steve grunted as his back impacted against the ground in the large open cabin of the HYDRA war-plane. Baron Heinrich Zemo’s joyous expression was hidden by the cloth mask permanently affixed to his face. The HYDRA operative turned his back on his enemy as he returned to the pilot’s chair to ensure the success of his mission. Steve heard the bomb doors open underneath him as he struggled against the metal girder that pinned the lower half of his body. With a few deep breaths, Steve Rogers struggled and grunted as he forcefully lifted his makeshift restraint just enough to move it aside and free himself.

Captain America was able to pick up his kite shield just in time as Zemo noticed the disturbance behind him and began firing. The bullets impacted against the steel shield, instead of American flesh. It only took a moment for the distance to be closed and for Cap to lift his shield into the air to bring down on his enemy. Zemo was able to move his head out of the way just in time. Sparks flew from the control panel as the shield broke into the cockpit’s frame, yet the Nazi found himself pinned in place. Zemo tried to push Rogers away, but it was no use. Cap’s eyes darted across the various instruments, and noticed a small countdown timer. There was only about a minute to spare. Cap left the shield in the console and grabbed the Nazi by his collar. A quick yet forceful throw, and the glass of the cockpit shattered as Zemo began his rapid descent towards the raging ocean below.

Cap immediately made his way to the pilot’s seat, and did his best to try and take control of the craft. But the seconds were ticking away, and Steve Rogers was running out of time. If he didn’t act quickly, New York would be destroyed by some sort of atomic weapon that HYDRA had developed. Steve took a quick look around the plane, taking note of his shield and a window overlooking the wings and engines. He knew what to do. With a windup, Steve was able to launch the shield with enough force and with the proper angle to rake the shield through several engines by “threading the needle” through the window. Two of the engines detonated, and the third was smoking. The plane rattled and began its downward descent. There wasn’t long left before the bomb would be launched.

Steve looked towards one door with a large sign over it in German, a language he regrettably wasn’t familiar enough with to understand. It looked like a potential exit, and hopefully had a parachute or something. Steve tried the door, but it wasn’t budging. He was able to force it open and stepped inside. It was some sort of experimental escape pod, which Steve only realized as he pulled the door closed and slammed the large red button on the side. The metal capsule launched into the air, and Steve was able to look out and watch as the plane dove into the artic water. He expected an explosion, but one never came. A few parachutes were able to catch the capsule and it gently floated towards the ocean.

As the capsule touched down in the Artic, Steve tried to open the door but found it had somehow sealed itself. Steve did his best to try and bash against the door, but doing so only made things worse. A hairline fracture in the porthole of the capsule would doom the good Captain’s fate. It sunk to the ocean floor, water slowly leaking in. Cap tried harder and harder to get out, but the despair at the situation and the deep chill in his spine ended up forcing the hero to resign. The last thing he remembered was the feeling of taking in a large gulp of seawater after holding his breath. He had accepted death. But death hadn’t accepted him apparently.

---

---

Matthew's hand twitched as he sat patiently while the defense lawyer finished his barrage of inane, irrelevant questions to the one surprise witness he had managed to drum up for the trial. Matt could hear the man's heartbeat from here - high tempo, a light, rapid pulse, wild fluctuations as he gave his answers. He was lying. The sweat coming off him assaulted Matt's sense in waves of uncomfortable heat and foul odors - but Matthew also knew that the trail of 'factual' documents and corroborating individuals would be set up far beyond the scope of his reach. He wouldn't be indicting anyone for perjury today, but the dishonestly from both the witness and the defense lawyer built a slow, bubbling anger within Matthew. A rising rage combined with more cups of coffee than he'd had hours of sleep, and he could feel himself becoming irate and unstable. He flexed his fingers and clenched his fists alternately, feeling the patterns of his own skin and the smooth, varnished surface of the table equally, focusing on them both to center himself.

You are Matt Murdock, New York Assistant Defense Attorney. You will charge this man. You will attain a verdict of guilty. There will be justice.

Matthew looked toward the jury. A few glanced back quizzically; most ignored him in favor of focusing on the witness in the box. Steady hearts in most of them, although a few slightly elevated. Most likely simple nerves. He heard nothing from Katherine Spencer beside him; his DA was stoic and measured as always, her heartbeat a steady tide against her equally balanced breathing. In, out. Pump, pump. Nothing seemed to phase Kate...Matthew wondered if she had some kind of trick, some meditation or happy place. It didn't matter. She was up already, cross-examining the witness, carefully pulling at the threads that the defense had spun until they fell apart. Matthew had discussed his proposed strategy with Kate in Pre-Trial, and she had heartily agreed; pulling the accused off the streets would barely dent the mob's operation, as there were other lieutenants already subsuming the responsibilities and the money that came with them. But if they were able to glean a few vicious insights into the mob, with names and locations attached? They might be able to begin to staunch the flow of crime and corruption that had plagued Hell's Kitchen for years. This was the best shot they'd had in months; if they succeeded here, Matthew might not have to bring the Devil back out of his cage again. He might be able to stem that zealous tide of anger.

To his left he heard low murmering from the defendant and his lawyer. They were worried, that much was clear - a bead of sweat broke on the lawyer's forehead that he hastily mopped off with a handkerchief, and the defendant himself whispered in harsh tones, with the heat and heartbeat of anger. They were losing, but that was obvious; it was what they were whispering about amongst themselves, while Katherine was distracted prodding and probing their surprise witness, that was interesting.

"You said you could get me off, Harry." The defendant hissed through the side of his mouth. "You said easy, no sweat."

"Shut your mouth, Vincent, trial ain't done yet." His lawyer hissed back, eyes fixed forwards on the judge.

"Didn't realise they had so much on ya. You never learn to be careful?"

"I never learned to deal with snitches proper. Told bodies are worse than words."

"You shouldn't have snitches in the first place."

"I shouldn't be here in the first place. How'd this go from a night out to bein' rinsed by the DA?"

"It ain't my problem you got a dirty habit and fidgety paws. You should consider AA."

"I should consider recommending we get another lawyer. You ain't good to us if you can't do your job. We'll get someone who can."

There was a pause in the conversation and Matthew noticed a distinct rise in the lawyer's pulse that indicated panic. Katherine finished her questions, and the witness was taken from the box by the court's security officer, practically dripping from sweat. Matt suppressed a gag as they walked past him up the aisle and out of the room. Katherine sat back down beside him as the court settled, the jury silently deliberating among themselves about the questions asked and answered. The defendant remained quiet as the lawyer tried to calm himself, and Kate leaned toward Matt, her body heat pressing on him uncomfortably in the stifled hall. He focused on her perfume over the lingering cloud of body odor.

"I think this is a slam-dunk, Murdock. You've outdone yourself with this pre-trial work."

Matt smiled politely and nodded. "I can't claim all the credit. Karen managed to dig up the history and Foggy's consultancy was instrumental."

"I understand we employ Karen, but you should watch how much you rely on your friends. Especially when they currently work for external law firms."

Anger flashed in Matthew again and he could feel his face twitch, before taking a moment to collect himself.

"I trust Foggy, and he's not working on any cases right now. I wouldn't cross-contaminate."

"But every time you involve him, you risk the integrity of our cases."

Matt's cheeks flushed as frustration burst forth, his rising heat feeling like it was scorching his own skin from the inside. To their left, the defense lawyer rose from his seat and approached the judge. Matthew couldn't hear their whispers over his own heartbeat in his ears, too rattled and irate to focus properly. The judge rapped her gavel and stood.

"The defense has called for emergency recess, and is granted such. Court will reconvene in three hours." She sat, and rapped her gavel again as murmurs erupted among the courtroom. "Dismissed!"

Matthew and Katherine dutifully stood, Matt taking Kate's proffered elbow as he allowed her to lead him from the room, cane and casefiles tucked underneath his other arm. She spoke to him in a low, measured tone as they slowly filed out.

"What the hell is this about? Emergency recess?"

Matt shrugged. "Probably buying time to find another surprise witness or pay off the judge." He replied, with reluctant resignation giving his voice a weary tinge. Kate shook her head brusquely.

"Judge is clean, I made sure. She's newest in the city, no prior involvement with known crime organisations, and she's put away several mob thugs already. She's the best we could get for this case."

"Another witness or 'overlooked' evidence then. They'll dig something up."

"We'll see." Kate replied, with a distinct finality that stopped Matthew's mix of anger and defeat in its tracks. "Let's just sit tight for three hours and get right back in." They pushed through the double doors at the back of the courtroom and found themselves in the main corridors again, the hustle and bustle of the judiciary system weaving around them. Matthew found a bench, while Kate looked impatiently up and down the hallway. "I'm going to get lunch and find the judge. Meet me back here in two-and-a-half. If you find yourself fidgeting, try tea this time."

Matt gave a half-hearted chuckle as Kate walked away, and he tracked her by the click-clack of her heels against the stone tiles. Ten meters. Twenty. Thirty-five. Her perfume mingled with the crowd of busy attorneys, court officers, defendants and claimants, and at fifty meters, he felt safe to stand and walk in the opposite direction, listening carefully for his marks; their voices, their heartbeats, their footsteps. He drew deep breaths through his nose, trying to find a hint of their cologne or body scent. He didn't have to go far.
They were muffled, their voices bleeding through several walls and closed doors as they discussed...something. Matt couldn't quite make out the whole conversation, just scattered pieces. He focused, blocking out the ambiance that bounced around his skull and zeroed in on their discussion, all the while following their sounds and scents trying to get closer. Their private court chamber was well-guarded, and Matthew knew he risked being held in contempt should he be found snooping around too close during recess, but he had to know if his strategy was working. He had to know if what he and Kate were trying to do was working. He had to know.

A door opened twenty feet ahead and to the right around a corner and the voices came through clearly and Matthew froze, moving backwards towards a bench he had passed a few feet back to take a seat and try and appear innocuous as he listened. A set of footsteps walked out the doors, paused, and then disappeared in the opposite direction. Matt used the sound to paint a rough picture of the owner: tall, male, smartly dressed, neat hair, glasses. The distinct ticking of a Patek Phillipe 5327G model watch - exceedingly expensive. A peculiar and singular scent, fine leather and tasteful cologne combined. It hadn't been present in the courtroom, or indeed any pre-trial on-goings. Matthew racked his brain, trying to decipher the mystery of this individual that had suddenly injected himself into proceedings at this critical juncture. He didn't have long to think; the door opened again, and another man stepped out. The smell hit Murdock instantly, and this was without question Harry, the defendant's mob lawyer. He held the door open and spoke back through it, presumably to his defendant, the only remaining man in the chamber.

"I'm advising you, Vincent. As your lawyer. Think about your options."

He let the door close and then walked away, towards Matthew this time. Matt hunched a little on the bench, holding his cane in both hands between his legs. He wasn't quite sure what face to pull, if any. The lawyer rounded the corner and stopped short when he spotted Matt on the bench.

"Stretching your legs, Murdock?" He asked, an air of irritated incredulity inflecting his voice.

"I got restless, so I took a walk. Lot of coffee today. Can't say I'm one-hundred percent sure where I am."

"Too close to the defendant's chamber, that's where. Wouldn't wanna accuse you of tryin'ta snoop now, would I, Assistant Defense Attourney?"

Matt's face twitched but he maintained composure. "Of course not. I know when I'm not welcome."

"And yet here you are anyway."

Matt said nothing, just stood and took a few steps towards the lawyer. He could hear a nervous heartbeat and smelt mild sweating, but a thick layer of the mysterious man's cologne rested above anything else. "I just needed to stretch my legs. Clearly I wandered too far. A lot to think about in this case." He took a step back and gestured down the corridor the way he'd came, holding out his other hand with an open, upturned palm. "Care to help me back to court? Assuming you can step away from your client temporarily, of course."

The lawyer sniffed and took a moment to regard Matthew. He wasn't sure if he was sneaky or just an idiot. After a few painful moments he conceded, and stepped in front of Matthew, who put a hand to his elbow as they walked in silence back towards the courtroom.

-

Two-and-a-half hours, after Matthew's jaunt, had translated into two more beverages - although he had taken Kate's advice and gotten cups of hopefully-soothing herbal tea instead. The bitter, earthy taste still clung to his back teeth, and he fetched a small cup of cool water from the nearby water dispenser on the wall as Katherine paced back-and-forth in front of the doors to the courtroom. She muttered angrily to herself, and Matthew simply let her stew; patience was never Ms. Spencer's strong-suit. They were waiting for the reappearance of the defense in order for court to be reconvened; as it stood, they were twenty minutes late and another ten away from contempt. Matthew kept an ear open, but mostly tried to ignore the distinct flavor of peat from the tea and chalk from the water it had been made with.

"Something's happening, Murdock." Kate suddenly interjected, and Matthew listened. She was right; at the far end of the corridor, a commotion was steadily building, with several guards ushering people in one direction while a few more jogged in the other. Kate took off towards the crowd, and Matthew found his stomach replaced by a pit of cloying despair. He crushed his empty cup in his hand and took after Kate, walking at a brisk pace, barely bothering with the pretense of his cane, trying desperately not to break into a run. He caught up with Kate as she wormed her way through the crowd and then reached back to grab his hand and pull him through too - and then he realised they were heading towards the defense chamber, and the pit of despair swallowed his lungs too. They had reached the bench that Matt had been sat on a mere three hours ago when Matthew heard a gurney being rattled out of the chamber and across the hallway. Kate swore profusely.

"Fuck. Fuck. It's a goddamn bodybag, for fuck's sake."

Matthew grimaced. "Who's in it?"

"My client." Came a voice from behind them both, and Matthew knew who it was before Kate whirled around furiously to confirm. "Overwhelming the accused seems like a nice tidy strategy one way or the other, huh?"

The pit changed from despair to rage and now took Matthew's heart as well and he dropped his cane on the spot, taking two long, quick strides straight forward with a clenched fist, winding his shoulder back -
Kate caught his arm before he even got to release it with a remarkably firm grip and roughly pushed his cane back into his other hand. The lawyer took a step back.

"Case closed, assholes. At least he's off the streets, huh? Nevermind about his little girl."

He walked away as Kate guided Matthew to the bench.

"Get a damn hold of yourself, Murdock. He's right." She straightened up as Matt breathed heavy, rubbing her forehead as she took a deep, measured breath herself. "Case closed."

---

The stars passed by the windows of the vessel as Thor peered out over the vastness of the universe. Pinpricks of light fade and swirled around the ship as it sailed silently through a sea of nothingness. In the distance a nebulas and quasars twirled and flared like storms of the void. It was a view he had seen for centuries. Nothing new to an Asgardian, especially one as well traveled as Thor was.

But it had never felt so lonely before. In years past it had been shared with Loki, Heimdall, or Sif. During the best of times Thor had been with the Allfather on a trip to hunt a dragon or a troll. Now, however, he had an unfamiliar ship and a space pirate as company.

How far he had truly fallen.

Thor looked into the mirror of the ship's facilities. His face and hair were caked with dirt and grime from the battle on Asagard. Normally, he would be rejoicing at the sight of them. He and the Warriors Three would be drinking mead in the halls of Asgard when they looked like this. Instead they were now the marks of his failures. They were the grime of failing his people as he had never done before.

He stepped into the ships meager shower and began to rid himself of the muck. It was barely big enough to fit his frame, but it felt good to try and cleanse himself of his failings.

As the water splattered against him weakly, he considered his situation. Without Mjolnir he was restricted to conventional forms of travel, at least until he came across Toothgnasher or Toothgrinder. But the likelihood of that was low. He had freed his goats the day his father delivered the hammer to him all those centuries ago.

Quill seemed capable enough for a pirate. Thor couldn't put much stock in his honor, but as long as the Thunder God could use the fool he would. As of now he was the only form of travel Thor could bank on. He had a thirst for recognition and riches. They were easy aspirations to manipulate, especially for a God. Thor would use that to his advantage.

After he was cleansed, Thor joined Quill in the cockpit of the ship he named the "Milano", whatever that was. It was a good ship, Thor had to admit. Filthy, though. Quill clearly wasn't one for cleaning in the slightest. But Thor could tell it was fast and could pack a punch when it needed to.

The man was listening to some baffling music that Thor could barely decipher, though he was never one for the Mortals' music.

"So where are we headed, big guy?" Peter asked, looking back at the God of Thunder. "You haven't really told me where you came from. Or how you can breath in space and all that good stuff."

Thor studied the man. He had told Quill his name and title, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that broadcasting his status was probably dangerous. Whoever had destroyed Asgard was clearly capable. They would not take the chance of leaving any Asgardians alive. If it was discovered the crown prince had survived, there would be a price on Thor's head no one could ignore.

"My home is...gone," Thor didn't lie to the man. "I am looking for a way to kill the one responsible for that."

The pilot's eyes went wide at that, "Well, that's not the answer I was expecting. Your hammer back there can't kill anyone? Seemed pretty heavy to me."

Thor's nostrils flared. He had tried to lift Mjolnir. Of course he had.

"The hammer...will not respond to me," he responded curtly. "But there are other tools to fell a beast."

"Okay, great," Quill rolled his eyes. "That doesn't sound like it's going to pay the bills, though. And me not being able to pick up your Whack-a-Mole Mallet back there means I'm gonna be behind on that front."

"Thou darest to sell Mjolnir!?" Thor raged.

"Listen, Endless Summer," Peter defended himself, "I gotta make money to keep this ship goin'. It's not my fault I thought it was just floating out there alone."

Thor considered his words. He hadn't been around mortals much, if he was being honest. A passing moment here and there was all he really had. They often worshiped or thanked him, but he never gave much thought to them. He guarded the realms that held them, but the people themselves? They were like sand on a beach to him. He understood not their worries, not when there was so much more important things to consider. This worry of Quill's alone could be used. Thor needed transport, and Peter needed treasure.

"If thou shall continue to aid me in my quest," Thor said, breaking a few moments of silence, "you will be rewarded with treasure from my people."

It pained Thor to offer such a bounty. The treasures kept in storehouses across the universe were not worthy of Odin's treasure room, but they were still won through victories against mighty foes. But if it was what it took to ensure the mortal's dedication, then some of the wonders of the Nine Realms would be his.

"Treasure, huh?" Quills eyebrows shot up. "How much we talkin'?"

"More than any mortal could ever spend in their lifetime," Thor answered with a wave. "And enough for your organization as well."

Quill considered Thor's proposal. He studied his passenger intently.

"Okay, but you're gonna have to start answering some questions," Quill shot back. "First, you keep calling me 'mortal'? You immortal or something?"

Thor's eyes narrowed, "Not completely. But I am incredibly long lived."

"How old are you?"

"Tens of thousands of your standard years," Thor did the math in his head.

"No shit!" Quill laughed. "You don't look a day over thirty-five!"

"Verily," Thor nodded.

"What's with the belt?" Quill motioned.

Thor ran his hand over the Belt of Strength, one of the other gifts Odin had given his son in his youth. He felt the runic incantations carved into the Uru, "It amplifies my godly strength. With it I can perform feats greater than any other being."

"And the cape? does that like make you fly or something?"

Thor looked down at the red garment on his back, "Nay. The cape just gives one a regal air."

Quill chuckled lightly, "Right."

The God of Thunder leaned back in his seat and looked at his new traveling partner. Quill was nothing spectacular, even for a mortal. He was tall and wiry, with a disheveled look. He dressed like a common ogre, and smelled only minimally better. Still, there was a spark in him that Thor couldn't place.

"What is your story, Peter Quill?" he asked. "Where does thou hail from?"

"Earth, originally," he replied and popped some sort of food into his mouth. "Been with the Ravagers for like two decades now though. Yondu picked me up on Earth. Said I was gonna be an exhibit in a zoo somewhere past Xandar. Used me as a thief to fit into small places instead. It sucked early on, but the thievin' life ain't bad in the end."

So Midgard was the home of the man. That made sense. He looked to be a human.

"And your mother and father?" Thor continued his questioning, staring out into space.

"Well, my dad died before I was taken off earth," Peter shrugged. "And I don't right know who my mom is."

"Ah, you have my sympathies," Thor said, not truly with conviction. "My brother was adopted as well. I am familiar with that sort of estrangement."

"Aw, well that's nice that you guys got along."

"Oh, do not misunderstand, Peter Quill. Loki attempted to smite me many a time. He really was quite the bastard sometimes."

"well, that's family I guess," Quill chuckled.

"Verily."

An uneasy quiet fell over the cabin and the pilot fiddled with his displays, "Well, we're relatively close to Knowhere. That's as good of a place as any to get our bearings. I need to refuel the ship anyway."

"Aye, and I need to ascertain the closest cache of my people," Thor nodded. "From there we will plot our next move."

Location: Los Angeles, California - Scott's Apartment / Unknown

E101 P1: The Odd Couple

---

Interaction(s): None

Previously: None

"Let me kick this off. Name's Barton. Clint Barton but I'm sure you already knew that. This here is my partner ---"

"Scott. Nice to meet you."

"Scott, let me do the talkin'. Now I'm sure you already know the bull that the media is feeding the public but that ain't the whole story. You see it all started way back when this guy blackmailed the two of us into helping his little squad steal something."

"And that's exactly why we're here."

"Scott! _*exhales* Anyway ---"

---

The room was dark other than the faint glow coming from the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. In the distance, the sound of a police siren was going off but Scott continued sleeping soundly as he was used to that sound. It was at that moment that Clint burst through his window crashing on his bedside table.

"AHHHH! I'M UP!"

"Shut up!" Scott cringed at how he had likely just woke up a bunch of the other people in his apartment building. Hopefully, none of them went to Mrs. Garcia with a complaint. It was at this moment Scott actually noticed the cause of his abrupt awakening. His window was utterly smashed and laying on the remains of his table was Clint. His new roommate. Taking a closer look the man looked out of breath. He also had a few scrapes but nothing bad. He more or less seemed to be laying there even though he should have no problem getting up on his own. "What the heck man. Why did you come crashing into my room? And what happened to you?"

Clint groaned acting like he was in serious pain but by the look Scott gave him it was obvious that it wasn't going to trick him. The blond man groaned and slowly got to his feet. "Would you believe me if I said I was assaulted by a vicious panther and fought it off valiantly? No? Fine, I was helping an old lady get her cat out of a tree and it scratched me up. The police arrived and thought I was some two-bit criminal and started chasing me. I easily outran them but when I got here wanted to make sure they had no idea where I went so when I got to the alley I tried out my grappling hook arrow, and you can see the results. Sorry about the window by the way. I'll pay for it."

Scott nearly began fuming but started to calm himself down. He knew shouting at this hour would merely cause the two of them even more trouble as Mrs. Garcia had a clear policy about loud noises late at night. "Clint, you know that I know that you don't have a job. I'll fix it. You just clean up the mess."

"You really do sound like a dad sometimes."

"That's probably because I am one. I should've known letting you bunk here would've been trouble. It's like having an adult-sized teenager in my place instead of my daughter. I guess this is the rest of my curse for being a thief."

Of course, though Clint barely paid attention to any of that. "Are you talking to yourself?" Scott let out an audible groan and facepalmed getting riled up again. "Anyway, as I mentioned, my grappling hook arrow isn't exactly working so could you recali-- whatever you do with it. I need it working so I can get out of pinches quick."

"Are you sure you just didn't aim it wrong?"

"My aim is never wrong." Clint gave his usual cheesy grin along with the ridiculous finger guns.

"Fine I'll work on it. Oh, and I made a little something that could be very helpful to you out in the field." Scott rushed over to his closet and opened a small safe that usually housed all of his various projects. He pulled out what looked like a little ant, some glasses, and a remote control. Clint took a closer look at the gadget. "How is this supposed to help me. It's just a little bug."

Scott put on the glasses and then started fiddling with the remote control. The ant flew off of Scott's hand and right up to Clint. "Well, I got the idea when I was at the hospital visiting Cassie. I saw some kid playing with this thing called a hex bug. Nearby one of the maintenance guys were working on the cameras and I thought about how having a little camera follow you around to watch your back could be good. So, I bought a drone took it apart and added a few things till I got to this. It was hard to get it this small but this way it won't stick out like a sore thumb. I don't even have to be all that close to control it. The range is pretty good. Whattya think."

"I don't know. Are you sure people won't notice? And I don't want you getting to close to danger."

"I'm positive no one will see this little guy, and I told you I don't have to be close at all. Anyway, the drone wasn't cheap and neither was the rest of the stuff I used for it. So, I will be using it. Come on though. Go get some sleep and we can fix the window in the morning. I need some sleep."

"I thought you said you'd fix it." Scott's answer to that was to simply shove Clint out of his room.

---

Cheers and laughter could be heard throughout the warehouse. "Settle down boys. The boss is back." At that, the noise grew even louder. It had been a few years since their boss had been thrown into the klink. The Reapers leader, Ace, had been gone for quite some time now but as he was back the gang was itching to get some action. "All right everyone. Now that I'm outta the slammer it's time to stop taking things easy. Our territory has been encroached upon and I hear there is a new wannabe hero in town. I've been in contact with a few other organizations like us who are requesting our services. They want us to get as much info about this purple-clad clown as possible. So, go cause havoc to get his attention. I need to see what he can do, and getting the word out there that the Reapers are back at the table wouldn't be so bad either. But first. LET'S PARTY!" The whole warehouse erupted in raucous activity. The Reapers were about to take their seat at the throne back.

Let’s get the morbid stuff out of the way first. All things being equal I’d rather not drag you through that at all - it’s not really my way - but if I didn’t mention it you’d probably blow it up to be a whole thing that’s bigger than it is. Claim I’m living in denial. Escapism or whatever. In this case it really is nothing but a river in Egypt.

I don’t really forget things. I mean, ever. I can still remember my mother and I haven’t seen her since my parents split when I was 3. And I mean REMEMBER her. Down to the fine lines and slight wrinkles of the face. The slight signs of crows feet that by now would surely be fully formed from a few decades time now passed. If you gave me a lump of clay, given enough time I could come up with a pretty good facsimile - soldering and working with nanotech gives you pretty steady hands - because it’s burnt in there. Saved to disk.

So yeah, “Wah, poor little rich boy barely got to know his mother”, that’s where I’m going to start with this. I mean, it’s not the sum total of the morbid stuff that I’m talking about, but I guess it informs on a fair bit of what I do, I guess. Or something.

And don’t worry, this isn’t that kind of story where we pan back out and I’m lying on a psychiatrist’s lounge saying all of this. Even if it feels like that right now. I just believe in laying it all out there up front, so then we don’t need to dwell on it anymore. We can get on with life. Life which is fun, crazy, beautiful, exciting and full of surprises.

I’m not normally this depressing either, trust me…

Actually, you know what? Let’s roll with some life first, and then come back to this. I already feel weird, and like I’m laying all my problems on you too thick as it is.

---

K . O . R . D . E A S T D I V I S I O N - C O N F E R E N C E R O O M 1

---

^{Present Day | Boston, Massachusetts}

Fluorescent lights flicker on. Feminine hands lay out two boxes of donuts on the conference room table. She leaves and returns with a caterers platter of sandwiches.

Angela Revere. Secretary to the CEO. Receptionist. Employed by K.O.R.D for over a decade. Owner of two cats. Scourge of the unsolicited caller.

A man walks in wearing a tidy, conservative suit and a thin tie. He fingers a few of the donuts before making his selection and taking his seat at the table.

Abner Jenkins. Chief Financial Officer. Former mechanical and aeronautical engineer. Worked for 30 years in the industry, including previous employers Boeing and Ferris Air. Owns no cats. Has a plastic surgeon on speed dial to repair his face in case he ever smiles.

A man and a woman wander in together, but not together. Not for the man’s lack of trying. The man wears a suit that costs more than Abner Jenkins car, and his well coiffed hair takes longer in daily maintenance than Angela Revere spends on the Weekly Notices emails to the whole company. The woman is wearing neat business attire, is listening politely, but is holding a folder against her chest displaying very “closed off” body language. Both help themselves to first pick of the sandwich platter.

Randall Truman. Chief Marketing Officer. Employment History - Impressive, yet varied. Has never stayed at one workplace for more than 3 years. Wouldn’t be surprised if cats have mysteriously gone missing from his area. Has a plastic surgeon on speed dial for emotional support.

Melody Case. President of K.O.R.D East Division. Only ever worked at K.O.R.D. M.I.T graduate, attended Yale business school post grad to prepare for transition into executive positions. Doesn’t mind cats, but doesn’t have the time for them right now. Just as she has no need for a plastic surgeon.

A man in his early-to-mid twenties wanders in like he owns the place - In his defence, his name’s on the building. He spends some time considering the sandwich platter, before selecting a meatball sub with cheese and grabbing a donut for when he’s done. He sits himself at the head of the table as is expected of him, even though he’d be perfectly happy sitting on the side like everyone else.

Ted Kord. Chief Executive Officer. Only ever worked at K.O.R.D… except for a paper route his father made him take when he was a boy. Did not attend M.I.T. Between cats at the moment. Once got told he could “do with a tummy tuck”, but we don’t mention that.

Angela fiddles with the remote and the conference call equipment to make sure that both are working, and as the monitor warms up, two more executives are shown in split screen sitting at two tables elsewhere.

Curt Calhoun. President of K.O.R.D Central Division. Previously worked at Wayne Enterprises, poached by K.O.R.D as Wayne Enterprises were in the midst of a hostile takeover. Don’t ask him about cats. In fact, don’t ask him anything about life outside of business.

Conrad Carapax. President of K.O.R.D West Division. Previously held executive positions at 4 different Fortune 500 businesses. His wife owns a cat - it doesn’t care for him much, even though he’s often left feeding it and cleaning and replacing its litter tray. Highly regarded, but sometimes feels he’s slumming it at K.O.R.D even though his current title is the highest he’s held.

Finally, the last member of the board meeting comes scurrying in. An elderly man with his hands full of paper, as well as juggling a briefcase. Randall Truman makes an unkind joke, that gets neither laughs nor attention from its target. Ted takes the briefcase from him and helps him find his seat. Once he sits down in the empty seat next to Ted, he quickly sorts the paper and puts two thirds in his briefcase, and gets ready for the meeting. Finally getting back to his feet and grabbing whatever sandwich was closest as an afterthought.

Jeremiah Duncan. Chief Operations Officer. Only ever worked at K.O.R.D. One of founder Thomas Kord’s oldest friends. Has a cat, which his wife mostly attends to, knowing he’s generally too busy working late hours. Most plastic surgeons would shrug and consider him too far gone - neither he nor his wife are bothered though.

“So… we’re all here.” Ted started the meeting off. “Does Angela have to read the previous meeting’s minutes out, or did everyone read the email?”

Nobody said anything, but eyes fell on Jeremiah Duncan. Uncomfortable silence, until he realized people expected a response from him, even though the question was addressed to the room.

“No, no, no. I’m fine. Besides, this is the flagship product meeting. I think we should get to the point at hand, since it’s so important.” The old man replied.

“Fair point. Anyone want to lead us off?”

Abner Jenkins leaned forward and made his pitch, grabbing a second donut and using it as a confusing prop, waving it around with his hand gestures as sprinkles flew.

“Well, I think the common sense idea is the B.E.E.T.L.E suit. With Tony Stark introducing the world to the Iron Man armour and then promptly declaring it “Not For Sale” he’s created a unique opportunity with a vacuum of demand for a product that isn’t being sold…”

“We would have to re-purpose the suit. I mean, it’s not exactly designed for that kind of use.” Ted interrupted, considering Abner’s proposition.

“That’s true. But with a prototype that already exists, we’re well ahead of the curve on most…”

“And the B.E.E.T.L.E also doesn’t use repulsor tech…”

“That’s not really the important thing is it, though? We have a solid product that with some minor adjustments or additions would be highly desirable in the Defense force industry after what Stark showed them, and entitle us to those highly lucrative--”

“Whoa, whoa… Wait. Defense? You want to repurpose the B.E.E.T.L.E into a weapon? I’m surprised to hear you say that. I mean, that thing was your baby, Abner.”

“Well, Stark just showed us it pretty much is, Ted.”

“I thought the ‘E’ stood for ‘Exploratory’, Abe. Well, one of them anyway, not the other two. 'Breathable Exploratory Extreme Terrain Livable Exoskeleton'. I mean, that’s going to be the thing we’re going to have people wearing when we get the first people on Mars!”

“Jeremiah, finances aside, best case scenario, how far off are we from actually getting to Mars?

The old man started shuffling through his papers. “Umm-- well, that could be hard to say… we don’t know exactly what kind of--”

“Jeremiah.” The CFO pressed firmly.

The old man looked defeated and shot Ted an apologetic look. “We could maybe get a 2025 launch date. Maybe.”

“2025 is the earliest launch date. And I take it that’s only considering the business logistics on our end and not considering the fact that Mars only comes around to being at its closest in relation to the Earth every two years. And THEN it takes about a year to get there once WE DO launch.” Sprinkles flew, he was in full swing now.

“This is the flagship product meeting, Ted. We have to MAKE IT past 2025 as a business or else that becomes a moot point. Now we have something that is easily fabricated,” Abner started counting off, finger to donut, “would only need minor adjustments,” he held two fingers to the almighty donut, “AND people would ACTUALLY WANT, and you’re getting hung up on a moral issue that could keep our company from ever getting there at all.”

Ted sat at the table, hand to the side of his face in contemplation.

“We’ll table it for now and keep spitballing ideas. How about the solar panels?”

Using angular solar cells, a revolutionary new K.O.R.D patented silicon-doping system, and a far more efficient DC/AC inverter, Kord Omniversal had come up with solar panels that pushed the technology right to the edge of the Shockley-Queisser theoretical efficiency limit.

He'd come up with some pretty good solar panels, in other words.

Abner shuffled papers of his own and replied with the costs of production.

“They’re bleeding edge technology, Ted. But they’re still too expensive to mass-produce.”

“Yeah, but, maybe if--”

Jeremiah cut him off. “No, he’s right Ted. If you’re going to come at the energy industry, you need to have either something game-changingly revolutionary like arc reactor tech or cold fusion, or you need to be able to competitively price. it’s a cutthroat world to get into. I mean Roxxon alone, would--”

“Ok, ok. Solar panels are no good. Well, how about KORDEX? I mean we’re using it for this very meeting right now? You guys are hearing us fine, right Curt? Conrad?”

“Mr Kord. We’re hearing you fine!” “Thrilled to be here, Mr Kord.” The pair of telecommunicating executives replied.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Abner Jenkins muttered.

Ted looked at the grizzled old financial officer quizzically, before Randall Truman explained.

“He’s right to be derisive, Ted. The L-Pad is the dominant device across most of the world, and it’s L-isten, L-ook and L-ink software is the unparalleled frontrunner in online telecommunications. KORDEX is pretty much nothing but an in-house communications gimmick, with all due respect.” Truman explained, whilst giving no due respect whatsoever.

“Yeah, but it’s fully encrypted. I mean it’s technically superior software.”

“The man on the street doesn’t care.”

“What? How? How can they not care?”

“The man on the street would rather use Triple-L because everyone uses LLL. All of their friends use LLL. Everyone knows and understands the simple functionality of LLL. And it’s cool. They’re the market-leader by such a vast margin the runway is just incomparable. It’d be like trying to take on Coke with your grandmother’s cola recipe.”

Ted noticed there was no hesitation to suggest air quotes when calling LexCorp’s product ‘cool’, and immediately suspected his own CMO had a preference for product that was not even theirs.

“So Lex Luthor could be listening to every conversation ever and people would still rather it because it’s cool… What a world.”

“I’m pretty sure that a man as brilliant and successful as Lex Luthor would have better things to do than listen into people’s private conversations.” Randall Truman said, shaking his head and chuckling at the absurdity of the CEO’s assertion.

“Well, what else is there..?” Ted mused to himself.

“There’s the B.E.E.T.L.E…” Abner repeated, grumbling.

“Ted…” Melody began. “There’s alway the anti-car theft device.”

“Of course!” Exclaimed the CEO, as he scrambled to the laptop that Angela was taking notes on, ushered her away and began searching for relevant files.

“The Carjack Off Anti-theft and Immobilization device!”

“It needs a new name…” Randall uttered.

“That’s not important.” Ted refuted.

“It is if it’s ‘Carjack Off’...” Randall replied. “No way I could move something called that.”

“The testing phase worked great! In fact some of these test videos would work for the advertisement themselves…” Ted clicked on a video, and the monitor split screen to three panels with the two executives feeds moving to one side to play the test video unobscured.

In a concrete and steel parking garage an elderly woman is walking alone. A ‘carjacker’ armed with a rubber blade attempts to mug the old lady, who hits a button on her keys. The man is immediately blinded with an extremely bright flash of light from the key ring. The man clutches his face, and turns away from the light. Blinded, he starts to swing the rubber blade around in front of him, resorting to dumb luck in his hopes of striking the elderly lady. With a press of another two buttons a concussive sonar blast launches the man off his feet a good dozen or so feet, where he’s knocked out cold and lying on the cement. The elderly lady walked up to the fallen carjacker and whacked him with her purse, before walking back to her car. Dropping the keys before she got there, she had time to gingerly bend over and pick them back up, before opening the car door, adjusting her hair in the mirrors and slowly driving away.

“I mean, even if we don’t have a product here, we could send that in and get $500 off of America’s Funniest Home Videos…”

Another test video played. This time the ‘carjacker’ had a gun. The elderly woman pressed a button on her keys and handed them over. The carjacker ran over to her car, got behind the seat, and as he went to turn the engine over a set of secondary airbags in the car deployed, first knocking him out and secondly trapping him in a position from which he couldn’t escape. The hazard lights on the car flashed, an alarm went off and periodically a voice spoke over the top of the alarm warning people to stay clear, that a robbery had taken place, that the authorities had been called and to remain calm and clear of the scene until police resolved the matter.

“Jeremiah?” Ted asked his old COO, almost pleading that he have another viable option besides pumping out armoured suits for the military.

“It’s a good product. Compatible enough that we could make it work with most new model cars…”

Randall interjected. “And I do have an existing relationship with quite a few automakers. If I pull some strings I might be able to deal directly with dealerships.”

All in assembly turned to look at Abner Jenkins. Sensing the moment he took the opportunity to grab another donut.

“It’s not sustainable.”

“It is sustainable, Abner.” The COO dissented. “And you know it.”

“Not as a business plan. Yes, the… anti-theft device is a sustainable product for this year, but that’s just it. This year. If we roll out the B.E.E.T.L.E that could secure us for years to come. In fact with new versions, updates and upgrades it could even potentially carry us until we achieve our CEO’s Mars goal if Stark stays out of the Armour war.”

“We’re a Research and Development company, Abner. It says it right in the name. We’ll come up with another idea next year, or we shouldn't be calling ourselves that in the first place.”

“You’re crippling this company’s financial future for your own hyperactive morals, Ted. It’s a vacuum. It will be filled by someone. Might as well be us hauling that money away.”

“Not just my morals, Abe. A man who’s a second generation weapons manufacturer looked down the barrel of the camera and told the world ‘No. You’re not getting this.’ and decided to pivot away from that line of business altogether in the process. The least I can do is consider that and say ‘Me neither.’ when I have other alternatives.”

Ted got to his feet and started to stack his things to leave.

“Angela, can you make sure this food gets taken down to the engineers after the meeting?”

Ted took a beat for one more thought before he returned to close down the discussion with his CFO.

“And I don’t generally like to throw it in people’s faces, Abe. But as for my hyperactive morals, there’s another word in the company’s name besides ‘Research’ and ‘Development’. And I'm not talking about 'Omniversal'. If I’ve got to stick my name to something, I’m damn sure going to make sure it’s something I can believe in.”

---

T H E R E S I D E N C E O F T H O M A S K O R D

---

^{2 hours later | Elsewhere within Boston, Massachusetts}

Ted stood on his father’s doorstep, with a brown paper bag in hand, his tie and suit jacket were now gone and his top button was undone with his sleeves rolled up.

A man who was pushing 50 opened the door and stared blankly at his son.

“Hello? Who is it?”

Ted stood there uncomfortably long, and then furrowed his brow in concern. Just before the dam burst and the edges of his father’s mouth curled into a smile. He couldn’t keep it in anymore and cracked up laughing.

“You know, that isn’t funny.” Ted said, as he walked in the house, closing the door behind him.

Wiping a single tear from his eye, the older man replied, “Then why do I laugh every time I do it?”

“Yeah, right up until the first time you don’t.”

“Yep. But by then I won’t know any better anyway.”

“No, I’ll be the one tearing up, and it won’t be because of laughter. Thanks Pop…”

“Way to kill the laughter and bring down the mood, Buzzkill.”

“Yep, that’s me alright.”

An uncomfortable silence passed between the two.

“So what’d you bring me?” Thomas pointed down to the paper bag.

Ted held up the paper bag “Two corned beef 6 inches and a peanut butter filled donut.”

“Oh, My boy! You remembered!”

“Remembered nothing… the engineers won’t touch the corned beef. You’re eating scraps.” Ted smirked.

“Let me guess? Quarterly financial meeting?”

Ted looked to see if he was joking this time. But picked up no sign, and his concern came creeping back.

“No. Annual flagship product meeting.”

“Oh right, right…” Thomas said. “That time of year again.”

Another uncomfortable silence.

“Are you serious?”

“Look, don’t look at me like that. I’m retired now. I don’t need to know what the date is every day, alright? I don’t have anywhere I need to be, I don’t have a calendar to keep track of every day. So drop it.”

“Alright, alright…” Ted said, but the concern wasn’t going anywhere.

“So how’d it go?”

“We’re going with an anti-car theft system I started on a few years back, and palmed off on the engineering pool when I had to start the monkey suit route.”

“Really? Just a car alarm?”

“It’s a bit more than just that.” Ted walked over to his father’s fridge and pulled a can of Soder out. “Dad, Abner Jenkins was trying to get me to militarize his B.E.E.T.L.E armour into generic Iron Man spin-offs.”

“Wow. That’s sad. Poor guy must really be losing hope.”

“Yeah, he went on this whole tirade about it being improbable we’d make it to 2025.”

“Well, where finances are concerned you should listen to him. It’s why I put him there for you. But I’m telling you right now, you’re going to need to watch him like a hawk.”

“Why’s that?”

“Nothing’s more scary than a man who feels his legacy is being threatened. If he’s saying that, he’s having doubts he’s ever going to see anything become of his B.E.E.T.L.E suit, and I have to tell you… that thing is a design work of art.”

“Well, I’m trying. Sometimes you’ve just got to live with finding a way to get on base until that fat, juicy one comes sliding across the inside of the plate for you to put into the bleachers.”

“So that’s all you had? Car alarm and Killer B.E.E.T.L.E?”

Ted took another deep swig before answering. “Had some other quality products, but nothing without marketing or manufacture difficulties to roll out as a flagship.”

“Let me ask you something… When Abner went on his tirade, how did Pasadena and Chicago respond? Calhoun and Carapax?”

“They didn’t say anything. Why?”

“Ehhh… maybe nothing. But you said ‘tirade’. Abner’s normally pretty steady. I don’t know Calhoun too well personally, he came recommended and I picked him up late during the whole Wayne Enterprises/Sionis takeover. And Carapax. Conrad has some ambition to him.”

“You left me a board filled with ambitious, power-hungry executives? Wow. Thanks Pops.” Ted sarcastically fired back.

“Ted, if I could have left you a company filled with Jeremiah Duncans I would have… unfortunately, in all my travels I’ve only ever found one. Be glad you’ve got him. As for Calhoun and Carapax. I’m just saying, Calhoun I don’t know at all, but I KNOW Carapax. Power-hungry or not, he IS good at his job. I only left him in charge of his own little corner of the world, and he’s good at that. Just don’t let him in a position where he can bite you. Because he will, if you give him a chance. And he’s crafty enough to wait for it. So if Abner was really bothered, I’d expect the two to be having some kind of discussion, if they hadn’t already before that meeting.”

“Ugh… I thought I left high school drama, backstabbing and politics behind me.”

“This is the business world, Ted. If you leave politics and backstabbing behind you--”

“--then your back is going to get some pretty deep holes in it.” They said together. “Yes. I know… I know.”

“I just wish I could have stuck around longer to help you out.”

“I know. But you did the right thing pulling the pin early.”

“If they’d have found out you have early onset alzheimer's they’d have forced you out before you could have made your own choice on who to pass it down to...”

---

So yeah, I guess that’s where it is really.

Poor little rich boy with a perfect memory, can remember his own parents splitting up.

Poor little rich boy with a perfect memory had to take over his father’s business early.

Poor little rich boy with a perfect memory is going to have to watch as his father’s mind turns to mush and live in and recall every single moment of it.

Oh. And Alzheimer’s is hereditary, and autosomally dominant.

So that’s pretty much where the morbid ends. You won’t read another word about it from me.

Because here’s where the fun starts...

So remember it.