---

---

Jameson’s article had come out faster than Peter expected it would, pumped into the heart of the city and then outward to its fringes. “Man-Spider Attacks Bugle Office, Assaults NYPD”. A sterling review of his first real endeavor, and they couldn’t even get his name right. At least paintbrush-head nailed the hyphen. Still, he had to spend the last God knows how many hours swinging through the streets and making double sure people knew what his real name was. If Jameson wouldn’t speak to him, maybe the city would.

Peter swung and released, switching hands and trying to cram the rest of his egg and cheese sandwich into his mouth, tracking it with half-lidded eyes. He tasted the wax of deli paper and hacked out a cough, wrenching a turn around the Manhattan Municipal Building. The tendrils of his mask snaked back around his mouth and he dropped a dozen feet, pulling a saliva-stained strand of paper from his mouth and letting it catch on the New York Wind. Gross. Another webline dragged him back into the sky and he was flying again.

He landed on a rooftop and pushed off of it, sailing clean past the flagpole he aimed for. Nuts. A web shot back out from his wrists and he hung there like a limp fish, listing in the gentle breeze. His sigh turned into a yawn and he pulled himself up, hand over hand, back to the top. Get it together, Parker. You’ve still got all of Harlem to look through. Joy, joy, joy… The neighborhood spread before him in a grey-brown haze, struggling out of the swirling miasma of the cracked streets below. Every building slumped into the next, devoid of any definition but for the inky blackness that swirled between them, crackling and bubbling and...

Peter shook his head and rubbed his temples, willing the sleep out of his system. The hard edges and definition came back to the place, solidifying out of the darkness. He let his breath go and focused on the rhythms of his costume. Tendrils of black fiber interlaced with one another, infinitely dense yet impossibly fine, all prehensile. They stood up all across his body, quivering in the biting wind. Through their vibrations, he began to feel it all coming in. The brickwork of the building behind him, lacing down and outward to the painted concrete a hundred feet below him. This was his web, spreading in and around him as he waited, focused, waiting for anything to trip his Spider-Sense. Somewhere at the edge, he felt the fringe of some grander presence, with a kind of gravity to it, dragging on his fibers, pulling him closer. It felt cool and metal and warm and fleshy all it once. It was legs and arms and a grand throne suspended in some network of webs, and -- Peter’s senses flinched all at once. Two blocks away, due north, brush of gunmetal against elastic waistband. Screams. There.

The twang of the flagpole echoed through the neighborhood as Peter threw himself into the air, firing two webs and slingshotting himself a half block ahead. He was a spider, skittering ahead and squeaking across dirty windows as he closed on his prey. He was silhouetted against the black concrete, a deep blue hoodie pressing a gun into the back of a passerby. He hadn’t heard Spider-Man yet. Good.

The suit sprang across the concrete as he landed, cushioning the fall and sending spikes of force deep into the earth. Before the mugger had time to turn around, Peter was upon him, throwing him into the air and following, dragging him on a webline; higher, higher. Peter put his whole body into it, flinging the crook up ahead and stumbling, but running up the building all the same. Spider-Man was on the edge of the rooftop and the gunman hung in the air, a dark stain against the shining beauty of the moon.

Then he was falling. Peter snatched him from the precipice of death, hand snapping on the man’s collar. The fabric ripped and he fell further inches, and then he dropped again, his scream blasting Peter’s eardrums. Goddamnit. He forced his eyes open and webline snapped to the man’s back.

“Oh God, oh Jesus, I--” The gunman stumbled over his words and pinwheeled in the sky, kicking at nothing.

“Shhhhh.” Peter said, again rubbing his temples. It felt good to close his eyes, just for a moment. “People are sleeping, man.” He pulled the thug up, bit by bit, as he swung and grasped wildly at the hair of webbing between him and death.

“Are-are you that, that...?” He was breathless, straining, eyes locked on the stark ground beneath him.

”Yeah, Amazing Spider-Man, jazz hands, blah blah.” Peter mumbled. He the webline to the edge of the building, crawling down to get a good look at the man. Huge, white, featureless bug eyes met his pair of dull browns and he squirmed, trying to wedge his way further back into the window. His piece had been lost in the climb, now probably shattered somewhere down through a hundred yards of freefall. Peter found himself staring into the cheap fabrics of the man’s coat, mesmerized by the simple patterns of the man’s coat, deeper and deeper and darker and -- his eyes shot open, and he sucked in a breath.

”I probably need to get through a lot of these tonight, so, yeah. Don’t make me, I don’t know, drop you or something. That’s what that Bat-dude from Gotham does, right?” Spider-Man stifled a yawn and tapped the man on his forehead and he jerked back, slamming his head against the glass.

“Don’t kill me!” He screamed. Peter blinked slowly, tuning out the screams and focusing on the weight in his eyelids. A response fought out of his consciousness.

”Just… Just keep your pants on. Guy robs a wrestling tournament a few days ago, shoots an old man on his way out. Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious, I just want to send him a postcard.” Peter groaned.

The robber shook his head back and forth, “No no man! No! That’s Tombstone’s racket, I don’t fuck with that!”

“Tombstone, I keep hearing that name. Spooky. Am I gonna have to fight Boris Karloff in a graveyard or something?”

The man looked at Spider-Man, as if for the first time. His skin was clouded, somehow darker than black, with impossibly long thin lips twisting into a smile that curled beyond the edge of his face and up into the very back of his jaw, rippling open to a mouth of jagged teeth that poked out at every angle. Eyes the color of curdled milk pierced through the lenses of Spider-Man’s mask, staring back at the boy beneath.

“Pe-ter Parr-ker.” Fluid the color of death drained from the man’s mouth and Peter jerked backward, stumbling down the wall, fighting to keep his grip and yet staggering, falling. He slammed a boot through the plate glass as he tried to regain his footing, scraping at the wall with his hands.

The thug flinched and closed his eyes as the sound of breaking glass erupted, trying to hide his head in his chest and throwing up his arms to cover himself. Everything was normal again. The thug was curled into a ball, backed as far against the window as he could be.

The suit vibrated around Peter, gradually coming to a halt as Peter fought to uncurl the balls his fists had wounded themselves into, going back up the sheer glass of the wall. One foot at a time. What was that? He was dimly aware of a buzz against his skin, his phone pressed tight against him in the fabric of his suit.

“I uh… I gotta take this. Take five.” A web sealed the thug’s mouth shut and Peter crossed onto the rooftop from the side, pulling his phone out from a web of cascading fibers. He answered.

”Peter?” May’s voice shook and crackled over the receiver.

“Uh, hey, Aunt May. Sorry I--”

“Oh thank God! Peter Benjamin Parker, where have you been?”

“Just uh… Just catching some air, May, I--”

“I’ve been worried sick!”

“May, it’s just a little--”

“It’s been three days Peter! I’ve been calling Anna Watson and Captain Stacy and I’ve been fighting like hell to get on the phone with Norman Osborn!”

May’s voice faded into the background of his thoughts. Three days? Impossible. He’d only been out… How many criminals had he shaken down? How long had it been since…?

”--and with that Spider-Man character on the loose! You’re coming home this instant, young man! Where have you been!?”

”I -- I’m sorry, I... Uh. It’s uh… It’s a long story, Aunt May, I--”

“No excuses, Peter! And with your Uncle in the hospital, I--” Peter could hear her shaking her head over the line. “We’re going to have a long talk when you get home. Right away.”

“Okay… I’m almost home. I’ll see you soon. I love you.” Peter couldn’t feel the words coming out of his mouth as he ended the call, not waiting for a response. Three days. Three days. It felt like hours. He thought back on it, crawling through the docks, swinging low through Hell’s Kitchen as the sun crested over the horizon. Three days, gone. Three days less for Ben. And nothing to show for it but a name. Tombstone.

Seventy-two hours of Spider-Man… Where does the time go?

Magik always assumed people were exaggerating when they spoke about Gotham, however being here it was clear that they were just being kind. The city stank of fear and crime, with the noise of police sirens filling the air. Normally Illyana would’ve enjoyed seeing a city full of gothic structures like this, an appreciation she had developed while away, however here all the architecture just added to the atmosphere of despair she felt around her. It was grim and dark, and just being here gave her a sense of what it had been like during her capture. All she wanted to do right now was to escape; to return to the comfort of her favourite spot back at home at the Sanctum, tucked up next to the roaring fire, a great tome of magic in her hands. She could almost feel the warmth of what could be, but the crisp wind of the cold nights' air knocked her back into reality, and she continued gazing out at the room tops.

A sharp pain from her hands caused her to finally turn herself away from the skyscrapers around her. Her hands were beginning to bleed ever so slightly, a result of her having dug her nails into her palms while waiting there. She grimaced, picking at them slightly to take her mind off things while she waited, and when that didn’t work she took her eyes back towards the rooftops around her. They soon settled on a small shop across the street from the rooftop where she was stood. Rags and Tatters. She smirked, realizing why she’d been told to wait here.

As if on queue a voice spoke from behind her.

“Thought you’d be taller honestly.”

Reactively she turned as he spoke, her Soul Staff materializing into her hands as she did so instinctively. She lowered it once she saw him, however, simply taking in the strange nature of his outfit. His “suit” seemed to be made up of some kind of crazy quilt of rags and sewn-together patches, as well as pieces of old worn fabric. The whole ensemble covered him from head to toe, painting him in a palette of greens and browns, save for the two white slits that made up his eyes. A dark green cloaked tangled around him, flowing in the wind, as he perched on the rooftop edge in front of her. He was a peculiar sight indeed, with the air seemingly growing quiet around him. Despite the quietness however, Magik swore she could hear voices radiating from him. Voices screaming silently. Voices crying out in emptiness. The sound of lost souls.

“You must be Ragman.”

“Yep, that’s me, the old Keeper of souls.” His voice was much more charismatic and cheerful than she had expected, with a New Jersey twang. As he spoke, he pranced forward from where he had been stood and approached the young magician, circling around her as he continued. “And let me tell you, yours does not feel good from where I’m standing.”

The comment wounded Illyana slightly. Strange had told her that there had been something off about her soul and energy when he had initially found her, however, she hadn’t thought too much of it, believing at the time that it was just polluted from her time next with fath- Belasco. But hearing now that it was still like that unnerved her immensely. Her left hand clenched up once more, with the pain from her nails returning slightly. Numbing her. She kept her tongue, and just let out a smile.

“Noted. Nice of you to answer my call. I take it Rook warned you about me already?”

“Actually, it was the chimp. Warned me that some crazy blonde was coming my way to try and get me to sign some suicide pact and parade down into Hell with her.” She stepped forward about to correct him, but he continued. “Sorry to rain on said parade though but it’s a big no from me.”

“Why couldn’t you have just said that on the phone an hour ago and not have wasted all of our time?” Annoyance filled her voiced. She raised the staff slightly in anger, her scowl fixated on him.

“Because…” He said sly, as he grabbed Magik gently on the arms, and rotated her body slightly so that she was facing towards Gotham harbour slightly. “Because of that.”

She blinked in confusion, attempting to see whatever it was that this buffoon was trying to show her. Then as if a veil had been lifted from over her eyes, Magik watched as the apartment building she was staring at erupted into flames. Her eyes widened as she looked on in horror. Without realizing, she moved forward towards, only to be stopped by Ragman, catching by the arm and placing a hand reassuringly on her shoulder.

“Yeah, I didn’t notice at first myself. Something seems to be covering it up so that regular people can’t see it. And what’s weirder is that the fire-”

“Hellfire.”

“What?”

“It’s hellfire. That building is reeking of the stuff, I can smell it from here now.” She shuddered slightly as she got another waft of it. The flames just made this wretched city seem even more like Limbo. Whatever spell it was that had been stopping her from noticing it must have been extremely powerful.

“Great, because regular fire would just be too easy!” Ragman moaned, flinging his arms up in frustration. “Well, either way, the fire’s not burning anything. The building’s fine. The flames are just there.”

“Which means that’s something crazy magical is happening in there.”

“Bingo.”

Magik groaned slightly. This was not something she had been prepared to deal with tonight. All she had wanted was to recruit Ragman to her team and then move on out of Gotham. But it seemed fate had other plans for her tonight. Taking a deep breath, she tightened her grip on her staff, now wielding the staff with both hands.

“Come on then, let’s get this over with, Keeper of Souls.”

Before Ragman could protest, the floor beneath the two of them erupted into a bright yellow light as Magik summoned a stepping disc, and in seconds the two of them had vanished from the Gotham skyline.

If you ever want the title of my student autobiography, I guess it would be like this:

How I spent my Junior Year As a Crime-Fighting Vigilante.

By Virgil Ovid Hawkins.

The synopsis of my biography? I can sum it up in one glorious two-syllable word.

Static.

I am Static.

I’ve been called the Kilowatt Kid, Bang Baby and definitely not Lightning Junior. I’ve been operating as the sole guardian of Dakota City for a month and a half. Some days, it feels like I’m carrying the entire weight of the city on my shoulders, but they never said that being a superhero would be easy.

I am Static.

Whatever you think about me, I’ve heard it already from someone else on the papers or the air. Public menace, freak, delinquent, guardian. All I can say is: Go ahead. Try. You can lecture me, patronise me, reprimand me. Tell me that something’s better.

I am Static.

I chose to be Static. In Dakota City, everyone always has a choice. ‘Cause at the end of the day, I always know that it’s been my choice to put the mask back on. No one can take that choice away from me.

I am Static.

---

location: hemingway high school

time: 12:30 PM

“ NEXT!”

Brown sludge that could be barely even called grits plopped with a disappointing splat onto Virgil’s lunchtray. He squirmed his nose at the smell, wrestling control of his stomach. Budget cuts weren’t an anomaly in Hemingway High. They were school policy. Oh, there’d been whisperings and murmurs about increased school funding, allocating more funds towards the education budget but it’d all been a load of hot air blown over nothing. Virgil shuffled on forwards, cutting through the crowd of cliques and hungry students as he searched for a table that he wasn’t going to get rejected from.

“ Hey, V-Man! What’s up?,” A hand came down on Virgil’s shoulder from behind. His skin had bristled from the touch, weeks of back-alley patrols and crime-fighting wounding him up like a coiled spring. Static electricity bled off his jacket and grounded itself in the cold ceramic tiling.

Virgil glanced back over his shoulder and couldn’t hold back the laughter that threatened to overtake him. A lanky blonde wearing a cheap dollar-store ‘WONDER WOMAN’ hoodie and a frayed beanie stared back at him. Richie Stone, his room-mate and current best friend of the century, grinned a full-toothed smile, easy-going, a smile that melted the tension out of him. Replying back with another grin, there was a rapping of knuckles and a bumping of fists before they stumbled in a mixture of conversation and gossip towards a secluded spot in the left wing of the cafeteria. The topics of the conversation ranged from simplistic to downright puerile. Girls, homework, parents, universities, sport teams, viral fads. Yet, Virgil discovered how much he’d missed talking with Richie, the feeling of being an ordinary teen again with no worries about going on his regular patrols or hounding the police radios for any emergencies.

For now, he could choose to be Virgil Hawkins. Even though Static was always trailing behind him like a shadow.

“ So, did anything interesting over the mid-term break? ” Richie stared at Virgil, waiting for a reply, prodding at his cafeteria food with his spoon.

Virgil shrugged, edging his chair closer to the table “ Oh, just a little bit of community service.” He dug his spoon into the cafeteria food, glumly swallowing it piece by piece.

“ Did your dad force you to do it? Your dad’s been looking around for volunteers all break. I’ve still even got the pamphlet - “ Richie stopped as Virgil gave him the raised eyebrow. Virgil was half-tempted to shock his best friend for that comment. Freeman Community Center was currently overpopulated and underfunded from the influx of homeless after they were all forcibly moved out during the creation of the Paris Island Exclusion Zone. Add to the fact that charities were non-profit organisations by design and…..well……the topic of finance had become a banned dinner conversation topic at his household the last time he’d been there for break.

“ It’s known as voluntary for a reason, Richie.”

“ Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Richie stayed silent for a while before piping back up. “ Everyone’s been getting antsy ever since the Big Bang last month. Robberies, muggings, assaults…..Things in Dakota weren’t sunshine and rainbows before the Bang but now? Have you heard about what happened to Mr Schultz last week? ”

Virgil nodded silently. Mr Schultz had been one of his favourite teachers ever since he’d arrived in Hemingway High for his junior year. He made physics a bearable subject for the entire class and even managed to make the jocks and layabouts listen to his lectures once in a while. To see the once bright-faced teacher blubbering and sombre-faced in the hallways after the Big Bang was just downright depressing.

“ Anyway, I’ve got afternoon Calculus with Mr Bartleby after lunch break. Several of the seniors said to watch out for him. They call him the Sink.” Richie audibly shuddered in disgust at the end of the sentence. Virgil sympathized with him. After all, who could stomach one and a half hours of chalkboard equations and proofs without going insane?

“ Hopefully, this half-term won’t be so boring as the last one,” Richie groaned. “ I swear, the days are just getting longer and longer in this high-school. I’m telling you, V. After junior year, it’ll be smooth sailing to graduation and freedom.”

Virgil stared downwards at his fork, an errant spark of white electricity dancing off the prongs for a brief second as he unconsciously flexed his power.

“ We’ll see.”

---

location: dakota city

time: 3:40 PM

“ WOOOOOOOO HOOOOOO!” Virgil’s lungs ached as he soared through the skies, one hand grasping the edge of his manhole as he defied gravity, bobbing and weaving through the clouds. Electromagnetic energy leaked from the bottom like a faucet, propelling him to greater speeds and greater heights. It was one of the few perks of having his abilities. Virgil pushed forward, swerving underneath a bypass at breakneck speeds, the world around him turning into a blur. He was soon on a collision course with a brick-wall.

No problem.

Virgil closed his eyes, concentrating to reverse the polarity of the electrons in the manhole. Instead of crashing straight ahead, Virgil began to surf on top of the walls of the building, an electrical corona beginning to build up at the bottom of his makeshift surfboard. Bending the laws of gravity to his will with his slow ascent, Virgil shut off the flow of electrons into his metallic makeshift vehicle, his travel coming to a halt as he looked over Dakota City from atop the apartment building.

Viewing Dakota City from 150 feet in the air on a manhole was a completely different experience from walking about on the ground with your own two feet. Virgil decided at this moment that Dakota City took issue with the concept of summer. Summer should bring to mind sunny skies, baking concrete sidewalks and busted open water mains with kids frolicking in the spray. He sailed over a maze of air ventilation units, skidding on top by the edge of his surfboard just to see the gapening gyre of the Black Hole in the distance. Or rather what’s left of Paris Island. The Big Bang had decimated what was once an idyllic neighborhood borough into a veritable junkyard. Some people used to joke about it being the Black Hole because of how much money City Council poured into funding the fence around it. Now? It was just a symbol of how much the Big Bang had splintered Dakota apart right now. Staring at Paris Island pulled him back into a chasm of memories, of feeling lightning flow through his veins for the very first time, of holding a gun, of holding someone’s life by the mere pull of a trigger…….

He shook his head, old dandruff falling from his dreadlocks. The past was the past. In Dakota City, the past was an eternal land that festered on Paris Island. Here, in Westwood, though, there were new futures to be had. Virgil breathed as he flopped backwards onto the gravel roof, staring upwards at the cloudless sky. He needed some action to take his mind off things. He closed his eyes and quietened his mind. His senses shifted from the mundane spectacle of sound, touch, smell and taste to an invisible maze of phantoms. It was like viewing the skeleton of a city. Radio waves, high frequency wi-fi, broadcast signals, underground power lines……...His electromagnetic senses sorted and pushed through the myriad of electronic waves like a explorer cutting through the thicket of a jungle.

An familiar radio signal niggled the back of his mind. his electromagnetic senses honing onto it like he had many times over the last month. He’d recognised the specific frequency and wavelength of the signals that he’d grown all too familiar with over the last few months. The Dakota PD’s radio was constantly abuzz with activity, glowing like a Christmas tree in the electromagnetic highways that he saw through his enhanced senses.

“ All officers, be advised, we have a unconfirmed 211 in progress in a 7-11 near Helm Street. Requesting backup immediately.”

A 7-11? Helm Street was two blocks away from his current location. Virgil walked near the edge and hopped off, the manhole following him like a eager pet as it clung to the heels of his boots. He rode through the downtown neighborhoods of Westwood, a few stragglers and early afternoon commuters from Sadler making their way down towards their homes. A public bus rolled on through, smoke chugging out from its overworked engines. Some passengers stared at him like he was a tourist attraction, phones being taken out of pockets like a habit and eyes glued to the windows. Even a month after the Big Bang and the worldwide existence of superheroes, metahumans were a new addition to the composition of Dakota City.

Virgil moved throughout the streets, accelerating as the build-up of electrical energy formed a corona around his surfboard. Lightning rumbled and thunder followed, the power poles vibrating and trash cans jostling with his very passing. He soon arrived at the scene, closing the flow of voltage to slow down his velocity and parking down his manhole in a nearby alleyway. The front of the convenience store looked as if a bomb had gone off. What was once a glass pane had been shattered into a million tiny fragments that had been scattered all over the sidewalk and the street. Virgil tightened his goggles, fist closed in tension, as he crept closer to get a better look at what exactly was happening.

His first reaction was that the guy had gone to Supervillain Fashion Central and then, decided to buy at the local thrift shop to create some weird amalgam of backstreet alley hobo and high-tech criminal. The criminal looked as if he was wearing some sort of protective yellow patch-work suit that covered his entire body from head to toe, a visored mask included. The overall pattern reminded Virgil of a pineapple. The costume would have looked downright goofy if it weren’t for the menacing gauntlets that each encased his hands and forearms. A series of vacuum tubes and electrical wires were inlaid into the mechanisms of the gauntlet which ran out into the back of the suit. The overall apparel was complimented by a dollar-store hoodie that had several holes in the fabric. The costumed burglar was currently standing over the unconscious, bruised body of the shopkeeper and was emptying the contents of the cash register into a sports bag.

Virgil coughed loudly, getting the burglar’s attention as he turned around to face him. There was something odd about the guy. There was no hostile movement or any sign of surprise in his body. In fact, it was quite the opposite of what Virgil expected. Relaxed. Calm. Collected. The guy didn’t even point his gauntlets at him. Rather, it looked as if the burglar had been expecting him.

“ Nice quilt. I’ve never really met a supervillain before that’s so enthused into the art of knitting.“ Virgil’s hands began glowing with sparkling lightning as he made his slow approach towards the burglar. No response yet. “ Look. Maybe you’re new in town but I’ve fried bigger fish than a upstart robber with some fancy tech. So, give up before I do some - ”

“ Alright. Take me in. I give up.” The robber dropped the sports bag on the ground with a thud and raised his hands up, his words slightly muffled by the mask on his face.

Virgil blinked. Huh. Okay, this day was turning out to be unusual. He kept his hands up in defense, steeling himself for any potential attack from the robber. The robber kept his hands up in the air, not moving or twitching a single muscle. There was something off about this guy’s surrender. Sure, he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth but deciphering this guy’s motives was like reading a closed book.

“ Wow. Didn’t think that was actually going to work.” Virgil spoke in a slow, diplomatic tone, steadily reaching out with a electrical tendril and ripping a piece of metal off a broken street-lamp to shape into a set of handcuffs. “ Thanks. Really appreciate it. Now, just hold still as I take those shiny gloves off your -”

Then -

A flash.

-everything-

A boom.

-went-

The heat

-to hell.

Ribs. Check. Eyes? Check. Teeth okay? Check. Arms? Check. Legs? Check. Everything else?

Not doing so good. Something was definitely bleeding on his forehead. Virgil groaned as he pushed himself up using his elbows, head ringing and vision blurring from whatever had hit him just now.

Every ounce of electromagnetic power shored up inside Virgil’s body instinctively expanded outwards into a protective bubble, cushioning him from the brunt of the explosion as it sent him flying across the street. There was a blossoming of pain that shot outwards from Virgil’s everything as he struggled to get up onto his two knees. The bottom right corner of his goggles had a hairline crack that ran across it like a fissure. There was a ever-constant ringing in his ears as he tried to regain control of his faculties.

He could have died. Virgil panted in agony, leaning onto the side of a car for support as the cloud of smoke slowly cleared away to reveal the burglar.

“ I didn’t think it would be that easy to get you in range of the pipe bomb…. ” The robber stepped out of the shattered window of the storefront, rubbing his hands together “ but all that electricity you’ve been blasting out must have short-circuited your brain today, Static. ”

“ Great. They’re getting smarter.” Alright. No more quipping. No more messing around. Virgil’s right fist enclosed as he gathered current around it, ready to finish the guy off in one blast. He raised the open palm of his hand, unleashing electric hell on the robber in desperation. There was a startled shout and then, silence. Virgil closed off the flow of current and then, his jaw dropped at what he saw next.

The guy was completely unharmed. The amount of electricity that he’d pumped into him had been enough to knock out a man several times over. The robber apparently had the same reaction to it as he did, patting his unblemished costume all over before murmuring in appreciation.

“ Well, damn, it really does work. Now that I know your limits….” The costumed burglar lifted up a glove and pressed a trigger. A series of electrical relays on the knuckles of the gauntlet began to glow as a low-pitched hum emanated out. Virgil gulped as he saw the man punch the side of a parked van, pancaking the front like cardboard and sending the van rolling in a tumble. “ I can test out mine on you.“

Virgil gathered the last bits of strength, the pool of electricity left in his body regenerating at a slow pace after being used to defend him from the explosion. It was barely enough to charge a I-Phone at this point. Force-fields were a theoretical concept in physics. Making theoretical concepts in reality with his powers was not impossible but definitely exhausted his reserves beyond comprehension. This was bad. Really bad. Virgil gritted his teeth as he speaked, drawing his words out to create just a few precious seconds for him to find a way out of this situation.

“ So, before we begin this dance, what’s your name? The Pineapple Poacher?”

The robber stopped for a few moments, a chuckle signalling the end of his choice before replying back.

“ Nah, you can just call me ……… Shocker.”

The Shocker then popped out both of his gloves, mechanical whines issuing from their ports, as he charged towards Virgil, gauntlets ready to pound him into submission.

Who am I to complain about the name? I’m a guy named freakin’ Static after all.

---

The severed head of the ancient Celestial floated in the void of space like a specter through the halls of Hel. The lights of the city that countless lost creatures built inside of the skull flickered like neurons firing in its brain. Even its eyes glowed like there was life inside the being.

In reality there was, of course. Millions of beings lived inside Knowhere. It was the refuge of many, a trading post, and even a scientific outpost. It was a place people could come to disappear or make a new life for themselves. Even Thor had heard of it during his travels. It was famous or infamous depending on your point of view. For the God of Thunder, it was the first data point in a quest to find a weapon that could kill a butcher.

"Welcome to Knowhere," Quill smiled as he pulled the Milano in towards the space port. "It's a real shit hole, but at least it's a fun one."

"Aye," Thor smiled as they passed into the head of the Celestial. Beneath him a sprawling metropolis spread out before him. But not just below, above and around as well. He had never seen such a breathtakingly inventive construction from the mortals. He could see even from this altitude that there was a mix of different architecture from building to building. Just from here he could see modern Kree towers, squat Thanagarian pagodas, and gleaming Shi'ar spiral buildings. It was a testament to the mortals' ingenuity. "This is somewhere one can move about unseen."

"Disappear?" Quill's eyebrows rose. "You looking to stay out of sight?"

Thor cursed his loose tongue under his breath. He didn't want Peter to find out that he may be hunted. Quill was one that would possibly turn him in if a bounty was placed on the God's head.

"It is possible," Thor conceded. "Whoever killed my people will almost certainly have designs on my death as well. I hope not to cross paths with them until I am prepared."

Peter shrugged, "Just put your hood up. You'll be fine."

He landed the Milano and added, "And if the price on your head is big enough, I sure hope you have a shit load of treasure."

A chuckle escaped Thor's lips. He was almost impressed by the honesty from the pirate. At least Quill was forthcoming. Most mortals wouldn't even joke about something like that. Then again, Quill had no idea what Thor truly was. Maybe if he did, he would not think twice about betraying Thor. The gods were not always loved, and Peter was clearly not someone who had devotion. Few mortals truly did any more.

"You will not go empty handed," Thor assured him.

The spacefarers left their vessel, and once on the deck of Knowhere's space port the smells of a thousand different cuisines from around the galaxy filled the God of Thunder's nostrils. They passed through the entry point and into a street bazaar that went as far as the eye could see. Stands lined the walkway, manned by all manner of creatures. A pink lizard-like being with six arms peddled some sort of teal porridge to a blue Kree with his arm around an orange Tamaranean he was clearly trying to impress. But as Thor walked by, she looked the God up and down and threw him a wink.

"Maybe you should put your hood up, big guy," Peter cautioned. "You tend to draw attention. Not that putting the hood up will make you any smaller or anything...but it can't hurt. Plus maybe it'd give some of the other males on the station a chance."

"Aye," Thor chuckled. "Tis hard to top a god in the eyes of mortal women."

"Okay, well, no need to brag," Quill rolled his eyes. "Come on, there's a bar I like around the corner. I could use a drink."

"Tis the best idea thou has had yet," Thor clasped Quill on the shoulder heartily, nearly knocking the man clear to the ground.




Chitauri Warship Annakul
Unknown Space

The Chitauri warrior chattered away in clicks and hisses to the being sitting in the command chair. He listened to the report intently, the anger rising in his throat all the while.

"You're sure?" he asked with a calm betraying the fury rising in his heart. "Absolutely positive?"

After a few more clicks from the Chitauri, the image of the Asgardian prince appeared on the screen. The image was taken moments ago on Knowehere according to the data.

The being in the command chair slammed its massive fist down in a fit of rage, "The Odinson still lives! And if he survives so do others of his kind. Dispatch a legion to Knowhere. Kill the bastard. And put a price on the head of any Asgardian in the universe so high that every two bit bounty hunter will track them down. I want them dead!"

The commander slumped back into its chair and seethed.



"Barkeep!" Thor yelled boisterously. "Another round of Thanagarian mead! By the Old Gods, tis delicious!"

The bar went up in a rousing cheer along with the God of Thunder. Quill couldn't tell how many rounds his new passenger had put back so far, but it was enough to kill a normal person. Whoever this Thor was, he was the very opposite of normal.

The band on the dirty stage at the back of the bar began to play some sort of ungodly tune from A'askavaria. Quill elbowed Thor, "I love this place! It reminds me of the bar from Star Wars. You ever seen Star Wars?"

Thor slapped him on the shoulder, almost sending Peter's face crashing through the table they occupied, "I have seen many wars in the stars, Peter Quill!"

"No, man, it's a movie...never mind," Peter shook his head.

"I once fought a great space serpent that was devouring mortals across an arm of the milky way!" Thor began recounting the tale. "The beast was bigger than a moon and stronger than a black hole's pull! Its skin was so think even the mightiest strike with Mjolnir produced nary a scratch! In order to bring the beast down I had to choke it with a vine take from Yggdrasil itself! When I finally brought the foul creature down, the locals of the planet where it fell and I feasted on its flesh! The planet did not want for food for centuries after!"

Quill had absolutely no idea what half of that meant, but he laughed along with his traveling partner. If nothing else, he was a good time.

"Now I must find an observatory on this space station that I might discern where the nearest cache of my people is," he laughed and placed a few odd coins Quill had never seen before on the table. "I will meet thou here after the task has been complete!"

"Yea, sure," Quill cursed under his breath, realizing that he'd have to pay for all these drinks. "Have fun."

Peter sat back and twirled his own drink in his hand. At least until it was knocked out of his hand by someone approaching from the side. He whirled around to sock whoever did it in the face, only to be met by the smirking face of Yondu Udonta. The yellow, snaggle-toothed grin stood out starkly against the older man's blue skin and red, cybernetic fin on his head. Quill shook his head and lowered his fist. Yondu was an ass, but he was still his boss.

"So your new blond friend is a hoot!" Yondu laughed. "You gonna sell him to a pleasure yacht or something? Cuz last I heard you were gettin' me your share with a quick salvage job."

"Yea, Yondu, I know," Peter shook his head. "There was a complication."

"How come there's always a complication with you, boy?" the Ravager leader asked and took a sip of his drink.

Grumbling, Peter responded, "I mean sure, sometimes. A lot of the time. But this guy says he's loaded, and all we gotta do is find it. He promises there's enough for me and you. Don't throw away good money, Yondu."

The blue alien waved a finger in Peter's face, "There better be enough. Cuz if there ain't, you're done, boy. This is your last chance."

Dutch Hill
3:51 PM

Alfred Pennyworth stepped lightly down the basement steps with a mug of coffee in his hands. It wasn’t a particularly long descent down into the bowels of the brownstone, maybe a dozen steps, but the hot coffee was incentive for him to watch each step. The building was set up to house multiple families on each floor, and the basement was no different. It had been used that way in the years before Alfred and Phillip bought the house, but the two of them had turned it into a single family home. When Bruce turned thirteen he’d moved into the basement, partially Alfred’s idea, to give him a semi-autonomous space away from the two older men. They were just using it for storage before that, and Alfred was sure that Bruce could make better use of it then they ever good. The former royal marine Alfred had called it Bruce’s safe harbor. But the boy had a different name for it. He called it “the cave.”

And Alfred had been right about Bruce utilizing the space. The basement was now the nerve center of Bruce’s ongoing war. Large monitors with digital, real-time maps of Gotham covered three of the four walls. The fourth wall had an actual paper map of the city and the subway system that ran underneath the streets. Two metal work tables were islands in the middle of the room. Bruce’s suit was laid on one table and neatly folded, the utility belt he wore stretched out beside it. The other island held an assortment of gadgets and devices, some weapons while others served defensive and surveillance purposes. There was the little drone shaped like a bat. A black motorcycle had been propped against the tables as well.

Bruce was seated in front of a desk that had been pushed up against the wall with the paper map. He had stripped down the black compression shirt and pants he always wore underneath the suit. On the desk in front of him were two computer monitors. On one monitor was a digital copy of a report with an ATF watermark on it. On the other monitor was a mugshot of a very familiar face.

“Ms. Kyle again,” Alfred said as he passed the coffee cup to Bruce. “I assume some valuable jewel has gone missing.”

“Not this time,” said Bruce. “It seems that since last we saw her, Selina has shifted into a new line of work. Recovery instead of theft.”

“So now she’s hired to steal back stolen things,” Alfred said with a chuckle. “And what precious commodity will her sticky fingers try to ensnare?”

“Information,” Bruce said as he clicked away from the mugshot and pulled up a surveillance photo of a fat man smoking a cigar. “Someone out there is crazy enough to blackmail Rupert Thorne. And he’s hired her to find out who it is and to recover the blackmail.”

“Is it wrong that I’m actually rooting for the blackmailer?" Alfred asked with a raised eyebrow. "And also may I ask what part the bat will play in all of this?”

“I’m giving her a long leash on this one, but watching close enough so that I can swoop in for the evidence when the time is right.”

“How very third-wave feminist of you,” said Alfred.

Bruce stifled a laugh as he took a sip from his coffee cup. Alfred always liked to see him smile. It reminded him of how young Bruce actually was. Only thirty years old and not that far removed from the sad little boy Phillip had brought home all those years ago.

“While that situation develops, I’m turning my focus towards Gordon’s tip.”

He sat his cup down beside the keyboard and brought up another mugshot. This one showed a surly, long haired man with an iron cross tattoo on his cheek and a tattoo around his throat that read “Make America White Again.” The corner of the photo stamped the picture as having been taken at Belle Reve Federal Penitentiary.

“Arthur Blackwood,” said Bruce. “President of the Gotham Chapter of the Crusaders Motorcycle Club and a registered metahuman. Blackwood and the club are on just about every law enforcement radar. ATF, FBI, some organization known as ARGUS that monitors metahuman activity. The three agencies have an ongoing investigation into the club. Operation: Templar. They’re in the process of trying to get surveillance and search warrants on Blackwood and his club.”

“And you know this how?”

“The ATF agent in charge of the operation uses ‘password123’ as his password for everything.”

Alfred watched as Bruce scrolled through pictures of guns that had been recovered as Gotham crime scenes. Automatic weapons, high-powered handguns, grenades. Even a few rocket launchers. It was equipment that belonged on a battlefield and nowhere near a drug dealer's reach.

“The Crusaders are running guns into the city for Jefferson Skeevers and his men. Gordon thinks that Skeevers is going to try to take over drug markets in the Finger Homes.”

“That’s Falcone territory,” Alfred said with a look towards one of the maps on the monitors. The city block sized housing project had been painted grey on the map, marking it as Italian mafia turf. “Or Maroni territory. Whichever mobster is at the helm these days.”

“If Skeevers goes into the Finger with those kinds of weapons--”

“I can only imagine,” said Alfred. “What are you going to do?”

Bruce turned back to the computer.

“The ATF need more probable cause to raid the Crusaders clubhouse. According to their surveillance, Blackwood and a few of the bikers are coming back into town tonight after a run out west. Based on the conjecture, they’re going to be packing heavy equipment.”

Alfred’s eyes fell on the bike.

“Tonight I’m going to give the authorities all the probable cause they need,” said Bruce.

---

Financial District
4:23 PM

To Selina, Fred Stickley lived up to his surname. His suit was very baggy on his pencil-thin frame. An equally thin mustache ran across his upper lip and his thinning hair was styled in a way that tried to hide the inevitable baldness that was coming for him, but only ended up drawing more attention to it. Stickley held Selina’s business card in his hands. He looked it over with a curious glance before motioning her to follow him down the hallway.

“While it is highly irregular for me to discuss the business of Heed, McElroy, & Standler, Mr. Thorne’s name does open a lot of doors.”

She followed Stickley down the halls. For a non-descript downtown investment firm, the building was richly decorated with plush carpets and the mahogany walls had tasteful art mounted on them, art that Selin'as trained eye knew had to be worth at least six figures to the right fence. With the basic corporate security in charge of protecting the building, it would only take her less than fifteen minutes to get in and out with all the paintings. She added the office to her mental list of jobs she could pull if she ever needed fast cash.

“So,” Stickley said once they were in his corner office. He took his seat behind the desk while Selina sat down across from him. “What is it that I can help you, and by extension, Mr. Thorne with?”

“You’re money launderers, right?” Selina asked with no preamble.

Stickley’s face turned red so quickly that Selina was worried the man had had a stroke.

“I don’t-- I--- How dare you--”

“Thorne said as much without saying it,” she said, raising a hand. “The decor here is too upscale for you to be just a regular hedgefund office. You court high-end clientele, or at least people who think they are. Despite the flash you show behind the door, you're not publicly known the way the bigger firms are. The small footprint is a selling point to people who appreciate you being quiet. Plus there’s the fact that Rupert Thorne is one of your clients. If you do business with a man like that, then there’s no telling who else you do business with.”

“I will not sit here and take this kind of slander,” Stickley shouted.

“I don’t care what you do, Mr. Stickley," she said with a sigh. "I’ve got a job to do. And a client who is paying me a lot of money to help him. I just want to know how Thorne is getting blackmailed over his financial records. Records that your firm only has access to, recoards you're responsible for safekeeping.”

Stickley moaned and rubbed his temples. He shook his head before reaching into the drawer of his desk and pulling out a bottle of scotch and two glasses. He poured both glasses full to the brim.

“No thanks,” said Selina.

“I wasn’t offering,” Stickley said as he downed one glass, then the other. “What I say to you does not leave this room,” he said after a scotch-soaked burp. "This firm has built its business and its reputation on anonymity and discretion. Our clients come to us for that.”

Selina spread her hands.

“I understand. I travel in similar circles, I get it.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Two weeks ago our database was hacked by someone. Information on all our clients, their accounts, and where their money comes from and where it goes, was all taken. So far none of it has been siphoned off by the hacker. But the letters aren’t unique. Mr. Thorne isn’t the first to be blackmailed. There are a lot of people out there, Ms. Kyle, very powerful, very rich, and very angry. It's been a disaster for the firm, but so far we've done a good job keeping a lid on it. Everyone thinks that they're the only ones."

Selina leaned forward. “Tell me about the other letters, Mr. Stickley-- Fred.”

He shrugged. “I can’t. I don’t know any information in regards to the blackmail attempts, just that they’re occurring. I can show you the email I received after the hack.”

A few moments later, she was looking down at Stickley’s phone. The email had been sent from a dummy account, but the message was written in that same ugly green font.



Selina looked up from the phone. She passed it back to Stickley before she stood.

“Thank you for your time.”

“What are you going to do now,” he asked sheepishly.

“I have an idea. And I have a friend who can help.”

---

Unincorporated Gotham
9:30 PM

A small fleet of motorcycles roared down the expressway. They formed a diamond shape as they took up three lanes of traffic. In the center of the diamond was a cargo van. At the tip of the diamond rode Blackwood. They were now in the home stretch after a thirty hour ride from Houston. They only stopped for gas and bathroom breaks, eating in between gassing and pissing. The longer they delayed their return, the greater the chance there was for something to go sideways on the trip back home. And there was no way in hell Blackwood was going to risk something going wrong.

The cargo van was loaded down with the finest weapons on the black market. Some of the last weapons Stark Industries had produced before they shut it all down. As much as Blackwood had paid for the guns, he knew Skeevers would pay ten times as much for them. Some of the club didn’t like doing business with him, but Blackwood told them to fuck off. This was America, after all. Skeevers money spent as good as anyone else's. As much as he obsessed over race, green was his favorite color. The way he saw it was that if he could make money and help a few niggers wipe each other out, well that was a win-win for him.

Blackwood held his hand out and signaled the other bikers to slow. They were finally back home in Billyland. The name had been derisively given to this part of Unincorporated Gotham, the place where the people from Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia had migrated to in search of jobs after World War II. With its trailer parks and white trash, Billyland clung tightly to its reputation as a place that no upstanding Gothamite ever ventured to.

Something passed overhead and caused Blackwood to look up. A small object flew in the sky above the convoy and matched its speed. It took him a few moments, but then he figured out just what it was. A drone. Painted jet black and… in the shape of a bat.

“Oh, fuck,” said Blackwood.

He heard a roar from behind. The sound of yelling was loud enough to be heard over the engine of his bike. Gunshots rang out, the squeal of tires, and then the crunch of metal. Blackwood looked back and saw Little Walter's bike sliding towards the concrete median of the expressway, Little Walter clinging to it as it slid. Blackwood looked forward again and kept one hand on the handlebars while the other reached down and pulled a shotgun from the holster mounted on the side of his chopper. He looked back over his shoulder and saw another bike barreling down on him.



“Fuck!” he screamed as he opened fire with the shotgun.

T H E F O R B I D D E N A S T E R O I D S

---

The motley fleet was an assortment of vessels of all manner of size, shape, or configuration. The elegance of Galadorian Spaceknights. The vibrant colors of the Majesdanian Light Brigade. The utilitarian Okaaran design. The sophistication of the Kymellian Technomancy.

The Smartship Friday was moored in a berth alongside one of the Galadorian vessels -- a massive, floating cathedral in space. Banners of each of the star nations participating in the League of Non-Aligned Worlds streamed from parapets, denoting that the floating fortress was host to the interstellar council.

“The Skrull losses at Jagga IV constitutes the bulk of the XVth Legion.”

G’Kar stood in the center of the theater-in-the-round that had been re-purposed into a large assembly. Along one side, the various delegates representing Galador, Kymellia, Majesdane, and Okaara conferred in a raised balcony that afforded them a measure of privacy in their counsel. Meanwhile, the lower pit was stacked with resistance fighters composed of each of those nations, and still more worlds. Some of which, were unknown to the wider galaxy.

Such as the human from Earth.

The young Billy was seated behind where G’Kar was facing the assembled council delegates. The dark haired youth had changed into a Galadorian tunic that looked like it might have come from Earth’s own Medieval era, even being cinched at the waist with a double-wrap belt. The sleeves were rolled back, revealing the bronze-looking gauntlets that encircled his wrists.

Alora, the Majesdanian teen with the rainbow colored hair, was seated beside him. Her Majesdanian clothes loose and free-flowing, shimmering and sparkling as though infused with light and color. When they had met, Alora couldn’t believe that Billy had black hair. It seemed that Majesdane had next to no concept of ‘black’. The absence of color seemed the antithesis of Majesdanian culture.

G’Kar, the warrior-poet, was garbed in leather studded robes that added both a scholastic and a huntsman quality to the larger-than-life figure. A pair of small, wire-framed spectacles were continuously placed and removed from his face, as the Warlord commanded the strategic intelligence briefing that was now underway.

“Remaining forces are being incorporated into the XIVth and XVIIth,” the Okaaran remarked, as a holographic rendering of the Andromeda Galaxy was rotated to highlight a particular area. Gesturing to the highlighted section, G’Kar added, “The deployment suggests a possible vulnerability near Karankathara.”

Pausing there, the hologram faded as the Okaaran took a step closer toward where the council sat in judgment overhead. Removing his glasses and tucking them away, G’Kar offered, “If we are going to press for the liberation of the Makluans, we may never get a better opportunity.”

“Your counsel is appreciated, as always, G’Kar. But I am wary to commit further lives toward short-termed gains.”

Leaning forward, the head of a white stallion appeared. He looked like Billy imagined an older Kofi would appear, and with good reason. Aelfyre Whitemane was Kofi’s uncle.

As for Kofi, the young horse-boy was seated beside Aelfyre. A silent witness to the assembly so that he could learn from his uncle how to represent Kymellia and extend its influence over other races -- without resorting to military conquest. Like the Okaarans, the Kymellians were philosopher kings. Though, where the Okaarans had a martial philosophy, the Kymellian was more metaphysical. “We are fighting on the Skrull’s territory. They would only re-group and re-commit their forces knowing that we have spread ourselves thin.”

Crossing his arms before his chest, G’Kar craned his head back as he addressed Aelfyre. “Which is why cementing allies in this region remains of paramount importance to holding the Skrull Empire in check,” the warlord countered in a matter-of-fact tone. “We cannot do that without actions that reinforce our words.”

“A fair observation,” Aelfyre replied in kind. It sounded conciliatory, but Billy understood that the horse-lord was really just signaling that the debate was over. True to form, the Kymellian changed the subject. “The council will take your words under consideration, Warlord. In the meantime, we have another situation.”

Taking the hint, G’Kar withdrew to the audience -- taking a seat on the other side of Billy -- as a holographic image of a planet appeared in the center of the assembly room. “We have lost communication with Tolmeria,” Aelfyre announced.

Why did everyone just drop named like that? Did everybody in the universe have the planetary atlas memorized in grade school? “What’s a Tolmeria?” Billy muttered quietly.

The link clipped to Billy’s ear bleeped to life, as Friday’s voice whispered back, “Tolmeria is a Class-One planet in another part of the Andromeda Galaxy that is home to a civilization.”

“...data lends itself to no conclusions at present, but we cannot rule out the possibility of the Empire solidifying new gains here to reinforce their war efforts.”

So they were going to investigate why the Tolmerians weren’t picked up the phone? “Sounds like a trip for biscuits to me,” Billy offered, sitting forward as he gave a shrug of his shoulders. “I feel sorry for the poor joe they stick with that job.”

“BillyBatson.”

Blinking, the human boy looked up -- only to find that everyone in the room was now looking at him. “We’re assigning this task to you.”

As the assembly continued, Alora leaned over to whisper, “I’m sure its nothing.”

G’Kar gave a gruff sound. Without turning his head, the Okaaran merely said, “If they believed that, I doubt they’d be sending our most powerful weapon.”

---

Matthew took a deep breath as he and Kate stood in the square outside the courthouse, having been ushered out by the police when they had secured the scene. Vincent Donatella, the defendant that Spencer and Murdock had hoped to pressure into spilling some big secrets, had been discovered dead by his mob lawyer in the defense chamber, hanging from the light fixture by his own tie. An obvious suicide, the police said. Obviously suspicious, Murdock thought. The corpse, and the room, had reeked of that cologne-and-leather combination that Matt now knew was the hallmark of the mysterious gentleman he'd glimpsed earlier that day, and that hadn't made a single appearance before or since. The man was obviously suspect. Probably mob-connected. Probably higher than Vincent had been. Matthew had no doubt that the accused had indeed hung himself; but there was no way it had been an independent decision. But regardless of who was responsible, there was only one outcome: a dead man, and a dead lead with him.

The trial had been thrown out and a new investigation now begun; Murdock and Spencer went through their questioning and witness statements, as did the mob lawyer. Kate had fled the scene to her preferred bar the second she'd been granted release by the pair of detectives assigned to the scene; Matt had hung around, ostensibly awaiting the arrival of Foggy and Karen, but surreptitiously eavesdropping and gathering information as best he could. The uniform cops knew very little, only basic details and what perimeter to keep around the crime scene as forensics had their way with it; the detectives were either dumb or playing as such, their questions meandering and aimless. Across the square, Matt could hear the two of them muttering between themselves, pondering about where the line for 'bare minimum' rested for such a case - it was clear neither of them thought there was much investigation needed for such an open-and-shut case. The cynic in Matt just dryly assumed they were lazy and poor detectives. The Devil in Matt wondered who had paid them to think as such.

He smelt Karen and Foggy approaching before he heard their footsteps and he waited until their voices were within reasonable earshot before he turned and smiled, waving awkwardly. Karen waved back and then blushed, and Foggy chuckled.

"Thank you for coming, you two. Foggy, I'm sorry to pull you out of the office again."

Foggy scoffed and punched Matt lightly on the arm. "Shut it, Murdock. You know I'm only practicing my quarters game in there most days. Marianne never gives me anything when you've got something big on, you know that."

Matt sighed. "And I'm sorry about that, too. Kate dressed me down for involving you today, and she was right to, though not for the reasons she thinks. I shouldn't involve you if it's jeopardizing your career."

"Don't worry about my career, man. Cum Laude, remember? Marianne might not make me partner in the next five years, but she's not firing me either." Foggy put a hand on Matt's shoulder to reassure him, and Matt nodded. "Plus they pay me whether I'm working a trial or not, so it all works out at about the same amount of drinking anyway. Speaking of...?"

"Yes!" Karen interjected, enthusiasm in her voice. "I rang Kate on the way over to ask about post-trial cleanup and she's neck-deep already - probably drinking away her anger - so if both my bosses are drunk I've got free reign."

"Now that is courtroom thinking right there." Foggy quipped. "I'd be careful, Matt, Karen's a lot prettier than you. Kate might find herself working with a new ADA."

They all chuckled, and Matt considered it - but 100 meters behind him and to the left, in an oft-overlooked alcove in the exterior of the courthouse building, he had been listening to the distinctive tick tick of a Patek Phillipe model 5327G watch, and had caught a whiff of a particular cologne. They had lowered their voices and were talking politely and nonchalantly, but there was no mistaking; this was the mysterious man Matthew had last witnessed leaving the defense chamber, and here he was again, post-crime, privately discussing a seemingly inane matter with the mob lawyer.

^{"Some terrible rain today, I hear; though not a cloud in sight?"}

"There's been a mild shower uptown, but it's cleared up nicely. Should be sunny days."

^{"How lovely. I do appreciate optimism when I see it. Still, pragmatism has its virtues."}

"You'd be forgiven for doing what you had to the way things are goin' these days."

^{"And one must do what they need to to get by. It can be difficult out there by yourself."}

"What if I found myself needin' some friends?"

^{"I would find yourself a good bar; I find companionship flows like water, where alcohol is involved."}

"Any recommendations?"

^{"34th and Lexington, downtown. Ask for a house special, with a sour twist. They'll get you what you need."}

"Thanks. Sounds like a good place. I'll have to check it out."

^{"You're very welcome. Have a wonderful night. Best of luck to you."}

They parted, and Matt took a private moment to internalize the address and process the conversation. Innocuous, even with context, but a subtext barely masked below the surface. He was brought back by Foggy giving him a light shove. He'd been out for a few seconds, focused elsewhere.

"Sorry, Foggy. I'd love to, but I can't; previous arrangements with El. She's forcing me to take her to dinner."

Foggy shook his head, but smiled at the same time. Karen looked away slightly. "No worries, man. I'm sure she really bent your arm on that one. You need a cab?"

"No, you two go ahead and enjoy your afternoon, evening, night - wherever you end up. I'm going to walk back to the apartment and freshen up. I could do with clearing my head after today."

"Yeah, I bet." Karen said, compassion in her tone. "Out of the blue, that one. What a tragedy. You know he had a daughter?"

Foggy took Karen by the arm. "I'm sure we're all aware. We'll see you later Matt; call if you need us to uh, 'rescue' you from your hostage dinner."

Matt laughed and waved again as they walked away arm-in-arm towards the local favourite, then turned away and began walking in the opposite direction. He reached the street and walked south, the sounds of the city - footsteps, chatter, engines, birds - painting the world around him, each noise exploding out from its source in maroon eruptions in his mind and drenching its immediate surrounding in lines and edges, carving out the shapes of buildings, cars, and people from the blackness that lay just behind it. The heat on his skin felt like blurred auras of the things around him; moving, throbbing blobs of engine blocks as the pistons exploded petrol over and over, every person a warm presence in a very literal sense, balls of heat brushing past him on all sides. The city oozed and pulsed and Matt felt every inch of it. He shared his lungs with it and it breathed with him, almost for him. He could sense the pulse of Hell's Kitchen; feel it through the soles of his shoes, smell it in the air, hear it surrounding him. A city's heartbeat, thumping and thudding and throbbing through every fibre of Matt's being - and in his core, he could feel the venom poisoning his city's heart, the corruption coursing through the streets. The courthouse was not exempt, and Matthew had been a fool to believe it could be. No more. Not again. He couldn't allow the men who hid in shadows to harm the innocent any longer. The Devil would bring their punishment.

Matthew headed home.

-

He had completed a cursory sweep of his apartment when he'd returned home, and found it empty, Elektra having left shortly after Matthew, and clearly still out. Certain he'd been alone, he had opened a hidden compartment beneath his bedroom floor, wherein he had stashed the Devil; and then he was out into the early evening, the sun setting on his back as he leapt across rooftops and dropped down walls, testing the retractable wire in his batons as he went. He made it eight blocks before the cellphone on his belt buzzed, and he paused, ducking low and pushing himself up against the rooftop water tank as he undid the clasps of his helmet and removed it with one hand and fetched the phone from its pouch with the other. He pressed a button on the side of the device, and a quiet, robotic monotone spoke the single word, 'ELEKTRA'. Matt swore underneath his breath.

"Hi, honey." He said, wincing. He hoped she couldn't hear it in his voice, but he was bad at lying to her.

"Am I to assume I am dining alone, tonight?"

Ah.

"Oh god, El, I com-"

"-pletely forgot? This is far from the first time. The wine is quite good here, you know."

Shit.

"Today's trial, El, it didn't go exactly to-"

"Plan? No, I hear it didn't. You're mourning a tragic loss?"

Oh, god save him.

"I'm sorry babe, Kate has got me-"

"Kate also thinks the wine here is rather agreeable."

There was a pause that neither of them felt comfortable filling. Matt could hear Kate's wry, wine-fueled laugh in the background of the call, and more importantly he could not hear Elektra as she quietly seethed.

"I'm...busy. I've got to get this done. I'm sorry, El."

There was a pause.

"That's it?" She asked, with more than a hint of defeat about her tone. Matt's disappointments had long since passed incredulity.

"It's important."

"More important than this?"

Another pause. Matt heard Elektra sigh.

"Don't answer that." She said, and then hung up. Matt swore and stood, punching the water tank hard, leaving his hand against the wall to feel the ripples of the resevoir inside bouncing off themselves before calming back to still water. He turned his helmet over and over in his hands, feeling the curvature, pushing his thumbs down on the tips of the horns. This was important. The Devil was important. What he could accomplish, was important.

More important than Matthew Murdock's happiness? He asked himself.

This is Matthew Murdock's happiness. The horns answered back.

He put his helmet back on and took off running. The sun set on the Devil, and he leapt into the night.

_{20,000 ft. above the Atlantic Ocean - Present Day, 1200 Hrs}

Issue 1.01.3: Fury

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_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Issue 1.01.2: The Cruel Sea

As per usual, Fury seemed to be the last one at the meeting. Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Sharon Carter, and Tony Masters were sitting in anticipation. This was the first time in months that the officers in Fury’s Howling Commandos regiment had gathered together for a meeting. To be fair, this was also Lt. Tony Masters’ first time having a direct meeting with the other SHIELD legends. Just as the time hit noon, Fury strolled into the small room and took his position at the holotable. He muttered under his breath something about a meeting with Director Mace on the Trasnia incident as a few taps brought to life various security camera and cell phone recordings of the Vatican incident. Civilians were trapped under hunks of burning debris, there were swarms of panicked crowds, and the isolated attacks by disguised terrorists. Fury seemed to hesitate before his gaze rose towards the others. ”I do not believe I need to remind you all that what is said in this room does not leave this room.” There was a small moment of silence which Fury seemed to take as a sign of acknowledgement before continuing. ”SHIELD has a leak.”

Everyone seemed to tense up in that moment. Sharon gave an instinctive look towards Romanoff as she sat up in her chair, and Natasha responded in kind with an eye roll and slinking back a little. Steve’s expression was one of concern, and Masters took a deep breath as he continued staring at Fury. After a moment, Fury’s speech continued as relevant footage was highlighted and shown for the others when necessary. ”The Italian Government and AISE have been extremely cooperative in recovering what was left of the Aeneid. From what our forensics and tech crews have been able to establish, the helicarrier was destroyed via a network of explosive devices that were simultaneously detonated.”

Natasha was the first to speak up. ”So your presumption is that some outside organization planted operatives within that helicarrier just to destroy it? That seems a little wasteful, Fury.”

Fury gave a small smile. ”It seems to be too big of a move for this to be a simple attack. From preliminary analysis, it appears that the attack was being used as a way to bury evidence.” With a flick of his hand, headshots of three individuals appeared. ”A few assets of Director Mace’s Initiative Project were on board, and their bodies have not been recovered. Terrance Ward, codename Trauma, was a shapeshifting mutant. Sgt. Joseph Green, codename Gauntlet, came in contact with some sort of alien armor that has permanently bonded to his flesh. Rina Patel, codename Timeslip, is perhaps the most dangerous of the bunch as her temporal powers have not been entirely defined.”

Fury lowered the headshots and then threw one more up, one that the Howling Commandos recognized on sight. He gave a small sigh. ”Phineas Mason, codenamed the Tinkerer, was not on board at the time but was instead assisting on a job to upgrade the AISE’s communications network. The attack on the helicarrier took place when he was leaving for the assignment, and the convoy was lost in the commotion." Fury seemed to linger on the image as he continued speaking, eventually sliding up a single drawn image. ”There was a single survivor, but he has been placed into a medically-induced coma. I managed to call in a favor to a telepath friend of mine, and a single clear image was able to be pieced together from his memory. It appears he had discovered one of the bombs just seconds before detonation, and… well, that symbol was on the package.”

Steve, Natasha, and Sharon began to grind their teeth at the sight of the familiar emblem. While usually the most level headed, Rogers shot out of his chair in the process and stepped away from his seat to pace momentarily. Tony tilted his head slightly as he looked at the image, and was the only one who dared speak. ”Sorry, Colonel, but I don’t believe I’m familiar with the design.”

Steve was the one to respond, and his voice oozed with anguish as he spoke. ”HYDRA… they’re back.”

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”You’re lucky she only grounded you for a week!” Gwen Stacy shouldered open the glass revolving door that led to ESU’s Biological Studies Lab. Peter shrugged behind her, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Yeah. I figure she’s only letting me off the hook now for Connors’ sake.” He pushed through the cold glass. It’d been months now, but still, every time he entered Connors’ lab, his eyes went wide and his heart throbbed in his chest. The forefront of science. It made him think of when Ben and May had managed to scrape enough money together to take him to Disney World, bounding through the boulevards and trying to see everything he could. He had fixated on Tomorrowland, seeing some spectacular vision of the future carrying humanity off and beyond. And here? He could make that future.

Hanging rows of interwoven greenery spread through the lab in a vast web, each little island of pots and soil seeming to reach out for the others and wave. Rows upon rows of lizards and assorted life danced in glass cages that lined the walls, feasting and sleeping, while little mechanisms dumped endless gigabytes of biological feedback through microcomputers Peter had rigged. Lines of epoxy resin tables marked the path up and down the lab, each scuffed with memories of little lab accidents, all stacked high with readouts and precarious racks of test tubes. But dominating the room was something new -- it was a massive, black crate, marked with hazard lines and projecting the steady hum of a cooling unit against the linoleum floors. There was a rush of lab coats around it, as Mrs. Connors and Michael Morbius prepared cooling of their own, a container likely pilfered from the Medical Department, lined with gadgets and gizmos and a healthy supply of Connors’ formula.

The doctor himself stood towards the back, firmly pressing his daily comic strip to a battered bulletin board with one hand, while his hard plastic prosthetic jerked the fine nub of a pin in wide circles around the comic, trying to attach it without skewering himself.

“Doktor, the children have arrived. May we begin?” Morbius didn’t look up from his work as Peter trailed behind Gwen into the lab.

“We still need everyone coated up, Mich--” Connors turned from the board, his eyes were green, and they lit with excitement. “Peter! Great of you to come!” He waved with his real hand and the comic dropped, pinwheeling to the ground. Connors sighed and shook his head, but his eyes betrayed his smile as they came up to meet Peter.

“You know me, Doc. Only so long I can sit around.” Peter pulled his lab coat off the hook, still splayed with stains from his first and last attempt at using the centrifuge unsupervised. It was almost a badge of honor, now.

”Are you sure it’s no hassle for you to be here, son?” Connors weaved around Gwen as she passed to talk to Mrs. Connors and Morbius, holding a pair of tremendous goggles in his hand.

“No trouble at all. Gotta come back to work sometime, right? It’s been a few weeks, and science stops for no one.” Peter accepted the thick plastic lens and pulled them over his head, pushing back his hairline. ”What’re we up to today?”

”Well, while you were gone, Michael and I heard back from the review board -- we’ve finally received a grant! This is the first batch of stem-cells!” Connors gestured to the black crate.

“Doktor Connors insisted we wait for you before we open it, Parker.” Morbius’ thick Eastern European accent floated across the lab. He leaned back against the countertop, strands of black hair dropped across his head and he swept them back. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

Lovely manners Morbius, they teach you that in Markovia, too? Peter bowed his head and stepped in beside Gwen. Dr. Connors whirled off to his office as Mrs. Connors tended to final preparation on the crate, beginning to cycle down its internal power supply.

“Did Doc Connors say we’re getting rid of the lizards? With the new stem cell direction, and everything?” Peter asked Gwen as his eyes flitted away from the box of stem cells, back to the cages embedded in the otherwise placid white color of the wall. They idled in their cages, picking at the faux scenery and nibbling at the scraps of food automatically dropped to them.

“Why do you ask? Still afraid they’ll bite ‘cha?” Gwen grinned at him, playing at gnashing her teeth.

Peter rubbed at a tiny scar at the base of his pinky finger. “...No.”

“Well, there’s no sense in depriving them of a good home. Besides, we don’t really need the space.” Mrs. Connors said. She pulled a clipboard from the side of the crate and began double checking it against a list she held in her other hand.

“I just thought that Doctor Connors would -- er, Curt -- uh, I mean, Mr. Doc Connors would --” Peter’s words came out of his mouth faster than he could catch them, but Mrs. Connors laughed and waved it off.

“They’re a little part of the family, now, like you kids.” She said. Across the lab, the thin wood of Doctor Connors’ office doot swung open, and he stood in the frame, holding aloft a small key like a holy artifact, his blade to seal the darkness. Morbius rolled his eyes and leaned back, crossing his arms.

“Mine eyes can but weep as they bear witness to the majesty… The Big Key 9000.” Peter whispered. Gwen smacked his arm and chuckled softly, it was a sharp, melodious sort of laugh. Peter leaned back against the counter as Connors made his way to the crate.

“Everyone ready?” His smile was wide and his eyes were alive with color, as he propped the lock up with his prosthetic.

“Ready when you are, Doctor Connors.” Peter said.

“Here’s to the future.” Connors said. The key pressed into the lock.

“To the future!”



“Ju kan’t just inveynt a de-liv-a-rey mekan-ey-sim like zat, Doktor Conn-ors.” Peter rolled his shoulders and pumped his eyebrows as he swung the tails of his labcoat around as a great cloak. “For I am ze great Morbius! Science Wizard!”

“It is just as zey taught me in Markoviaaaa!” Gwen could barely get through the line. She laughed with her whole body as Peter wiped the tears out of his eyes and tried to steady himself enough to take another bite of his food. Their little nook was a section of lab table, cleared of assorted microscopes and tubes to make way for bag lunches. Morbius had left to get outside food, undoubtedly mumbling something unflattering about the chill-drun as he left, while the Connors idly chatted in Curt’s office.

“Oh, man. Do you think that guy ever asks himself how much Markovia is too much?”

“He’d need a hint of self awareness for that. The real question is how Connors puts up with him.” Gwen tucked her hair back behind her ears. It was getting long again, Peter noticed.

“The man’s a saint! The Bob Ross of science.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. Parker.” Connors office door clunked close as the man himself stepped out. He’d taken the prosthetic off now, the arm of his coat was folded up to his side.

“And humble!” Peter said.

“Is lunch over now, Doctor Connors? I still need to set up my station, and --” Gwen was already collecting her lunch and sweeping food debris off of the table.

“Oh, no, Gwen. Uh, Martha was actually hoping to speak with you, in my office?”

“Oh, um. Sure. Right away.” Gwen scooped up her lunch and nodded to Peter, skirting around Connors and making her way to the lab. Connors sat in her stool as she left, and it seemed to take a great weight from his shoulders as he sat. He propped on elbow up on the table.His joints creaked as he moved, and Peter saw the wrinkles already starting to appear on his face. The only sound was the soft trills of the lizards. Connors cleared his throat.

“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you, Peter.”

“Oh.” Peter said. He swallowed. “If it’s the Morbius thing, I--”

“No, no, nothing like that. That’s just how kids get, sometimes. I actually wanted to thank you for coming in today.”

“It’s no problem at all, Doctor Connors.”

“I just don’t want you to feel obligated to--”

“It’s fine, Doctor. Sometimes things just… Happen, I guess.” Peter shrugged.

“I suppose so, Peter. Uh, otherwise, Martha’s telling Gwen in there, but I thought I would let you know that Martha and I have a little one on the way, now.”

“Really? That’s great, Doc! Congratulations!” Peter could practically hear Gwen’s squeals of excitement from the office as he shook Connors’ hand.

“We’ve known a little while, but we thought maybe you kids would like to know.” Connors said. He shifted in his seat. “And, you should know, I’ll be just as available to you as a mentor. If you need to talk--”

“It means a lot, Doc. Really.” Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. “Sorry. I think I need to take this. My Aunt.”

“Hello? Aunt May?” Peter answered.

“Peter? It’s Ben, he’s --”

“Oh, God--”

“No! Peter, he’s waking up.”

Life as the BatGirl

Issue # 2

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BEEP beep BEEP beep BEEP beep...came the most annoying sound in the entire world at that moment. Barbara Gordon forced her eyes open but had to blink furiously to try and escape from the land of dreams and pillows. She resisted the urge to hit that ever beautiful snooze button and let the alarm ring out its wake up chorus. If she gave into temptation, it would just make it that much harder to get up for the day.

"Mornings after a night patrol, are the worst." Barbara grumbled as she somehow managed to push herself out of her sweet, sweet bed. Gravity and morning head fog tried to bring her back down but she was the Batgirl! No matter the challenge or the opponent she was going to overcome it, or something...ya, no that was a stupid thought.

She managed to crawl out and only then did she turn off the morning dread machine. Stumbling to the shared bathroom between her and her dorm neighbor she went over to the sink and gave herself a good splash of cold water. The frigid cold immediately cleared the fog from her head and soon she got a good look at the mirror.

"You look like crap Barbara, better get ready before anyone can notice." Barbara looked at her face, nasty black bags under her eyes, her hair had decided on a somewhat punk look with odd strands shooting all over the place, it was the typical face of a person who had only managed about three hours of sleep. She always felt accomplished after a night run but boy did she have to face the consequences in the morning.

A quick shower, an intense hair brushing and blow drying session, and a some makeup application later, Barbara Gordon was transformed from the walking dead to the pride of the Gotham University gymnastics team. With a bright smile, radiant features, glossy red hair, and the poise of a champion Barbara was a proud athlete and tech savvy extraordinaire of Gotham-U. It was amazing what a little time, effort, and makeup could do for a person.

First on the agenda was gymnastics practice, this was a very important part of the day as it helped stretch out her body, wake her up, and give her that needed exercise to keep in tip-top shape. Gymnastics was one of the extra-curricular activities that she had always tried to keep a spot in her schedule, the acrobatics were very important for making sure she was ready for some Batgirl action at any time. Often times she would be scouted because of her skill but while the potential at gaining medals was appealing if she wanted to make an actual difference in the world she had to decline least her precious time as Batgirl be taken away. She wasn't able to go out that much as it was with all the other things she had to keep up on.

After that were classes, social engagements, lunch, studying, and so on that went on at University. It was a busy hectic life for Barbara Gordon and this was just the start of the day. After her morning was over it was on to the GCPD for her internship. Due to her school life she only had time for three days a week where she went to the GCPD, today being one of them, but first she had to drop by the alleyway where the murder had happened to retrieve her bug and search for evidence. This of course added quite an extra leg to her trip so she had to be quick and efficient.

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With the side trip done it was off to the Police Department to help soothe their weary computer woes. All the new equipment was an absolute nightmare for the older members so having a young one with incredible tech experience was an absolute god sent for them. The department had to keep up with the times but cranky old men didn't change very well with them. While she enjoyed her work one of the main reasons she was here was for the easy access to police records and labs. Of course she had to be very careful to avoid being caught when she did; thankfully, her computer skills were up there with the best hackers so it wasn't too much of a problem when you had insider access.

Soon enough Barbara had gotten into the network and was busy going over the forensics of the case. The lab techs had done a very good job, everything from the type of knife used, the time of death down to a few minutes, even what the man had been eating that night. Well interesting or just downright useless, Barbara was seeing if there was something that could have easily been overlooked, a seemingly insignificant thing that could be a clue. The problem was Barbara wasn’t sure what exactly she was looking for, if it had been anything electronic it would be a snap but CSI work was a little outside her expertise.

She was taking a closer look at some of the items of the case when she heard someone approaching the room. Well she could potentially bluff her way out, as a simple techie she really wasn’t supposed to be in there so Barbara quickly hid herself. In walked in Detective Ellen Yin, the young Asian woman had only recently transferred over to the GCPD from Metropolis. Barbara had briefly talked with her before but never for long as Yin was always quite busy with her work.

“Strange, I thought no one was using this room until later, guess someone wanted an early start like me. Well that just makes things quicker for me.” Yin commented as she sat down at the computer Barbara had been using earlier. “Whoever was looking at the evidence last had some interesting ideas; maybe there is something that was overlooked.”

Yin poured over the information while Barbara tried desperately to not make any sounds or movements from her hiding spot at the back of the lab. Yin’s eyes narrowed as something caught her attention, “Could it be?” Yin zoomed in on something and then brought up a tab to do a quick search while Barbara tried not to let her curiosity get the better of her. “It’s only a hunch though so I can’t be sure, I’ll do a preliminary check and if it pans out I can get the rest of the department behind me.”

Yin quickly closed everything and headed out. Barbara waited until she was certain before slinking back into the open. She went back over to the computer and quickly brought back up everything that Yin had been looked at before. At first Barbara wasn’t sure what to make of it but then the pieces started clicking together.

“I suppose that’s a real detective for ya. Guess I’ll be working overtime, oh boy tomorrow is gonna be rough.” Barbara made sure to leave no evidence she had been in the lab and then left. She had a detective to tail.

The last image on the screen before it was shut down was that of a small pink button with what appeared to be two small letters, initials, but the button was too old and scratched to make it out…