Viceroy City was a crumbling husk of civilization. Back in the 50s it had been a bustling hub of activity, boasting over fifty thousand residents and acting as the seat of over a dozen corporate headquarters. The financial and political elite of the city were some of most important rising stars of the period- speculation had even been made that it might one day rival New York City in terms of economic and cultural importance.

It couldn't last forever.

Greed had rooted itself into the very foundations of Viceroy City. Everyone, from the highest offices to the lowest of the low, had become embroiled in a race for vanity and power. Not a single soul was clean of that dark influence, and for that reason powers beyond our understanding decided to intervene. Calamity befell Viceroy. A natural disaster, followed by a financial crash, culminated in political upheaval so widespread and violent that the city never recovered.

Much of the suburbs lay abandoned. Smashed windows, overturned cars and the crumbling remains of burned-out homes marred the outer layers of Viceroy, and traveling deeper within the city only revealed further disrepair. Entire office buildings were empty. Businesses on every corner boarded up, many of their 'for sale' signs covered in profane graffiti or rubbed clean of anything assembling words. Any business with a lick of sense had moved over to Greenville and hadn't looked back. Less than ten thousand people remain, those still there either too poor or too stubborn to leave with everyone else.

The Viceroy City Police Department was one of the last remaining vestiges of authority in town, but even they were faltering. It was 8:30 PM and the station was nearly empty, every cop on their payroll busy dealing with some altercation, accident or some such. There was barely a skeleton crew remaining to deal with everything from phone calls, walk-ins, and all sorts of administrative duties.

That beleaguered staff couldn't really be blamed, then, for not noticing the sudden flash of light coming from inside the supply closet.

An odd man wrapped up in a fine suit of emerald fabric stepped out of the threshold first, a cigar jammed between impossibly perfect teeth- it's smoke was wafting up toward that smattering of ginger and white locks he called hair. He took a step to the side of the hall and pulled the door further open, motioning for another figure to join him.

Kent Nelson gave a reluctant shake of his head as he stepped out of the portal and into the dirty and rundown police station. It'd been decades since the last time he remembered getting Displacement Sickness- teleportation had once been trivial for the famed Doctor Fate. But Kent, the old magician with sagging jowls, deep wrinkles and arthritis in his hands? It was quite another matter entirely.

"Don' mind the stench," Corrigan chuckled, letting go of the door a second too soon, allowing it to smack up against Nelson's shoulder as he shuffled inside. "Think that's just the rats. Nothin' 'ta worry about, 'ol pal."

"The odor isn't what concerns me." Nelson mumbled. He could feel his connection to Order weakening by the second. There was a thick, repugnant power in the air that was stifling Fate's ability to commune with Nabu. It made him feel uneasy, like a thousand eyes were staring daggers into his back. A shaky hand found it's way into the pocket of his old suit jacket, running its fingers along the golden surface of Nelson's pocket watch. He could feel the whispers of Inza's comfort in its touch. And the pulsating power of Fate sketched into its very existence. "Chaos reigns here, doesn't it?"

Jim gave a nod. "One way'o puttin' it, yeah. Sorry fer bringin' you to a place like this, Doc, but I need your help."

"So you said earlier, but I'll need more details than that."

Instead of replying with a straight answer Jim chose to start walking down the hallway, setting a pace too brisk for Kent to easily match. Rather than protest he chose to follow, knowing full-well how beings like the Spectre operated. Ancient entities of judgement living within the corpses of long dead men didn't have a habit of being forthcoming with information. It was always games with these people...Even when lives were at stake, it was as if nothing truly mattered at all.

They rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the station's interrogation room, marked by a rusty plaque bolted onto the steel door. Corrigan waved his hand through the lock and forced it to pop open, allowing the two entry into the observation area. A one-way pane of glass in the wall with a desk sitting just underneath it, scattered files and papers lit by the light of a dying lamp.

Jim kept his eyes on the glass- or more specifically, the man beyond it- while he slid a file across the desk and toward Nelson. He waited until it was in Kent's hands to describe it's contents. "His name's Mitchell Shelley. Been calling himself 'Resurrection Man' since he got to Viceroy, though. You heard o' him?"

A pair of reading glasses slipped onto the end of Kent's nose from out of thin air. He thumbed through the files pages, but it didn't have much to tell. His priors were all vigilantism and various minor infractions related to that. Some two-bit meta playing at superhero, if he had to guess. "Should I have?"

The Spectre just shrugged, taking another puff from his cigarette. "Figure a guy like you knows a whole lot more'n the rest'o us. He's old school, like us. Been running away from Death since the first time some poor sobs tossed his body into a coffin."

"So he's immortal?" Kent raised a brow. "A rarity, I suppose, but I'm not sure why that would require my intervention."

"He's not just immortal," Jim grunted, "He can't die, Kent. Period. End'a story. No loop holes, escape clauses, hell, we don't even know if there'sa expiration date. Man might live on past the known universe n' I wouldn't be all that surprised."

That caught Nelson's attention. Death was supposed to be a certainty. It was one of the seven Abstracts- laws of existence that could not be broken no matter what. Kent had heard of attempts to escape the fundamental guidelines of...well...everything, but he didn't think anyone could ever succeed. "How?"

"We dun know. Spectres before me spent a whole lotta time tryin' to put him down, but we've never had any luck. Hell, just this year he's gone down over eight hundred times and he's still chuggin' along like it ain't anything. Decided 'bout a hundred o' so years ago that it wasn't worth the effort 'ny more, so we made an...agreement with Mitch. A contract. Heaven wouldn't try'ta collect his soul anymore n' he'd go on being virtuous. Part of that agreement was that we couldn't talk to him without a 'neutral arbitrator' to ensure everything was on the up and up."

"And something's happened that requires contact, so you came to me." Kent finished, finally beginning to understand the situation. "Seems more suited to someone like the Sorcerer Supreme if you ask me."

"He's a busy fucker these days. You hear that apprentice'o his ran off? Kids these days, no respect. 'Sides, what kind'o friend would I be if I let you wallow in self-pity all the live long day?" Corrigan gave a slap to Nelson's shoulder that very well could've dislocated it. Nelson didn't so much at wince at the searing pain it sent through his ancient joints, too proud to let Jimmy see what had really become of him. "Now come on. Can't leave the ol' boy waitin' forever, now can we?"

N E W A P O S T L E S C H U R C H

---

^{Nighttime | Bayville, New York City}
Hundreds of people gathered for the wake celebrating the lives of Officers Dean King and Joseph Martin, the NYPD officers that lost their lives saving the students of Bayville High School from their deranged peer that had terrorized the community just two nights before. They'd packed the church full of people to the point where there was barely any standing room left. Many of the front few rows were filled with men and women in NYPD uniforms sitting beside their families. Even with all those people packed in there it was nearly silent. One could've heard a pen hit the floor.

Griff didn't want to be there. His tie was too tight, he had sweat running down his forehead, and the sound of Mrs. Martin's sobs was echoing painfully throughout the entire church. And of course they had to sit him and his classmates in the front row with the families of the deceased. He knew he shouldn't be annoyed by that sound. He knew it made him a piece of shit. But he just-

He needed her to stop.

Rem and Duncan sat on either side of Griff. Duncan's fat face was contorted in anger while Rem's hung in sober stoicism. None of them had been the same since the attack, but they hadn't bothered to talk about it yet. Nobody was sure what there was to talk about. 'Hey, remember when we all nearly got killed 'cause we messed with the school's freak? Wild time, right boys?'

Griff felt lost. Lost in his own thoughts. Lost about what to do next- how to move on. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Lance standing there, that rage on his face burned into Griff's retinas. He'd been a second away from death more than once that day. Tortured, too. How was he supposed to move on from that? How in the hell could he forget how...how powerless Lance had made him feel?

Someone coughed into the microphone, drawing Griff's eyes up to the front of the church. An aging man was leaning on the side of the podium, his grey hair disheveled and dark bags hanging underneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept since the incident. Whoever he was, he'd abandoned his suit jacket because of the heat, and he'd rolled up the sleeves of his button-up shirt to his elbows. His arms were surprisingly thick for a guy his age. Griff...wasn't sure why he noticed that. He wasn't sure why he did a lot of things anymore.

"There's a lot of new faces in the crowd tonight." The speaker started off. His voice felt small in a sanctuary that large, even with the mic beside him. "I...wish it were a happier occasion, but I welcome all of you to New Apostles Church. For those of you who don't know me I'm Reverend Stryker, but you can call me William. I've been the pastor here at New Apostles for goin' on twenty five years now. And If you'd come by last Sunday you would've been greeted at the door by Dean. Officer King was a busy, busy man- every officer in this city is- but he still made time on Sundays to serve his congregation. He was one of the best, most devout men I ever had the pleasure of knowing.

"Dean was a man of strong conviction. He believed in justice, righteousness and loyalty above all else. We're here to mourn him and his partner, Joseph, yes- but I think it's important we remember them, and all the good they did for this community..."

Stryker went on for awhile about Officers King and Martin, and about their lives, service, and families. Griff had zoned out for most of it. It all felt so far away from him. He didn't know either of them. He hadn't even seen them in the school when the incident happened. The only reason he came was because he and the other students had been invited, and because he mom was close to finishing Lance's job and killing Griff if he didn't finally get out of the house.

He was just about ready to 'go to the bathroom' and skip out on this whole, depressing shebang when Stryker said something that dragged him back into the real world kicking and screaming.

"...Their deaths were a tragedy, yes. But not an isolated one. It tears at my very soul to even think about it, but I cannot ignore my conscience and continue to be silent about this. King and Martin lost their lives to a sickness. A sickness that has taken root not just in our neighborhood, not even just in this city, but in our whole nation. This disease takes more and more people from us to meet the Lord every day. Just an hour ago, in fact, a...friend of mine...and his wife were found slaughtered and mutilated on a back road in Connecticut."

Stryker paused. If it was for effect or because he was starting to choke up on his own words, Griff couldn't be sure. But he managed to continue after a few moments of composing himself.

"I must stress this: I am not a bigot. I do not hate anyone for being born a certain way, nor do I hold an ounce of hate in my heart for the...people...that did these things- Christ did not make us to hate. But while I am a Christian, I am also a pragmatist. And anyone with workin' eyes can see that there is a group of people in this nation who hold far, FAR too much power over the rest of us- they make us feel so weak. So...small. They have no accountability to anyone because the government turns a blind eye on their atrocities, and that makes them very, very dangerous. America is sick, folks. And it is in desperate need of a cure."

Griff didn't know he'd been holding his breath until it started to hurt. It felt like he'd been holding it in for the past two days and nights, and there was a great sense of relief that washed over him as he let it spill out from between his teeth. He didn't notice, either, that he'd begun to sit up.

"Our politicians refuse to be a part of that cure, only a desperate few of them even willing to acknowledge the disease that's lopping our arm off as we speak. Their sin- their greed, their vanity, their lust for power- keeps them from saying what needs to be said and doin' what needs to be done." Stryker wasn't as quiet anymore. The weakness in his voice when he was speaking about the fallen officers had vanished- replaced by a powerful conviction that was sweeping across the crowd. The spirit was working within them; William could tell as much.

"It is we the people who must take matters into our own hands. We must protect our friends, families, churches and communities from the plague growing within our midst. It is we the people who have the power, the real power, of Christ, and we must use that to our advantage!" William pounded his fist against the podium suddenly, and it sounded like thunder through church's expensive sound system. "Do you hear me men and women of God? We can do something about this! We can make sure that more civil servants like Joseph and Dean don't have to go to an early grave- that no more of our brothers and sisters have to leave behind wives, husbands, and children. We can prevent further tragedy. You and I have that power."

There was a mumbling among the crowd. Some of it was from unconvinced or uncomfortable strangers that hadn't heard such speech before. People who felt it inappropriate talk to be had at an event like this. But they were in the minority. Most of the gathered people were bobbing their heads in agreement. A few, empowered souls let out whooping cheers at Stryker's rallying cry.

Griff was as silent as the grave, enraptured by William's words.

"If you want to talk further about how we can be that cure, and I'd humbly ask that you stick around after the service is finished. We'll be having refreshments downstairs in the basement- Dinah made her signature chocolate muffins and I'd urge you all that try them before you go." Stryker quieted down again, retreating back behind the podium to wrap things up. But there was still an urging in his voice. A powerful, deep eagerness to convince people to stay behind and talk to him about the cure.

Any desire Griff had to leave was gone.

---

Several hours had passed and the sun was creeping closer and closer to waking, but Griff had never had this much energy before. He could feel it pulsating through his entire body, running through his veins like electricity. The sparks of it kept his fingers from sitting still for more than a second. It was like he'd downed eight Redbulls in a row.

Duncan and Rem were equally pumped about this. They'd sat around a table in the church's basement for what felt like an eternity, just pouring their feelings out to one another over a couple of mugs of coffee. Both of them felt almost exactly as Griff had, and Stryker's speech had hit them just as hard, too. This was their chance to stop feeling so powerless. To be able to take back control over their lives and stop feeling like victims of some unstoppable force of nature. William had came by and explained it to them- these things they were dealing with weren't unstoppable.

In fact, Stryker and his people had been stopping the disease for longer than Griff had been alive. And he was giving the three of them- and a whole lot of other people who felt the same way they did- a chance to join in.

The three of them stood together in a half circle in some warehouse a friend of the church owned. It was huge. There were crates everywhere, and shelves covered in crates, and crates stacked on top of other crates. A whole lot of boxes, too. Most of them were marked by what was inside them, or what company they came from, but the few they'd been brought to were all barren. Stryker took a crowbar from one of the workmen beside him and jammed it underneath the crate's lid, prying it open with strength someone his age should never have had.

Anxiety and excitement in equal distribution built up in Griff's chest at the sight of its contents.

"You boys ever shot before?" William asked, hoisting up an assault rifle between his hands. It's black, nearly polished sheen made it out to look brand new.

Rem and Duncan both shook their heads, but Griff gave a short nod. "My dad used to take me to the range on weekends. It's, uh, been awhile, but I remember most of what ya gotta do."

"Been awhile?" Stryker raised a brow.

Griff shifted uncomfortable. "He passed awhile back."

A look of realization dawned on William. He stepped forward, letting one hand fall away from the gun so he could grab Griff's shoulder. "You have my condolences, son." Griff was struck by just how sincere he sounded. Most people got real uncomfortable when Griff mentioned it, but...Stryker...

"Thanks." He nodded, quickly trying to change the subject. "So, uh, what's this? An AR?"

"This would be a select-fire M4 Carbine fitted for 30 round box magazines." Stryker corrected, passing it to Griff. "It's not loaded. Ammunition is stored over there." He said, motioning with his head toward a line of olive-green boxes stacked on some nearby shelves.

"Ain't these illegal?" Rem spoke up, his voice shaking with uncertainty.

William gave Rem a long, serious look, like he was staring right into the boy's soul. "Sometimes the law of man and the will of God don't line up. And God's will always supersedes whatever whims made men criminalize these tools. That's what these are, boys- they're just tools. Isn't a single about them that's immoral. It's how you use them that matters. And what we do today is going to save many, many lives in the future."

Griff furrowed his brow, looking up from the carbine and back to the pastor. "And what are we doing today?"

Stryker grinned, and led the group over toward another series of crates. These ones, unlike the others, were marked with a name in big, bold letters.

Stagg.

Elijah watched as the girl spun around, her bright red hair seemed alive as it whipped around with her excited movements. She scanned the room, pausing briefly on each new, alien object as she took in her new home.

It wasn't much, Eli knew. A warehouse on the docks he had known to be abandoned for years, its doors locked tight until today. Maybe 2000 square feet at the most, the interior was largely barren. Several empty crates scattered about, discarded scraps, and the used mattress Eli had brought over the previous night in preparation were all that remained.

"It is so..." She paused, considering which word of this new language best fit. "Spacious. Are all Earth dwellings like this?"

Eli's lips twitched up into a half-smile. After spending all that time in her space pod, I guess this really does seem huge in comparison.

"Nah," he told her, "this isn't even a house. It's meant to store things. Usually for big companies or shipping magnates. Or the mafia, maybe."

"Mafia?" She looked at him inquisitively.

"Nevermind."

As the girl floated up into the air to observe the rafters above, he thought back to everything she had told him in the past forty hours.

Her name was Koriand'r. Starfire, she had informed him after screwing up the pronunciation twice, was the approximate English translation. She was from the planet Tamaran, somewhere in the Vega system, though that meant nothing to Eli. She hadn't provided a lot of details about this next part, but there had been some sort of civil war on her world. In the chaos of fleeing, her escape craft had been damaged and knocked off course, trapping her inside. She was uncertain of how long it had been, but the distance traveled suggested an amount of time that was sickening to even consider. It had only been sheer luck that her trajectory took her close enough to Earth's orbit to be pulled in.

Eli could only imagine the trauma such an experience would have on someone. To be not only completely isolated while hurtling through space with little hope of rescue, but to also have seen her homeworld be consumed by war. And, although she had not said anything, he got the sense that Koriand'r had lost someone before her escape. Yet, he noted, she seemed... bubbly.

"I'm sorry there isn't anything here for you right now." Eli glanced at the meager mattress that would serve as her cot. "And I know it isn't the most comfortable place in the world, but it's only temporary. I'll try to find someplace else for you."

"It is wonderful, Elijah. Please, do not worry." Koriand'r glided back down through the air to land before him. "Your kindness brings me much joy. I will be very happy here."

"I'm glad," he said, "but still, I promise I'll do better for you."

Her smile brightened. "And you will visit, yes?"

"Of course. Every day. I've got school and all most of the week, and some martial arts classes, but other than that I'll be here. You're new to this world, I'm not just gonna leave you out to dry."

The golden-skinned girl's face scrunched up. "I do not understand. I am not wet, why would you dry my person?"

Elijah momentarily felt his face flush slightly as he caught her puzzled expression, her absurdly beautiful features forming into an adorable frown. "No, uh. It's just an expression. A figure of speech. It means I won't abandon you. I'll be right by your side."

"Oh!" Koriand'r floated closer towards him, letting her hands fall onto his shoulders as she smiled once more. "I would very much like that."

---

"Well, what do you think?" He looked at Koriand'r expectantly. "I'll be right by your side the whole time."

She pursed her lips, her gaze drifting downwards towards her clasped hands. Having now spent the majority of each day for an entire week with her, Eli knew she was thinking intently. Not that it would have been difficult to figure out anyway, as he had come to discover that alien facial expressions and mannerisms were not all too different from a human's.

"It will be safe?" Koriand'r asked, her eyes raising to meet his. "My presence will not draw suspicion nor endanger you?"

Elijah hesitated before answering. What he was asking of her wasn't a simple task and he wanted to make sure he provided her with every relevant detail and honest answer that he could.

"I mean, there's gonna be risks, sure. I've got no personal experience with this sort of thing, but what we'd be doing wouldn't exactly be legal. And there's always a chance someone could get hurt. But it's worth it. I think we could make a real difference. Do some good."

"And," he added after a moment, "I can take care of myself."

I hope. Elijah let that brief thought of doubt echo around his mind for only a second before shaking it off. He may not be as capable as his new alien friend, but he had trained for years with the expectation of enlisting one day. It was dangerous, he knew, but Eli was confident in his abilities. And, given his mother's position on the military, this may be his best chance of serving his country. Even if he had to break the law to do so.

For months he had watched news coverage of various masked individuals rising to prominence in cities all across the country, and even the globe. Vigilantes using their enhanced abilities and sheer willpower to stand up for what was right. To save people. To put an end to evil injustices just as his grandfather once had seventy-five years ago. As his uncle had after the War on Terror began. And now, here was this powered individual who had practically been sent to him from the sky above. Eli couldn't just sit back and do nothing while knowing there was a role he could play. And, he suspected, neither could Koriand'r.

She stood suddenly to her full, statuesque height. Right fist clenched before her chest and eyes flashing with excited passion. "I watched as my home was consumed in conflict by those with evil thoughts and desires. I may not be of this world, but I wish to help prevent it from the same horrors my planet suffered. Yes!" She proclaimed. "I will join you! I will be this hero you speak of."

Elijah joined her on his feet, pumping his fist in victory. It would be a difficult journey, he was sure, but together he felt they could succeed.

"Great," he told her. "Then today we go on a test run. Just get you used to being out in the city."

Eli paused, looking Koriand'r over from head to toe. "But, first, I've gotta grab you some clothes that won't stand out."

A M B E R M E M O R I A L P A R K

---

^{Night | Queens Borough, New York City}

Cyclops reaction to Spider-Man’s words was difficult to ascertain. Most of his face was hidden behind either the dark blue- nearly black, even- fabric of his mask, or the ruby red visor locked around his eyes; the only window into Scott’s thoughts was his pursed lips and the crossing of his arms over his chest. Silence held in the air like a fog for a time as he mulled over the black clad vigilante’s story. His serious demeanor and tight frown clashed spectacularly with the over-the-top spandex that clasped around his tall, lanky form like a glove.

“No, I don’t get it.” He finally said, letting his arms fall down to rest on either of his hips, like a cowboy searching for his missing holsters. “You broke into a police station and attacked law enforcement officers. I don’t know where you learned to ‘superhero’ but that’s not how we operate. It was reckless. And stupid. They could’ve killed you.”

He rubbed his thumb against his forehead in an effort to sooth the pounding headache he was starting to develop. Summers had plenty more to lecture the other vigilante on, but Jean decided to cut into the conversation first.

“What was so important you risked getting murked, anyway?” She called over, her tense voice muddled by her piqued curiosity as she motioned toward the duffle bag.

The boy seemed to move away from Jean whenever she spoke. Those bulging bug eyes of his stayed locked on her and he fell closer to the ground, balancing on his haunches. He rested his hands on his knees. He swallowed.

“Someone… Someone very important to me had something bad happen to them that I couldn’t stop. But now, with this? Maybe I can do something about it.”

Jean kept her eyes locked with the white voids of Spider-Man’s ‘eyes.’ There was an unnerving energy pulsating from them, like an aura of malice sewn into the very fabric of his costume. Grey was far from some withering, backbone-less violet, but there was just...something about this guy that made her wince. It didn’t match his cadence or body language at all- he looked and sounded tired. Vulnerable.

So why did she feel afraid of him?

Cyclops’s headache spiked again and he wasn’t sure why. He tried his best to shake it off and get back to the pressing matter at hand. “Maybe- maybe we can help each other.” Scott hesitantly suggested. Trusting a stranger like this after what he admitted to doing didn’t match the Professor’s modus operandi for the team, but after their enormous screw up in Bayville...Scott was desperate. “Like I said before, helping mutants is sort of what we do.”

The fabric on Spider-Man’s forehead scrunched, along with the filament covering his eyes. He looked right into Scott’s visor, for the first time.

“You guys keep saying -- uh, not that there’s anything wrong with it, or anything, but, uh, I’m not a… Yknow. Mutant. Oh, uh, sorry, am I not supposed to, yknow, say it? Is there another…? Well, uh, either way, I’m not, uh, that. Sorry.”

Scott’s mouth slipped open, revealing the surprise that his facial expressions couldn’t. “You’re...not-”

“I know,” Jean spoke over Summers in a tone like hot coals. She pulled herself up onto the jungle gym and stepped out into the open air, landing with the speed of a feather against the playground mulch. “Just looking at you makes my head feel like it’s gonna...explode, so what’s wrong with you, Pe-”

She caught herself, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip hard enough for an iron-taste to wash over her tongue. “...Spider...Man…”

“Wrong with me? What’s wrong with u--” Spider-Man bounced up to his feet, chest out and hands wound into tight fists. It was as if he’d grown a full inch, it looked to Jean almost like the surface of his costume was moving. Something twitched on the surface and he shook his head. He looked down and his shoulders dropped, all the air had gone out of him.

“I, uh. It’s been a long night. Did you just…?”

The moment he moved it felt like somebody had set a thousand alarm clocks off in her head. Pulsating, pounding pain shot through her frontal lobe. She stumbled backward a step, an open palm pointed toward the nearest piece of playground equipment for the half a second that Spider-Man looked like he was about to pounce. Jean didn’t answer his unfinished question with anything more than a glare.

“Whoawhoawhoa, breathe. Both of you.” Scott was on his toes, thankfully, and was quick to step between the two, a hand held out toward either. He turned to his teammate first. “Marvel, take a break.” He ordered, before turning his attention fully to the apparent non-mutant.

“What was…?” Spider-Man rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, the lenses closed with them, quickly fading into a silver goop and disappearing into the rest of the fabric. He took a long, shuddering breath before he opened them again.

“I’m...sorry, for that. She doesn’t have a lot of control over her telepathy. Sometimes...she gets her thoughts and other people’s mixed up. Shit just slips out sometimes.” Summers calmly explained. “She didn’t mean to do it, I swear to God.”

“I… Yeah.” Spider-Man waved it off. He looked down at his hands, turning them over one at a time. “Felt a little Freaky Friday for a sec there.” He stooped down, reaching for his bag.

It wasn’t hard to tell the man in black was in a hurry to get out of there. After everything that went down, Scott couldn’t exactly blame him for that, either. “I meant what I said before. Even if you’re not a...mutant, we’re here to help. I don’t know what all you’re going through but you don’t have to do it alone- I...uh...do you have a pen?”

“Memory’s a steel trap, Eye-guy.” He fastened his bag over his back as Scott gave him the phone number for the mansion.

Watching Spider-Man turn to leave still wasn’t anything like watching a man move. White webbing shot from his wrists and he pulled himself into the air, light as a feather. He twisted in the sky and came back down, landing on one of the branches at the park’s perimeter.

“Hey, since your girlfriend over there already knows, I’m Pete. Thanks for, uh, this, I guess.”

Mitch's mouth had been dry for a good two hours, yet none of these kind officers had bothered to get him a drink.

It wasn't as if he hadn't bothered to ask, either. Quite the opposite, in fact, as the detectives that had been interviewing him could attest to: Mitchell Shelly had been asking for a cup for water since they had his ass dragged into the station. Wasn't the only thing he was telling them, either. He kept going on and on about how he was a 'superhero' and this entire thing was just a big misunderstanding. Cape Imposter Syndrome was a tale as old as time the world over, but Viceroy had seen a significant uptick in crazies since the town started to swirl down the shitter.

"I could really use that drink." He muttered again, his lips hidden behind the thick curtain of blond locks that Mitch called 'hair.' His head was angled down, giving him a view of his torn-up work boots and equally worn blue jeans.

It'd been a long day for Shelly, better known in Viceroy City- and beyond- as the Resurrection Man. He'd lost count of how many times he'd died this time 'round. Too many to remember, 'specially when his brain was splattered on the concrete half of those times. Difficult to recall things when the thing holding one's memories is busy looking like somebody dropped ground beef all over the street.

"Shut your fucking gob about it already. Tt ain't happening." The detective across from him snarled.

Mitch had to admit, for how obnoxious this guy was, he at least kept to character. He hadn't once dropped the 'grizzled old cop' act in all the time they'd known each other- it wasn't much more than a hundred and twenty minutes, but still! It was a thing to be lauded, if nothing else.

"You've been playin' coy with us for two god damn hours. Two. But we need answers, n' we need 'em now. And you're gonna give 'em if you ever wanna see the light of day again. Why'd you kill those people?"

"You're sneaking in the conclusion, detective," Mitch waggled a finger in his direction, "'cause I didn't kill anyone."

"Bullshit!" He snapped, slamming his palm against the table. "We found you with over thirty bodies!"

"And I was among the victims!"

"There wasn't a scratch on you, but you should be fuckin dead."

"Because I'm-"

"-Resurrection Man," he screamed over Mitch's tired point. "You told us the first two hundred and eleven fucking times!"

"I told you, I can prove it!" Shelly protested.

"We aren't going to shoot you, you crazy bastard!"

Both parties let out an exhausted sigh, the cop practically leaping out of his chair. They weren't getting anywhere with this, yet it was the only lead they had. There wasn't an ounce of evidence that anyone else had been at the scene, and this 'Resurrection Man' literally had the murder sitting a few feet from him when they arrived. The VCPD officer wasn't sure what the perp had been trying to pull by putting himself in a bloody shirt and laying among the dead, but they hadn't found even an iota of damage to his body; he had to be their guy. Wasn't any other option.

"I need to take a leak. Take this opportunity to decide how you'll be decoratin' the concrete cell you'll be spending the rest of your life in." The frustrated officer waddled out of the room like a child that got the wrong happy meal, slamming the door shut behind him.

Or he tried to, at least, until a hand shot between the door and it's frame at the last second.

Two men who didn't look at all like police officers slipped their way into the room, completely ignored by the detective they walked past. Mitchell made eye contact with each of them, more than a little confused by their presence. "You lawyers?"

"Strictly speakin', no." Jim Corrigan took the lead, sauntering forward and plopping down in the detective's former seat like a man without a trouble in the world. He whipped a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, struggling to pick one out with his shaking fingers. "But we did get your call."

Mitchell shifted in his chair, his eyes dashing between the two strange strangers. "Uhh...I didn't get a phone call."

The man in green started patting down his other pockets in search of his lighter, talking over the stick jammed between his teeth. "Not that kinda call. Y'know-" Jim placed his palms together and bowed his head slightly, glancing up at Shelly to see the recognition dawn on his face.

"You guys are angels?" He asked, somewhere between awe and disbelief.

"Just call me Michael. My friend here is Gabriel." Corrigan motioned to the old man still standing near the door. "You, uh, you got a lighter? Must'a left mine back at the pearly gates-"

"-Leave the poor man be, Corrigan." The other man finally spoke up, seeming to break out of whatever trance had kept him hovering passively near the entrance.

His appearance surprised Mitch. His shoulders were hunched and his body thin, almost frail; the brown suit he wore was cheaply made and ill-fitted his tiny frame. His hairline had retreated a little too far up his head for comfort and the grayed locks that remained were slick with sweat. It wasn't what Shelly expected the famed biblical messenger to look like in the slightest- he so was...underwhelming.

Kent didn't acknowledge Mitchell's gaze as he leaned over the table to light Jim Corrigan's cigarette with just a snap of his fingers. Once that was finished and the vessel for the Wrath of God had given his nod of thanks, Nelson began to settle down into a chair that hadn't been there a second before. It's appearance was so sudden that Shelly thought he'd just missed seeing it before, despite the fact that he'd been sitting in that God forsaken room for two hours and he was sure there'd only been two chairs in there.

"So, uh, if ya'll aren't angels then...what are ya?" Shelly asked, leaning forward in his seat.

Nelson furrowed his brow and looked to Corrigan, confused. "I thought you said you two had met previously?"

"Naw," Jim shook his head. "Not me. He's been brained, splattered and chewed up by other Spectres, jus' not me. Pleasure to make yer acquaintance, Mitchy ol' boy!"

Mitch let out a panicked scream. He attempted to retreat away from the table only to find himself jerked back to it by the binds on his hands and feet. "Why the hell is a Spectre here?!"

"Well he's in a mood, in't he?" Corrigan puffed air out of his nostrils.

"We had a deal, man! I haven't done jack shit!"

"You called us, asshat."

"Enough, both of you." Kent snapped. Mitch's screaming had given him one hell of a headache, and Corrigan's incessant need to antagonize and provoke for his own jollies was rapidly getting on Nelson's nerves. "Sit back down. He won't hurt you." He promised, tapping his fingers against the table. "Right, Corrigan?"

The Spectre just shrugged. "Couldn't if I wanted to. Contract's bindin', pal. Big Guy doesn't break covenants, it's sorta his shtick."

Hesitant at first, Mitch eventually rejoined them, though he was considerably jumpier than when they'd first arrived. The three sat in relative silence for a few moments. Corrigan was staring at Shelly with ravenous eyes and Mitch looked ready to make another break for it if Jim so much as coughed wrong. And Kent had the pleasure of sitting between them.

"Shelly." Nelson spoke quietly, drawing Mitch's eyes away from Corrigan and toward him. "Why did you need help? Why did you call for us?"

"I..." His voice caught in his throat. "I don't know what it was, but something...attacked a crowd, here, in the city. I tried to stop it, but it- it was like nothin' I've ever fought before. And I've fought some gnarly shit in my day. Don't know how many times I went at it, my..uh...my memory isn't so good after a couple of deaths. But I remember it hitting like a truck. And everything was- well, everything was on fire."

"Is that what the detective was interviewing you about?" Nelson quietly asked.

Mitch nodded. "I didn't know who else to call. If I could handle it myself, I would, but I just- can't."

Kent gave a side ways glance toward his partner. The Spectre alone was powerful enough to tango with whatever monstrosity from beyond the veil that Mitch had ran into. Nelson likely wouldn't even have to don the Helmet if everything went according to plan. "You did your best, Shelly, that's all those people could've asked for. We'll help you, but we need to know where we're going."

The immortal vigilante's eyes lit up like Christmas trees. "A, uh, Walmart not too far from here. Just a few blocks."

Jim let out a snort. "Guess we're goin' 'ta go fight a demon in Walmart now. Sounds like my average Tuesday night."