---

These thoughts beguiled him, buzzing a smile on his lips, as he took in his current surroundings once more. Around 300 meters of cleared swampish area. Mixture of mudded sinkholes and tufts of grass and dirt. Discarded portions of rusted cars litter the area, half embedded in the ground. A modest shack, complete with sagging porch roof and dull wood. The metal roof splashed with rust of a large shed sat just beyond the shack. Immediately surrounding him, 8 men with various guns trained on him. Grime mixed with their faces. Their hair was matted with sweat and dirt. They reeked of bayou and sweat. Each set of eyes stayed focused on Baal; grimaces chiseled into their faces. No matter. Whether eyes watched him or not, the outcome would be the same. But he could enjoy the performance leading up to his debut.

Squeaking back and forth on the shack’s front porch by the shift of his weight, was the source of Baal’s amusement: a mortal doing an apt job of entertaining him. The mortal paced and stroked the bush of his beard. The creak of his footsteps on the sagging porch mixed with the continuous chorus of cicadas in heat. He prattled on, something about power. Making archaic points that Baal taught his worshippers a millennia ago.

“…y’see, when you got power like this,” The mortal continued, gesturing to the clearing and men surrounding Baal, “land to keep, men followin’ yer word n’ such. Well, ya can’t let certain things slide.”

He was looking at Baal now. The wiry mass of overused muscle, wrapped in sagging skin the color of a newborn babe. This man spoke to Baal of power like a child spoke of philosophy he’s learned that day in school. It was adorable. Endearing, really. Baal didn’t hide his smile. Maybe this trip wouldn’t be so unamusing after all. “Power and respect,” this sagging-man said, “they go hand n’ hand. You get what I mean? How do I keep the respect of my Bayou Boys if I let your disrespect pass unchecked?”



Baal glanced skyward. Pressed his hands together in front of him, looking up at the cloudless sky. Not yet. He met the man’s gaze again and said nothing.

“Not one for pleading, is you?” The man asked, leaning on his rifle. Baal stifled a snort. Pleading? What use did he have for that? “Guess I can respect that,” the man continued, “Y’all ain’t never been the regretful type.”

The mortal was entertaining Baal less. His actions were traipsing from entertaining into being a chore for Baal to sit through. He had an appointment to keep and unfortunately, the flow of time was one area he did not preside over.

“Now I ain’t gonna ask why you came here. Don’t much really care. Gotta give it to you though, walking through that marsh and road, slick dressed as you are. You had a mission, didntja, boy?”

The smirk on Baal’s face flatlined. His brows knitted together.

“Y’hurt my son. Broke that arm clean with intent, now. That’s my blood, and I damn sure can’t let that pass. You fuck with a powerful man, you bound to get fucked yourself.”

Baal rolled his eyes. The novelty of the ape had long since expired. He focused on the metal shed, trying to discern inside.

“You will look at me when I’m addressing you!” The man shouted, making a quick gesture. The 8 men surrounding Baal raised their weapons. “Clearly, you don’t understand who I am. I run these glades. Every bubble that damn swamp pushes forth, I know. Ain’t a damn drug deal, arms trade, dead spouse or dead whore that goes down here that I don’t know about.” He shouldered his rifle now. “Ain’t a single marshal in the area who’ll find or look fer ya, not if I say so. You better take note. I rule this area.”

The dull sound of an overhead plane brought Baal’s eyes to the powder blue of the sky again. Not yet.
The man raised his gun, firing two shots in the air. Two birds struck the ground. The man roared. “I’m the Bayou King.” He pointed a finger at Baal. “So now, before you die, I wanna know: who the fuck are you?”


So, Baal didn’t blame the stick of Florida humidity, bringing the scent of hot moisture and the subtle sweetness of decay. Nor the ruin brought to his Italian loafers. The audacity of this Bayou King, though grating, didn’t hold the blame of ultimately fueling his actions. He blamed himself and his leniency. These mortals had to be taught—and the first lesson was always the hardest.

“Well?” the Bayou King asked. A series of clicks and metal jingles fill the air. All the weapons cocked in succession. “Who the fuck are you to anger the Bayou King?”

Baal looked at this Bayou King.
Electricity bubbled over his eyes, crackling over the edges.

Before the mortal to his left could grip the gun tighter, Baal’s grip had found the man's throat. Sparks played on Baal’s fingertips, lifting the small hairs around the other man’s neck. With a release and flex of his hand, Baal shot the man through the air. The overgrown hood of a car caught him and the muffled sound of cracking glass followed. Baal turned his gaze toward the false king.

“I’ll give you one moment to lower that toy.” The sparks now danced up his arms, creating small tears in his suit jacket. “But I’m hoping you don’t take it.”

“Supers and mutants don’t scare me none!” The Bayou King’s men had taken a step back, guns still trained. “These bullets drill through concrete. Ain’t no prayer can save you. Ya dead now, boy. Any last words?”

Baal looked up, “Finally.” His shoulders dropped and hands splayed, “All the planes are gone.”

7 bolts came down simultaneously. Striking each man, the bolts arced to Baal and the god pulled the mortals in to him—all before the speed of sound delivered crackling of the bolts. With a flick, he propelled them away. A boom of thunder rumbled as their bodies struck discarded metal pieces and weak cries softened the air.

Baal turned his head toward the Bayou King in time for two bullets to be stopped by his electrical field, their metal still red-hot, spinning in the air. The Bayou King lifted his gun again, only to be thrown off balance. The firearm pulled from his grip, sailing through the air to Baal’s outstretched hand. Baal was upon him now. The Bayou King raised his hand to stop the god. Baal grabbed it, hoisting the man into the air.

“You were amusing, at first. You should know when your jester-like skills have reached their apex. Though, that Bayou King line will always make me chuckle.” Baal ran a jolt through the man’s arm, evoking a weak cry. His vocal cords stuttered from electrical interference.

“Now, Mr. Bayou King. I’ve a question for you:” Baal flung the man from the porch onto a clearing of grass. “What’s a king to a god?”

Before he could stand, four pillars of electrical energy erupted from the ground, bathing the entire clearing in a purifying light. The man was hunched in the crater aftermath.

Baal shrugged. “Simply a servant whose forgotten his place.”

He pointed a finger at the false king. An arc of lightning found its way between the man’s eyes, and he slumped over in the dirt. Lesson learned.

“Now,” Baal asked aloud, “where the hell is my car?”

_{Hydra Facility, Argentina - Present Day}

Issue 1.04.3: Enemy at the Gates

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Issue 1.04.2: Allied

Zemo smiled at the large contraption in front of him, though of course none could see his expression under his cloth mask. HYDRA technicians were hard at work putting the finishing touches on a metal archway and the console next to it. It would be ready well within the hour, and then the testing could begin.

The crackling of the radio on Zemo’s belt surprised him momentarily. There were unintelligible sounds on the other end, and then the line went dead. Zemo lifted it to speak. ”Is there something to report?” Only silence responded. ”Radio check for the perimeter.”

”Squad one, checking in”

”Squad two, checking in.”

”Squad four, checking in.”

An explosion rocked the facility and practically knocked Zemo off his feet. He reached out and caught himself on a stack of crates nearby, his eyes wide with fear. He recognized the voice. The voice of the man he had sworn revenge on. The man who had killed his grandfather. Captain America.

---

A barrage of bullets hailed in from large hole blasted into the metal hangar doors. Smoke and haze still obscured the entrance as HYDRA soldiers tried to duck behind cover to return fire, though many in the hangar were already lying in pools of their own blood. As the gunfire continued to be exchanged, a few figures began pushing into the entrance. The HYDRA soldiers turned their guns towards a particular red, white, and blue shield. The metal clangs filled the hangar with an echo as Captain America continued pushing forward. Behind him, SHIELD SWAT officers continued to exchange fire while doing their best to brush off the stray bullets impacting against their armor. One by one, the resisting HYDRA soldiers were joining their fallen brethren. After about a minute of exchanged gunfire, the defending forces began to retreat. The SHIELD operatives began fanning out to secure the room, and Captain Rogers’ fellow officers stormed in with reinforcements.

Fury immediately placed a small metal disk on a crate of ammunition next to an old German fighter plane. A blue holographic projection of the bunker they were in sprung to life, with red dots pinging around the various hallways. Fury began marking off hallways and routes, as well as marking a large room near the bottom of the facility. ”Given our intel from Mason, they’ll be going into lockdown procedure. That means we’ll need to divide and conquer. Romanoff and Carter, I need you down in sublevel E to override the security protocols. Use a Welcome Party to get in to the station. Once there, you’ll be able to open up the lab and Zemo’s panic room.”

Romanoff and Carter both shared a nod and began moving out, drawing their sidearms and regrouping with their respective teams as they began to delve deeper into the base. Fury turned his gaze back towards his two remaining officers. ”If Mason’s projections are right, then that machine will be ready within the hour. We need to cut the emergency power generators to make sure we get that thing offline, or at least buy us enough time to destroy that thing once and for all.” The two officers nodded and immediately began heading out.

Fury watched the majority of soldiers push farther into the base when a few SHIELD agents entered in from the entrance, with Agent Phil Coulson leading the pack. ”Corporal Fury, what are our orders?”

Fury turned around and gave a nod, motioning towards the hangar doors. ”Scan everything you can and begin planting the charges. We blow this place once my team and the device are secured. Best not to leave any loose ends, Coulson.”

---

_{Location: Star City(?), ???-Brick's Kill-Room}

Queen's Heir #1.06: Nock, Draw, Aim, Loose.

---

He couldn't remember his name. He'd been trying, but it seemed...unimportant? He thought it started with a 'C' maybe.

Calvin? Corey? Conway?

He knew lots of other things now, though.

There were lots of new smells, for one thing, or maybe a combination of smells. He'd peed himself sometime during the first round. He'd thrown up at some point, but he couldn't remember when. Probably when he'd first figured out that the gross, greasy charred meat smell was from him too. It was all mixed in with the sharp, clean smell the electricity made before it touched him, and no amount of ice water baths could wash it out. He was pretty sure he knew what fear smelled like now too, even though he'd always thought that was just an expression. It smelled bitter, like vinegar, and it came out with his sweat.

More importantly though, now he knew about hate. Not just hate for his torturer, but hate for a world where anyone would be able to do the sort of things that had been done to him. If he ever got out of here, then-

Well, who was he kidding. He was going to die here.

The floodlights dimmed again and a now disgustingly familiar stony hand clamped around the back of his head and forced him to look sideways. As his eyes adjusted to relative darkness, he saw that at some point someone had set up a metal folding-table in the room and laid out a bow and a quiver full of arrows on it, all colored green. His bow and quiver.

Connor. My name is Connor.

The massive mitt tightened its grip and Connor thought he could make out individual pebbles against the back of his scalp.

"Awww, there it is! I thought this might be a good way to get that little spark of awareness back, but for a minute there I was worried I'd totally lost you! No fun in torturing someone who can't even get what's going on anymore!"

The hand let go of his head, but Connor's gaze stayed pinned to his gear even as Brick stomped back into his field of view, grinning for the cameras and standing between the table and Connor, gesturing between them for the audience at home.

"Tell you what! I'm getting bored of the same old electro-torture-" The crime boss dismissively tossed the cattle prod aside "-So I figure I'll beat on you with your own bow 'til it's nothing but splinters and string. Maybe stab you with your own arrows as a finale so you die a human pincushion. How's that sound?"

Before Connor could answer, darkness fell like a sledgehammer and even the camera lights winked out. For the briefest second he was convinced this was some new unannounced torture from Brick, but the metahuman's roaring curses told him otherwise. For the first time since his torment began, the thought of escape bloomed in Connor's mind.

^{"Thanks, partner"}

The ropes securing him were even more soaked than they'd been at the start. After probably hours of being bound up by them, the young vigilante was sure they were old and crappy all along, something Brick's goons probably had lying around. His arms heaved against the bonds at his wrists, the boy pleading with the universe as his already agony-ridden muscles strained against the cords.

The sounds of ropes snapping had never seemed so sweet. He repeated the process with his legs, frantically reaching down to tug at the ropes and fumble with the knots in the dark to help the process along. Luckily, Brick was even worse at keeping his cool in the dark than Connor and just kept swearing at whatever men were supposed to be watching to get the power back on.

Finally, Connor felt the rest of his bonds slacken enough to slip free of the chair. A handy trick from Master Jensen let him will the feeling and blood flow back into his arms and legs and then he was dashing past the stomping and fumbling noises that were Brick. He almost ran right into the table but his fingertips found it first, and then he was scrabbling to find both bow and quiver in the pitch blackness by memory and touch, eyes squeezed shut to enhance his focus.

He snatched up both, but by then Brick had heard enough to guess what was going on. The metahuman charged the table blindly and with all the silence of an erupting volcano. Connor rolled out of the way as he heard crashing and metallic shrieking, and then the power came back on all at once. The heat and light were painful against his eyelids, but not nearly as badly as during his time in the chair.

Connor opened his eyes and saw Brick still blinded from the initial flash among the flipped and bent remains of the table. No hesitation now, he nocked and loosed three arrows one after the other-

-and watched them bury into Brick's right shoulder, elbow and hand without the big man even noticing. Well, that wasn't really true. He got reminded Connor existed. The man-mountain whirled around roaring and threw a wild haymaker. It connected, but just barely and Connor rolled with the hit, even though knuckles like gravel gashed his cheek. He went tumbling but came up to his feet, swaying. Brick was on him again with another huge punch, but Connor ducked under easily and hit twice with the heel of already bruised palms. It was about as useful as hitting a statue and Brick was already winding up for a third massive punch.

Strikes were no good, arrows were no good. Time to switch tactics and get desperate.

As Brick overextended his already telegraphed swing, Connor actually grabbed onto one pillar-like arm, leaped and wrapped himself around it. A flying armbar was supposed to take an enemy down first, but Connor just clung for dear life and used his whole body to try and hyper-extend the one limb to the breaking point.

Something started to tear and pop in Brick's arm in a way Connor felt more than heard, and Brick cried out in real pain to Connor's grim satisfaction. It didn't last though. Brick stumbled and flailed his locked limb, smashing both Connor and his arm into first the ceiling, then two of the floodlights. Pain from impacts, hot wiring and shattered glass finally shook the young vigilante loose and left him half-dazed on the floor while Brick stared down at him, pain and surprise warring on his craggy face as one arm hung limp.

Connor's mind was whirling as he stared at the crime lord and looked frantically around. Brick could be hurt, Connor was sure of it now. His indestructibility was literally skin deep. Somehow, somehow he could be beaten, the answer was here...

Connor stood, slowly, dragging his hands through the fine powder of pulverized concrete and glass shards around him. He ignored the pain and blood from his hands to rise with fists clenched.

""C'mon now! Let's see it! Show me what power looks like!"

Connor tried a flying knee to the face again right as he finished his taunt, but once again Brick managed to catch him out of the air one-handed, fingers like stalagmites around the boy's throat.

"Hahaha! Just like I said, you're still dumber than the real Green Arrow!"

In another second he would start to crush Connor's windpipe just like before, but this time Connor would die.

Which was why this time, Connor threw two fistfuls of powdered glass right into Brick's eyes.

Brick dropped Connor to the floor, howling and clawing at his eyes with his one good arm, but the boy could tell it was no good. There was no time to waste! While Brick was still screaming and blinded Connor rushed back over to the chair, readied his bow and snatched up his only hope of putting the crime lord down.

The discarded cattle prod.

No nock to fix it to the bow-string, no fletching to stabilize the flight, it probably wasn't even flexible enough to make it around the bow like an arrow should. It was going to be a stupid, million-to-one shot...

"I'll kill you! You little bitch, I'll find out who you are! I'll kill everyone you've ever loved! I'll rip you to pieces until they have to bury you in a thimble! You'll-"

Tune it out. Breathe. It's all as simple as breathing.

He breathed in and out. Then steadied his hands, weighed and balanced the cattle prod for a moment and picked his target...

Nock, draw, aim, loose!

*Twang!*

The front prongs of the cattle prod lodged square in the back of Brick's open, screaming mouth.

The crime lord of Star City went from human mountain to human avalanche. He toppled stone-stiff backward onto the floor with a massive crash and just lay there twitching, screams muffled by the metal shaft until the pain took him beyond screaming. He was as helpless as Connor had been minutes before.

Connor walked right up and stood over the man who had made him experience hell. He could just leave Brick like that, if he wanted. Let him fry until the cattle prod ran out of juice. Even for someone as big and tough as Brick, that much electricity for that long might kill him. Why should Connor care? Maybe he should even be glad, ridding the world of a monster like Brick.

Connor sighed, leaned in close to Brick's head and tugged the weapon loose.

^{"May this suffering serve to awaken compassion."}

Then, Connor noticed the still running cameras. He knew he'd just done the impossible. He knew he'd maybe just been lucky. Most of all he knew the world could be watching and he should say something.

"Tell all your friends...and spread the word! I'm the Green Arrow...and Star City...is under my protection now! To anyone who doesn't like it, you can come take your best shot! But just know that after you do, I'll take mine and I never miss!"

He was exhausted, hurting, panting and covered in filth but the words came anyway. He was pretty sure Overwatch was sending the cops to pick up Brick at that very moment. After that he was gonna go home, probably cry a little, and sleep forever.

Still, not too bad for his first fight against a real villain, right?

_{Bum-Fuck Nowhere, Kansas? - One Month Ago}

Issue 1.01.03: Welcome to the Jungle

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: 1.01.02: Live and Let Die

”Right… let me get this straight, Grace… so you’re like an actual Amazon. With superhuman strength and shit. Born in a society of warrior women. With the Greek gods. And you came to rural America…”

Roy raised an eyebrow in amusement as he sipped on his bottled water among the wreckage of the gas station store. His savior leaned against the counter, just finishing off her beer. She wiped her mouth with her bare wrist. ”You were a rich brat who went around with some stranger shooting bad guys with a bow and arrow wearing some kind of BDSM Ren Faire outfit, but my story raises red flags. Look, I got taken from my home a long time ago, and I’m not exactly allowed to go back apparently. So here I am, saving little punks like you.”

”Hey, I was building military grade weapons before I got my first erection, asshat. I had the situation perfectly under control before you showed up.” Roy finished his water and tossed it aside, before bending down to pick up a popped bag of chips to begin scouring through what was left in it.

Grace rolled her eyes. ”What brings you to the American heartland killing Watchdogs?”

Roy held up a finger as a polite way to ask her to wait as he tilted his head back and poured the chip crumbs into his open mouth. He quickly chewed through the crumbs and swallowed before speaking, seeming to have no shame in eating what could only be described as ground chips from explosive debris. ”I had a close friend that I worked with. She tried to visit some family in New Jersey, and the Watchdogs apparently hunted her down and killed her. Wheeler was responsible. Happened while I was in a coma for a few months.” Roy reached into his back pocket and pulled out a non-descript smart phone, and began tapping away on it. In mere seconds, the screen lit up and projected a holographic display, showing off files on Wheeler and the Watchdogs. ”Spent about two weeks going through all the files I could on these guys before I signed my discharge papers. They were willing to drop me off anywhere, so they dropped me off at the Church. I snuck in the back, subdued the priest, put on the disguise, and stole a few weapons they had in the back.”

”Did your plan also involve you getting blown up by their little team of avengers?”

Roy gave a small smile. ”Well, the Watchdogs had two documented leaders and a group of lieutenants who just so happened to all be meeting in the area. Planned things out so I could take down their organizational structure in a single day. Piece of cake.”

Grace simply nodded her head slowly, looking out over all the corpses. ”You know, we should probably call someone about the bodies. Once we’re long gone.”

A small smirk formed on the edge of Roy’s lips. ”I never said anything about a ‘we.’”

”You’re right. You didn’t. But given your skill set, I could sure as hell use you as backup.”

Roy shook his head. ”This was it, Grace. This was my last job. I’m not going to keep doing this whole ‘avenger’ thing. I’m honestly just planning to just buy a farm or something and just live a nice and quiet life. I’m done.”

Grace gave a small smirk of her own, which quite frankly seemed more like an intimidating grimace than an attempt at being somewhat playful. ”You owe me a favor for saving your life. The least you can do is help me on this one quest.”

Roy opened his mouth to speak, before snapping it shut and just pointing an accusatory finger. He gave a small laugh to himself. ”Ok, if that’s the way you want to play it, fine. I’ll help you. But we do this on my terms, Choi.”

She simply shrugged as she turned her back to him to begin making her way back to her bike. ”Whatever you say, Speedy.”

Roy sighed, defeated. ”Damn it… I really need a new alias.”

W A S H I N G T O N , D. C.

---

This is Douglas Edwards reporting.

Senator Joseph McCarthy today called to order a hearing of the House Un-American Activities Committee in order to question alleged un-American activities of one William Batson. Batson, appearing as a young child, a decorated veteran of the War in Europe, more popularly known as Captain Marvel.

Batson had earlier been subpoened to appear before the House Un-American Activities Committee, and was held in contempt by Congress for failing to appear. Batson had been in Alaska with other members of the Justice Society, where they had engaged in combat with an object described by witnesses as a mechanical giant.

A federal judge is expected to rule later on the contempt charges stemming from the earlier absence.

Wait, there’s some commotion outside the capital. There’s something in the sky. Is it..? It’s too large to be a bird. It’s not a plane, it’s... Ladies and gentlemen at home, you won’t believe what I have to tell you, but Captain Marvel has appeared in the air over Washington. Flying under some unknown means. I have never seen anything like it.

He has just landed on the steps of the capital. We’re going to move inside as well, where we’ll continue with the hearing of the House Un-American Activities Committee, led by Senator Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin.


The sound of the gavel echoed through the chamber.

The small boy seemed dwarfed by the chair that he was situated in, poised on the edge with his feet dangling an inch off the floor. Before him, a U-shaped panel of Congressmen sat on high, in judgment. The surly figure at the center of which, gavel in hand, seemed every inch judge and juror. “Mister Batson, is it true that you were commanded to appear before this committee on March 9th?”

Hands folded atop the table, Billy leaned forward as best he was able in order to speak into the microphone as he’d been instructed. “It is, sir,” the boy supplied simply.

“And is it true that you did not appear before this committee at that time?”

“It is, sir.”

“And is it true that you were in Alaska with the Justice Society at the day and time when you were to appear here before this committee?”

“It is, sir.”

The senator at the center of the panel paused there. He flipped through an assortment of pages, as though checking some of his notes. “And, one more question about Alaska,” the man stated, raising his head to look sharply down on the boy. “Is it true that you met with Soviet agents while in Alaska?”

“Sir...” Billy stated, tongue tied and twisted as, in his mind, he played back the question to make certain he hadn’t just mis-heard that. “Gosh jeepers, no.”

“This is the United States Congress, young man. Not the sandlot,” the senator barked harshly.

Billy visibly winced. “Sorry, sir,” the boy uttered meekly, before taking a breath and stating, “It is not true, sir.”

“Not true, eh?” Senator McCarthy echoed back, shuffling the papers in front of him for a moment. When he had laid them back down again, he asked, “So you were just protecting the good people of America, is that it, son?”

Billy’s eyes moved from one end of the panel of Congressmen to the other. Then, looking back at Joseph McCarthy, offered, “Sir, I believe my record speaks for itself there.”

“Let’s review that record… Mister Batson,” Senator McCarthy snapped, before holding up a copy of the Fawcett Herald. Pointing at the newspaper in hand, the man barked, “You have an opinion about the Internal Security Act that was proposed by my colleague and friend, Senator McCarren, do you not?”

Billy gave a nod as he replied simply, “I do, sir.”

“Enlighten this panel, Mister Batson.”

“I agree with the opinion stated by President Truman, sir,” Billy answered in a matter-of-fact tone. Without missing a beat, the boy posed a question of his own. “Is that... un-American, sir?”

“This committee will be the judge of that, son,” McCarthy fired back. “Let’s continue on. In addition to not supporting the internal security of these United States, you do support a foreign agent, do you not?”

Billy just blinked. Then a second time. Finally, the boy asked, “Come again, sir?”

“Allow me to be more specific. How would you characterize your relationship with the foreign agent known as Wonder Woman?”

Billy’s head went back in an obvious look of disbelief. When he recovered, a moment later, the boy leaned into the microphone to say, “I’d say that I consider Woman Woman to be a friend. Someone that I have a great deal of respect for.”

“And you’re not concerned in the least about the anti-American sentiments expressed by this friend of yours?” the senator tossed back in retort, before continuing on before Billy could so much as open his mouth. “Of course, you’re not. Because you have a great deal of respect for this un-American, foreign agent. Isn’t that right, Mister Batson?”

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but for a moment it seemed as though the gauntlets around the boy’s forearms were glowing as his eyes seemed to take on an unearthly light of their own. “Gee, sir. I don’t think I know what America you’re referring to, sir,” Billy managed, in an oddly cool tone for the lad. Continuing on, the boy added, “You’re from Wisconsin. Can’t say I know much ‘bout Wisconsin, sir. I’m from Ohio. Where we believe, among other things, in the freedom of speech.”

There was a murmur of laughter through the House of Representatives.

Banging the gavel against the table, Senator McCarthy silenced the room. “Order, there will be order.”

Still holding the gavel, the senator leveled the hammer like a weapon down toward the child as he snapped, “I’ll tell you what I believe, Mister Batson. You, child, are a communist, a traitor to these United States of America, and very likely a criminal. A delinquent in the very least.”


F A W C E T T C I T Y
Present Day

There were tears slipping from out the corners of his eyes as he woke.

He was staring up at a ceiling. The room felt alien to him, because it was familiar in a way that he couldn’t immediately place. So much time away. Disorientation and disassociation gnawed away at his awareness as the truth of where he was began to seep in.

This looked like Earth.

He tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his body and caused him to settled back atop the bed.

“Take it easy, son.”

It was a human voice.

Not an alien intonation deciphered by the universal communicator that he wore. Not the inhuman vocalizations of the Kymellians or the alien language of the Majesdane, but an actual human voice. Billy turned his head and saw an old man seated by his bedside. Wisened featured that were weathered upon a well-lined face framed by thinning, white hair. The man closed the book that had been in his lap, slowly rising to his feet and then shuffling toward where the boy lay.

Even as his mind cried out that he was home, Billy found himself afraid to believe it. Reaching a hand out, the child seemed desperate to reach out and touch this stranger who wasn’t as strange as the people, the places, the worlds that had become the new normal for Billy in all the decades that he’d been away.

The man simply held the boy’s hand, smiling down at him.

In a halting, stammering tone, Billy softly asked, “Is this... Earth?”

Squeezing the child’s hand, the man gave a nod. “Welcome home, Captain.”



The old man’s name was Fred.

He was retired, but occupied himself by staying active with volunteering for the Red Cross and the USO. He’d brought Billy some donation of clothes, though Billy had required Fred’s help in changing out of the hospital gown that he was wearing. Bruises marked the child’s body from his battle with Terrax, as well as the struggle with the neutron star.

To be honest, Billy couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt pain like this.

From out the window of the hospital room, the child looked down at a small gathering of people and news vans piled in the hospital lawn. The signs that they were holding contained things like WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN!

“What happened?” Billy asked, turning away from the window.

When Fred gave the boy a quizzical look, the boy explained, “When I left with Aelfrye, people hated me like they hated Jane Fonda.”

Fred tapped his book against his leg, musing silently to himself for a moment. Finally, he said, “People in my generation were upset that you weren’t fighting in Vietnam. And people in the younger generation were upset that you weren’t doing anything to stop our soldiers from fighting in Vietnam.” Pausing there, Fred set the book aside before folding his hands in his lap as he continued. “That’s a long time, now. The world changed. Presidents came and went. We apologized for the Japanese internment. Tried to fix the soldiers from Vietnam that we’d broken. And realized we’d made heroes into villains, and a few villains into heroes.”

Billy just turned back toward the window, staring down at the thin crowd with a somber mix of emotions. Then, he turned back. Something about what Fred had said seemed familiar somehow.

“Hey, Mister Fred? Where were you during the Second World War?”

The old man just smiled, then both heads turned toward the door to the hospital room as a knock sounded. “Ask me again sometime,” Fred offered, rising from out of the chair as two men in military style uniforms stepped inside. “In the meantime, I think that these gentlemen are interested in speaking with you,” Fred noted, picking up his book and then shuffling his way toward the door as he made his exit.

The elder of the two military looking individuals took a step forward. Billy didn’t recognize the blue service coat with silver piping, but he did recognize the stars atop the epaulets. “Captain Batson, welcome back to the United States,” the major general offered, before adding. “I’m General Sanders. My aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Muldowney.”

Even as the second, younger man gave a nod, the general continued on. “We’d like to talk with you about where you’ve been these last forty years.”

It as friendlier than his last encounter with agents of the United States government, but Billy couldn’t help but feel like he was back in that chair on the floor of the House Congressional hearing. Looking at Sanders, then Muldowney, Billy looked back at the general as he quietly stated, “I doubt you’d believe it, sir.”

“We’re confident that you weren’t on Earth.” Muldowney stated, chiming in. “Based on your trajectory during re-entry, we believe that you were somewhere beyond the asteroid belt.”

Sanders held his hands out, as though silently asking Billy to just hold on a moment. “If you have information on what threats exist beyond our solar system, I’m interested in them. No matter how... out-of-this-world they might seem,” the man stated.

R O U T E 1 6

---

The lifelike doll crouched down along the side of the road.

Dick leaned up against the side of the unmarked police cruiser, seemingly content to watch as the animatronic youth processed the crime scene for itself. Just what kind of programming that Schott had installed on Toyboy wasn’t really something that Dick had ever thought to try and understand. From what he’d observed, the doll was capable of analyzing a variety of information.

“There were two vehicles,” the doll supplied after a moment. The small, hoodie-clad figure rose back to its feet, turning to face Dick as it continued. “The vehicle on the shoulder had a wheelbase of precisely one-hundred-fourteen-point-four inches. Based on impressions, approximate curb weight was three-thousand-forty-eight pounds.”

Dick just blinked. That was significantly more analysis than he’d been anticipating. Was the doll capable of assessing terrain? Some kind of autoCAD rendering, perhaps?

Turning away, the doll pointed at a different spot off the side of the road. “The second vehicle was larger, with a one-hundred-thirty-eight inch wheelbase and a weight of five thousand pounds.”

The detective just gave a gruff sound of approval. “Does this seem familiar?” Dick asked simply.

Turning back, neck craned to look up at the taller figure, the doll responded, “This would appear to be an accurate re-enactment of the abduction of Anton Schott.”

Dick gave a nod. It was an assumption on his part, but there were still a lot of details about that abduction that the case file had been unclear of, owing to the children’s recollection of events being colored by the trauma that they’d experienced afterward.

Walking out to the middle of the road, the doll held up its hands as it gestured and said, “The first vehicle was made to appear disabled, with a doll or other object in the path of the school bus in order to better guarantee that it would stop here.” Marking the spot with his body, the doll then motioned back down the road. “The second vehicle, likely a van or bus, then overtook the bus so that the children could be off-loaded and then transported in a less conspicuous conveyance.”

Dick just gave a nod in the direction that Toyboy had indicated. “You think they came from that direction?”

The doll’s arms fell back by its side. “If this is a re-enactment of the abductions, as it appears, then that would be historically accurate,” the pseudo-boy affirmed with a nod, before adding, “However, I am confused.”

“About?”

“To my knowledge, there are only five living witnesses to that event,” the automaton remarked candidly.

One eyebrow crept up along Dick’s furrowed brow, even as a sour feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t thought to suspect one of the five kids who’d survived Hinkley Creek in 1996. The thought of it now didn’t sit well with him.

Even still, it appeared a rabbit hole that they were doomed to go down. “Where did you take the kids after you abducted Anton that day?”

“The Schott Toy Factory off Highway Twenty-Seven.”

Dick’s shoulders slumped. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy. With a shake of his head, the man explained, “No, a fire burned that down about twelve years ago.”

Motioning for the doll to come back, Dick pulled open the car down as he said, “Come on, we’ve got more work to do.”


He could have afforded a place out in the ‘burbs.

Instead, Dick rented out the top floor of an old brownstone on Parkthorne Avenue. Back when he’d been Nightwing, it had been everything that he’d needed. Centrally located. Rooftop access. A layer of cork beneath the floorboards and a few false walls and partitions helped to insulate the workings of a vigilante from any neighbors or landlords that might come stalking by.

It wasn’t the Batcave, but the computers were still capable of accessing more information than the police commissioner of a small municipality ought to have been able to pull. Chock that up to the secure computer network that Sara Charles had developed back in the day.

Five different people were currently displayed. “Five survivors of the Hinkley Creek murders,” Dick stated, peering up at the monitors as he talked though each in turn.. “Anton Schott, committed to a mental institution. Aaron Helzinger, in and out of prison for violent felonies. Laura Givens, sole female survivor, currently serving in the U.S. Air Force. Michael Jarret, committed suicide four years later. Neal Ashley, suicide, several months after Jarret. Thomas Cunningham, high school drop out, several misdemeanor drug possession charges, but no significant encounters with police.”

Toyboy was seated cross-legged on the floor, next to Dick’s chair, just nodding silently.

Shuffling through the data, Dick continued. “The last known address for Givens is an Armed Forces Europe military postal address. Helzinger is in Blackgate and Schott was transferred to Ellsworth in Metropolis...”

“So... that leaves Cunningham?” Toyboy ventured aloud.

Dick just gave a gruff sound of disapproval. “It doesn’t fit, but I can have a unit question Cunningham as part of the official investigation to be sure,” the man remarked. Reaching up, he scratched at his chin as he mulled it over some more. “I’ll also reach out to Arkam and Ellsworth. See who Schott or Helzinger might be talking to.”

Minimizing those windows, Dick next brought up a Google Maps display of the area surrounding Route 13 through Bludhaven. With a few more clicks, he brought up a browser window and was soon plugged into the traffic cameras. “There’s still the question of where the kids went,” the man remarked as he worked. “There are no cameras on that part of Route Thirteen, but we’ve got them on all the entry and exit ramps for the highways.”

Swiveling his chair toward the boy, Dick rose from out of the seat and then motioned for Toyboy to take his spot as he said, “I need you to poll through the footage for these cameras. See if you can identify our vehicles, where they came from, and then we can pull the string back from there.”

Jumping up, Toyboy literally pounced from floor to chair. Spinning around with the momentum, the child-like doll chirped, “Oh, okay!”

Then, as Dick started to walk away, the man heard, “Wait, what are you going to do?”

Dick paused, looking back to see Toyboy peering up over the back of a chair like a puppy that was watching its master walking away. “Me? I’m going to bed,” the man explained, giving a wave as he continued on.

“Some of us have work in the morning.”

---

Rachel opened the door, the sudden brightness making her squint. Not too long ago, Detective Rossi had advised her that she was free to go, and she was neither surprised nor relieved when he delivered the news.

The first thought to cross her mind upon setting foot on the sidewalk was the inevitable reaction from not only her classmates, but the rest of the student body as well. At the very least, she would be front and center amid a campus-wide gossip fest. That meant enduring giggly whispers just out of hearing range, getting nasty looks from passersby, and being avoided due to certain "concerns". But simply put, none of it bothered Rachel. Sure, almost no one liked being perceived as dangerous enough to pull a homicidal stunt, but that wasn't the case for the young woman.

I'm not guilty...never was, she thought to herself, turning into Broadway. As she walked on, Rachel contemplated stopping by the college for a brief moment, but quickly dismissed the thought. She set her eyes on a local joint which was practically opened all day and night save for a few hours early in the morning. Walking into the bar, Rachel noticed she caught the attention of a few patrons. She tensed for a moment before reminding herself she was nowhere near that level of infamy.

"Hello miss, would you like a menu?" The bartender smiled at Rachel as she took a seat on one of the empty barstools.

"No, I'm alright. Just a gin and tonic please."

"Will do."

"Not bad."

Rachel turned her head to the stranger seated next to her. "Glad you approve of my drink selection," she replied sarcastically, making him chuckle in response.

The two introduced themselves and went on to talk before Rachel's drink arrived. It was only a matter of minutes before their conversation mirrored that of a couple of friends who've known each other for years.

N E W Y O R K S C I E N C E E X P O

---

^{Present Day | Jacob K. Javits Convention Center, Manhattan, New York}

Ted Kord walked quickly down 11th Avenue in the early evening. He still had his Blue Beetle suit on underneath his brand new tux, albeit now obscured by an extra layer of undergarment quickly put together by one Janet van Dyne. It cleverly concealed the telltale colours and shape of the suit, giving him a smoother contour, but added an extra half inch to his suit size compared with if he were wearing nothing at all underneath. Gloves and cowl zipped into internal pockets, as well as the BB gun broken down to flat components and tucked away as well. She’d done a marvellous job, truly remarkable given how little time she had to work with.

Still, his appearance had yet to have to stand up to any real test, although it would now. Tony Stark was standing out the front of the Convention Center, once again flanked by the same two beauties he’d seen him with on the television earlier. One a beautiful caramel skinned South American bombshell with striking green hair. She had matched this feature perfectly with the bare minimum amount of material required to qualify as a cocktail dress in a complementary green shade. An emerald necklace plunging deep into the neckline - as if that region needed anymore attention - completed the ensemble. The other appeared far more fair skinned. Ted might guess Scandinavian or East European, maybe even Russian. With a straight white bob cut. She wore a far more subdued royal blue cocktail dress, but still looked just as phenomenal as any female company Tony Stark usually surrounded himself with.

“Kord.” He said, approaching him with a hand out. An expression on his face that Ted couldn’t quite pinpoint between a smirk and a smile, but full of unmistakable self-confidence. “...I see you’ve been making great time.” Ted took his hand and shook it. “A dad-bod whilst still in your early twenties. Impressive.”

There it is. Ted could almost feel the flop sweat drop and instantly soak both pits. Still OK. Keep your cool and stick a comeback.

“Yeah, nice work with the Dali.” Ted said, ending the handshake and rubbing his chin.

“This isn’t a Dali. That’s a long thin moustache that curls at the ends. You’re thinking of a Zappa...”

“Yes!” Ted blurted out, pointing his finger slightly too excited. “Ha!” With a grin as if he’d somehow “Got” Tony Stark.

“Except this isn’t a Zappa either.” There was no mistaking the expression now. Smirk all the way.

“Men’s Health Weekly call this a ‘Stark’. It’s flattering, and let’s face it, perfectly descriptive, but perhaps a little over the top. You know how those Men’s style magazines get…”

Ted could see the retort coming. Time seemed to crawl. The girls Stark was with almost seemed to feel sorry for him now and that was the worst part of all.

“...or maybe not.” Stark tapped him twice on the stomach and turned around and went inside, followed by the two models who fortunately didn’t spare him a look-behind pity glance. “I’ll see you in there.”

Ted slouched deeply. God dammit.



Ted eventually skulked back to K.O.R.D’s segment of the showroom, tail between his legs.

“Ted! Over here!” Murray Takamoto waved him over. “Where the Hell have you been?”

“Some things came up. Needed my attention. How’s everything here?” Ted asked. Murray and Jeremiah Duncan looked considerably relieved to finally see him.

“Mmmmmmokay?” Murray answered, looking to Jeremiah for support.

“That sounded more like a question than a statement, and it makes me nervous. Where are we? What’s happened to the product?”

“Oh good. You’re asking that question.” Replied Murray with an uncomfortably large grin on his face. “The product itself is fine.”

“Yes. We must stress the product is absolutely fine. Perfect working order. It’s set up in that Beamer over there.” Reaffirmed Jeremiah, pointing to a maroon BMW parked across the floor in a corner of the showroom..

“That’s it over there?” Asked Ted. “Next to the blue Testarossa?”

“Yes. It was the original model made over in--” They both confirmed before Ted cut them off.

“Why is there is a multi-million dollar blue Testarossa parked next to what we’re using to market our product? Waitaminute-- the original was red, how do you get Ferrari of all companies to paint their original model blue?”

“I guess if you’re Tony Stark then people will--” Jeremiah elbowed Murray and gave him a disappointed look for running his mouth.

“Stark? But-- He’s got nothing to do with cars? Why’s he got a blue Testarossa here?”

Ted rushed over to get a closer look. The pair waited until he came back, heads bowed.

“Are you kidding me?!?”

Murray and Jeremiah looked on sheepishly.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with anything! He’s painted a work of art a crass blue, slapped on a Stark Industries decal and he’s got some model writhing around on the hood taking pictures with anyone who wants one!”

“We can only control what we can control, Ted.” Jeremiah replied, attempting to sooth the CEO. “People will see it for what it is. Cheap attention grabbing tactics.”

“I saw Jeff Jarvis over there! He’s a major geek journalist and weblogger and he’s taking thumbs up photos with her by the car like it’s Spring Break! The man took down Dell!”

“Jeremiah’s right. We can only run our race.” Murray replied.

“Well, at least now I know why you were both being evasive… You didn’t want me to see that.”

“Well, I’m going to take this opportunity to go to the toilet, while you tell him. This is why they pay you the big bucks.” Murray said to Jeremiah, as he quickly walked away.

“Don’t you go getting a photograph with her, Takamoto!”

Murray quickly did an aboutface and walked back past the pair in the opposite direction. “Sorry. Toilet’s this way.” Ted scowled at him all the way.

“Spill it…” Ted said to Jeremiah once Murray was gone, folding his arms and looking down on the smaller executive.

“Randall Truman called. The focus group fell through so we still don’t have a name. All we know is that we can’t call it--”

“The Carjack Off.”

“Yes. That.”

Ted pinched his brow deeply in frustration.

“Ted, you can’t kill him.” The Chief Operations Officer reminded him.

“I’m not going to kill him, Jeremiah.” He mumbled whilst deep in facepalm. “I might shave him bald and feed him each of his $5,000 suits, and the expensive Italian loafers he purchased with his undeserved senior executive salary, garnishing it generously with his own hair… but I’m not going to kill him.” He straightened back up, ready to problem-solve.

“Alright. Names. Any ideas?”

“That’s not really my kind of field of expertise, Ted.”

“Great. So I guess I’m winging it.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? You were the one to name it that in the first place.”

“It was a joke, Jer’. Nobody ever goes with the engineer’s name for a product. It was a dumb juvenile joke because it never matters.”

“Except in this case.”

“Yes. Except in this case.”

Ted slouched further. God dammit.



Mostly, however, these things were about networking. Being on the receiving end of Stark’s sarcastic jibes, having Dario Agger the head of Roxxon pretend he didn’t know who he was. At least he thought he was pretending. Ugh.

Suddenly he saw a craggly faced older gent with an unmistakable hairstyle in a dark green suit approaching him with his hand held out.

“Kord.” He said. “I’d like you to meet my son, Harry. Harry, this is Mister Ted Kord. Evidence that you’re never too young to take initiative, pull yourself up by your bootstraps and step up into a position of taking responsibility for a father’s business.”

Ted looked at the younger Osborn, who’d been gifted the same unmistakable haircut either by choice, genetics or unfortunate accident. He seemed to flinch or twitch at his father’s comment.

“Norman,” He said, shaking his hand and looking at his son with no small amount of sympathy, “and Harry. Circumstances kind of played a hand in that. I used to just be an engineer. After going to Worcester Polytechnic.” He winked at Harry. “So even ESU wouldn’t have me! So we all have our own pace, Harry.” Norman bristled.

“So what are you liking at school?” Ted asked the youth.

"I'm alright. Pretty good at chem, math, that sorta thing." Harry replied.

Norman's nose wrinkled at the comment. "With help from Mr. Parker, I'm sure."

Harry nodded slightly.

“I didn’t ask what you’re doing well in, I asked what you’re liking.” Ted prodded. “If you don’t enjoy your job you’re going to find excuses not to do it. Now again, what are you liking?”

“Well…” A wry grin started to cross Harry’s face. “We did this term on coding and programming in Computer Studies a few years back, and since then I’ve been working on some things in my spare time.” Harry took out his OsPhone. “Have you ever heard of Byerim? We’ve got it on our OzBox...” He opened up YouTube.

“Well, yes. But I’ve got it on PC... Oh don’t look at me like that Norman, PC gaming is more customizable.” But Norman was more steamed with the redirection that this conversation had taken, than any issue with Ted Kord owning one of his game consoles.

“Well, you say that. But you haven’t seen this yet…” Said Harry as he played a video uploaded by ‘LittleOz’.

“Oh you made some mods, that’s coo-- Whoa! Look how clean that is… Wait, you did this on a console? How in God’s name? That’s like it’s part of the actual game itself!”

“Yeah, I taught myself. We’ve got an OzBox toolkit, I was playing around with it, figuring things out. I made all this stuff with the OsEdits myself for console."

“This is incredible! Norman, have you seen what your kid… Norman?” But Norman Osborn had no interest in seeing what his son had done. He was storming away infuriated by the corrupting influence of what he perceived as Ted’s slacker gamer mentality. Harry dropped his head, seeing his angry father walk away, only for Ted to nudge him and cheer him up.

“You really texture this all yourself? For a console?”

Harry perked up again and grinned with pride. “Yeah.”

“Umm Mr Kord, would I be able to take a photo with you? It’d freak my friend out.”

Ted laughed a hollow laugh as much to protect his own ego as anything, he didn't know how many more shots his self esteem could take today. “Are you sure he’d even know who I am?”

“Oh yeah.” Harry said. “He’s a full blown science and tech geek. He’s already jealous my Dad gets us in here.”

Ted smiled. After all the snubs at this Expo at least he still had the die hard geeks. “Well, how about we do one better? We video chat him and really blow his mind.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, why not. I can spare the time.” He looked away to Murray and Jeremiah to make sure they didn’t need him for anything. Murray awkwardly shrugged and mouthed “What?” Ted waved him away and shook his head.

“OK. You stand over here and I’ll introduce-- no, maybe you should walk in from the side.” The two worked out the choreography of the given call for a few minutes, before Harry was satisfied enough to call his friend.



A few hours later the Expo opened to the general public, with only insiders, their guests and press members previously being permitted inside.

“OK Ted, I think it’s show time.” Said Jeremiah, getting his things together and ushering the CEO towards the car. Murray walked slightly behind the pair.

“The product itself is fine though, you promise me that?”

“Full working order. So keep the flash and the sonic discharging orifice away from your face.” Murray warned.

“Really? ‘Discharging orifice?’” Ted questioned.

“Don’t blame me. Marketing--”

“I got it, I got it. Focus group fell through.” Murray pushed his boss onwards.

Ted stepped up onto the platform with the car, taking a microphone and tapping the top to draw attention and check that it was working.

_{“Crime has been--”}

Nothing. No response, barely heard over the din. Ted hit the car alarm button on the key chain and the cacophony and flashing lights drew in a small crowd who started to settle down and speak in hushed tones. Even Tony Stark and his followers turned to see what exactly was going on. For a split second he could have even sworn he saw the girl in the blue dress smile at him, before she turned away and looked around at the rest of the room, whilst returning to Stark’s side.

“Huh--” Started Ted, sitting down on the edge of the platform. “--I’m surprised that worked as well as it did. After all we’re in New York City. Who here actually turns around at the sound of a car alarm these days? It’s become background noise. The soundtrack of a city, yes?” Ted stepped down and walked around the front of the platform, looking people in the eye.

“It hasn’t helped with the crime problem at all. In fact the NYPD has said there’s evidence to suggest that it actually makes matters worse and often acts to conceal crime. To the point where there’s been conversations regarding legislation on these loud, abrasive hindrances which do little to help in our daily lives.” Ted jumped back up on the platform with a single sweeping glide-step.

“Unchanged since the 80s. Old. Stale. And frankly of questionable value. Sounds to me like someone needs to take a look at completely revolutionizing the form anti-car theft measures take place for the new century.” He turned to face the growing crowd.

“So we did. Ladies and gentlemen, I present the CJO Anti-theft system. From K.O.R.D’s laboratories to your tomorrow.”

Murray hit a few keys and a screen dropped to the floor, where demonstration videos were played.

The crowd seemed to huddle in a little more. Even Stark and his entourage seemed to be at least temporarily taken by Ted’s presentation.

“...Kord Omniversal Research and Development. Simplifying tomorrow for a better future, today.” Ted winced slightly, he’d never liked the corporate tagline marketing had come up with.

“So what exactly does it mean?” A familiar voice from the middle of the pack.

Ted started to sweat at the thought of having to explain his company’s ridiculous campaign slogan.

“Excuse me, what was that?” Ted asked, hoping to buy himself a few seconds to think.

Stark paraphrased himself. “‘CJO’. What exactly does it stand for?”

“Oh.” Said Ted, walking around the platform, trying desperately to think of something.

“Well, ‘C’ and ‘J’ stand for ‘Car’ and ‘Jacker’ respectively…”

“And the ‘O’?” Pressed Stark.

“Well, the ‘O’ stands for ‘Oooooohmygodlookouteveryone!”

It all happened so fast. That’s what people seldom realize about these hero/villain slugfests. Everything happens quickly, only the people who train to react generally do. And often things happen so fast people can barely be sure of exactly what they saw.

First, five people in brightly coloured garb pushed through the crowd. Then the weapon was drawn. Suddenly a metal figure dropped from the glass ceiling and stepped in front of Ted Kord, pushing him back firmly with a solid metal arm. Ted Kord tumbled over the hood of the car. The girl who had been on top of the blue Testarossa screamed as shards of thick glass came down. Ted dove over the car with little regard for its place in automotive history, and kept her head down away from the glass. Covering her with his tuxedo jacket.

“That’s it! It’s not in the car!” Yelled one of the colourful men. The weapon was lined up again. Ted ran around the car and the blast hitting the metal suit was large enough to blast him back over the car and against the back corner wall of the showroom.

He looked up just in time to see his company’s B.E.E.T.L.E suit aiming a weapon at one of these colourful men as people screamed and pandemonium broke out all around.

“Abner you lunatic. What the Hell have you done?”

F A W C E T T C I T Y

---

General Sanders had arranged for Billy’s discharge from the hospital.

Muldowney had managed to find the boy’s most recent Captain Marvel get-up, through the Majesdane Light Brigade armor was looking decidedly worse for wear.

Pulling his arm through the sleeve, Billy’s arm stuck out from where the sleeve had been all but sheared away.

“The nurses told me that they had to pull and pry that off you,” Muldowney said, scrutinizing the suit as though trying to appraise the quality. “Scissors and scalpels couldn’t cut through it,” the lieutenant stated, reaching out to feel one of the strands of charred cloth hanging from off Billy’s wirey frame. “I’m sorry that its ruined.”

With a shrug, Billy gave a shake of his head as he said, “Naw. The Elsewhere tailors will have this fixed in a jiffy.”

Muldowney looked at the boy, confused a moment. “Elsewh..?”

“Costume off.”

A swirl of light seemed to move across the child’s body. Muldowney blinked several times, forced to turn away from the sudden intensity. When he’d turned back, the boy before him was attired in something entirely different.

He looked like he was ready for the Renaissance Fair, dressed in a soft blue tunic that fell to just above his knees. A thin, double wrap belt cinched it at the waist, while a pair of leather straps secured a simple sole against his feet like a pair of Roman caligae. As Muldowney’s mouth fell open, Billy uttered, “Galladorian.”

Removing the belt, Billy wrestled out from the tunic and then donned the USO t-shirt and shorts that Fred had brought him. As he did, he explained, “They’re human-ish, but its weird. Like if society just kinda stopped in the Medieval times, except technology kept going.”

The look on the lieutenant’s face made clear that he had plenty of questions, but discretion seemed to carry the day. “Well, you ready?” Muldowney asked finally, motioning toward the door as he led the boy from out of the hospital.

Muldowney had checked a government vehicle from out of the motor pool for the trip. It wasn’t much. A Ford Fiesta. But Billy still marveled at the sight of the car, walking around it as though he was looking at some high priced concept car design at the auto show.

The travel from Fawcett toward Dayton, Ohio was a fairly straight shot. South through the state, before turning west.

Dwarfed by the passenger side seat that he was situated in, Billy lasted only a couple of miles before his head lulled to one side and he knocked out.


He woke to find himself laid out on top of a bed, inside what looked like a hotel room.

It was set up like a suite. Beyond the bedroom was a room of equal size, with a couch on which Muldowney was seated, watching something that looked kinda like what Billy remembered televisions being like. Except flat. Like totally flat.

Stumbling from out of the bedroom, the sleepy-eyed child rubbed at his face as he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”

Holding up a television wand, Muldowney killed the sound from the television. Turning toward Billy, the man said, “You fell sixty-two miles and crashed at probably a hundred or so miles per hour.”

Most people who went through that experience wouldn’t be in one piece, let alone alive.

“What are you apologizing for?” Muldowney deadpanned finally.

For his part, Billy just gave a shrug. To be polite? He couldn’t have really said, so he just left it at that.

“This is the Air Force Inn on Wright-Pat Air Force Base,” Muldowney said, passing the television wand over toward Billy. As the man rose from off the couch, he added, “I’ll be by in the morning at zero-nine to get you and bring you for your meeting with General Sanders.”

Looking down at Billy, the lieutenant asked, “You’ll be okay here by yourself?”

From what he knew of the kid’s dossier, the boy had walked through some serious hell during Operation Dragoon. Congress had unsealed the classified records in the late 1970s, revealing a lot about Captain Marvel that had been withheld from the public until that point. Even still, Billy Batson looked like a little kid.

It was more than unnerving.

As the child craned his head back, Billy just gave Muldowney a nod in response. “Yes, sir.”

“You know you outrank me, right?”

Holding the remote between both hands, the boy’s head went back as he shot Muldowney an incredulous look, which only prompted the man to laugh. “Congress granted you veteran status at the same time that they did the WASP pilots,” the lieutenant explained. “The details of your battlefield commission were made public in the Eighties. I think the Smithsonian even has one of the uniforms that you wore on display.”

Billy just stood there. Shocked? Angry? Why was he angry? To be honest, he wasn’t sure. It just seemed so... different. After the War, nobody had talked about the War. They’d just gone back to their lives, like before. Then McCarthy and Korea and Vietnam... and it was like everything that he’d ever done had been used against him.

Now he was back and, what? He was just supposed to go back to being a hero again?

Walking away from the conflicted boy, Muldowney hit the door and then turned around. “Before I go, are you hungry?” the man asked. “Do you want to get anything to eat?”

Well, that was a simpler thing to consider.

“Do they still have Wendy’s?”

_{San Francisco - Present Day}

Issue 1.01.04: Paradise City

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: 1.01.03: Welcome to the Jungle

Roy straightened his tie as he sat in a booth in the back of the Club Fenris. He was dressed in a sharp Italian suit, and sitting next to him was Grace in a sleek and simple red dress. Her hair was let loose cascading along her shoulders and back. They both raised an eyebrow at each other as they waited. It had been a half hour of waiting so far, which did not bode well. Just as Roy was about to stand up to leave, a voice rang out. ”Mr. Harper, I so do apologize for the delay.”

From around the corner, a man in a gaudy rainbow suit with bleach blonde hair strode up to the booth and gave a wicked smile. Flanking him were two rather large men in black t-shirts and jeans, very clearly bouncer types. Roy placed a hand on the briefcase on the seat next to him instinctively, while reaching over with his right to shake the man’s hand. ”I take it you are the owner here, sir?”

The stranger simply shook his head while returning the handshake. ”I’m not the owner, no. I’m an… entrepreneur. And the rumor on the street is that you’re looking for something to buy.”

Roy gave a nod, giving Grace a sideways look. ”Well… I heard that this is the best place to score some powered protection.” He gave a small smile before continuing. ”With all the shit going down in the world, it wouldn’t hurt to have some 21st Century protection.”

The host was silent for a moment before he himself flashed a smile and laughed. ”Of course, of course. I keep my own around.” He laughed a little too hard before slamming a hand on the table, turning his gaze towards his new buyer. Roy instinctively tightened the grip on his briefcase. After a brief moment, the host started laughing. The two guests nervously joined him. After a moment, the host motioned for the others to follow as he began walking towards the back of the club.

After going through a security door and passing by what seemed like a small battalion of mutant bodyguards, the host had finally led the duo into what seemed like an impossibly large underground bunker. Armed guards in black and red uniforms patrolled around the makeshift facility, holding high-tech rifles that Roy had seen specs for in the SHIELD database. If he could remember correctly, they were called “ICER” rifles. Unfortunately, that wasn’t what was important. In the massive warehouse, individual containment units held a plethora of strange individuals. The host gave a smile and motioned towards the rows upon rows of elaborate cages. ”Welcome to our little Mutie Market, Mr. Harper. We’re having a special right now: buy one, get one half price. Each of them comes chipped so you can track them if they get out… and the chips come with a micro-bomb in case they become too unruly.”

Grace’s hands clenched into fists at the non-chalant nature of the host’s claims. Roy could tell that he didn’t have long to keep her contained. Roy placed a hand on her shoulder reassuringly to ease her tensions for now. Roy simply gave a nod. ”Do you mind if I take a closer look?”

The host simply smiled and motioned for him to go ahead. Roy and Grace both made their way closer to the containment units. Roy gave Grace a knowing look as they walked the aisles, with the mutants shying away slightly at their new potential “owners.” The partners shared a nod, and they kicked into action. Roy started by quickly reaching into his inner coat pocket and pulling out a small box. He pressed the side of the box, and a bright light flashed from it. The power immediately cut out, even the emergency lights in this underground warehouse. Roy deftly opened up the briefcase, pulling out two sets of goggles. Once on, the two found they could see in the pitch black to see the doors to the containment units opened… and that the armed guards apparently had night-vision goggles as well.

Grace kicked the briefcase to safety between two of the containment units as a hail of bullets began firing in their direction. Roy dove to meet the briefcase while Grace lifted up her wrists, deflecting a few bullets with her wrist bracelets as she rushed towards a few of the guards. While she pummeled them into a pulp and tossed them aside, Roy smiled as he looked at his functioning gadgets. He slammed his wrists swiftly into two metal bracelets that glowed red as soon as they snapped on. He then fetched the last two weapons before looking back towards Grace. She had easily dispatched her brief adversaries, and was dragging one guard in each hand in his direction. She rested the corpses on the ground and held her hand out expectantly. Roy handed her a collapsible sword, which she quickly flicked out to continue her reign of terror.

Roy slotted his own sword onto his belt before grabbing the rifle and spare magazines off of the guards Grace had been kind enough to fetch for him. As much as he hated to admit it, there was a certain thrill to this. His movements were textbook as he raised the rifle up and peered around the corner, able to use only a single ICER round to take down each and every guard that came in his path. All his actions felt automatic, as if he were just on auto-pilot or some sort of drone. His SHIELD training seemed to have stuck. When his rifle ran out of rounds, he switched to his gauntlets, which fired off small shock rounds of their own. When that emptied out, Roy drew his sword to cut down anyone who stood in his path.

The longer the fight seemed to drag on, the more the mutants began to get involved. Arcs of energy, flame, and lightning briefly illuminated the dark warehouse. The fight lasted for about a half hour, before every single guard and hostile mutant was taken down by the vigilantes and those who were newly freed and willing to fight. Once the dust had settled, Grace approached Roy. Her hands were spattered in blood, but she gave her partner in crime a huge hug. ”Thank you. I know a place by the river front, but they’re going to need more permanent settlement. You said you might know someone who could help?”

Roy gave a small nod, grimacing slightly. ”Yeah… I can give him a call.” He began to walk towards the exit, wiping his bloody sword on his pants leg to clean it off, before giving a smile. ”You owe me for this, Grace. How about-“

”Not in a million years.”

Roy gave an awkward nod at this, before shrugging his shoulders and making his way towards the exit. ”It was worth a shot.”
 

_{The Greatest Damn Place on Earth - Present Day}

Issue 1.01.05: Estranged

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Look above you Asshat

”You have millions of dollars at your disposal, and you insist on conducting business transactions in Steve’s Spud Sanctuary?”

Roy pointed his knife accusingly at Agent Coulson, his mouth stuffed full of potato, cheese, sour cream, and chives. He took a moment to swallow it all down. ”This place is a goddamn treasure.”

Phil gave a chuckle and shook his head, slowly cutting into his loaded baked potato slowly. ”Look, Roy… I get you called me here for a reason. How can I help?”

Roy shook his head, setting his utensils down and lifting the napkin up to wipe the crumbs from his lips. ”Alright, fine. I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got about fifty mutants sitting in a warehouse that need refuge, and the guards were wearing this on their jackets.” He pulled out his cell phone and slid it across the table. A green HYDRA patch was displayed clearly on the screen, and Coulson’s grip on his utensils tightened. Roy gave a nod at this reaction. ”So SHIELD knows who these guys are.”

Coulson leaned back in his chair, setting his napkin down on the table. ”This is new, I’ll admit. The coloring is wrong, but I’m familiar with the symbol. They’re the same ones who attacked the Helicarrier.”

Roy’s jaw tightened as he leaned over to grab his phone again. ”First attacking the Helicarrier, now trafficking mutants? I don’t get it.”

Coulson shrugged, giving a small smile. ”Well, why don’t you come find out. We pulled a bunch of their tech during a raid on one of their compounds, and I could use someone with the right security clearance to give their tech a once over.”

Roy tilted his head slightly, pondering the decision for a moment before nodding. ”Ok. If you give me access to your database and get those mutants somewhere safe, I can do some consulting work for you and the boys at the lab. I just have something I need to check out first, and I need a ride to Star City?”

”This wouldn’t have to do with that video of this new Green-“

”That’s none of your damn business, Phil. Just shut up and drive.”

B L U D H A V E N

---

Everybody
Rock your body
Everybody rock your body right
Backstreets back, all right

The doll was bouncing around. He had taken off the hoodie, the brightly colored t-shirt flaring out from the child-like simulacrum’s slight frame as it bobbed and bopped back and forth. A pair of headphones connected its head to an audio jack on the ORACLE terminal. The large screen overhead held a massive display of the popular children’s massive multiplayer online game that was known as Poptropica.

Dick had used Google maps to pull up a view of the crime scene. From there, the boy had been able to access the Google search engine. That had, in turn, introduced him to YouTube, where he had found, among other things, a playlist of 90s pop music -- which was currently cycling through the giants of the age. Dishwalla. Backstreet. Eagle Eye Cherry.

For his part, Dick just stood there. His shirt was hanging open, an untied tie dangling from his shoulders, and a multi-grain bagel in his mouth. Strolling from the doorway over to the computer, he held the half-eaten bagel in one hand and used the other to pluck the headphones from off the Toyboy’s head. “This is what you’ve been doing?” the detective asked. Was he surprised? Yes, but to be honest he wasn’t sure why. “Playing?”

Arching his back, the automaton craned its head back so that it was looking back at Dick. “You are aware that I am a toy... right?” the life-like robot supplied in retort. Then, straightening back up, the android gestured up to the monitors as it proudly exclaimed, “I’ve been getting caught up with the latest trends in children’s games and activities.”

It was programmed to adapt to current and emerging trends in children’s activities, in order to be the best toy that it could be. “Turns out pog slammers really didn’t make it past the mid-Nineties,” the robot noted candidly, crossing its arms as it added, “Well, that’s two megabytes of hard disk storage I can reclaim, I guess.”

Dick passed the headphones back to Toyboy. Then, taking a bite out of the bagel paused a moment before asking, “So, there was a bus..?”

“Oh, yeah,” Toyboy chirped, with entirely too much cheer at five in the morning. Minimizing the Poptropica window, the robot started calling up a multitude of different windows in various displays throughout the room. As he did, he explained, “I sorted through the camera footage and was able to locate the school bus entering Route Sixteen from the Gotham Highway off-ramp.”

Bringing one window to the center view, Dick watched as a bus turned onto Route 16. The markings on the side were not so clear that he could read the lettering on the side of the vehicle, but he knew looking at it that it was their crime scene. “Now, check it,” Toyboy interjected, speeding up time for a moment. As the doll resumed normal playback speed, Dick saw a shorter bus making the turn onto Route 16. “Five minutes later, this school bus comes along from the same entry.”

A pit was already forming in Dick’s stomach. Whoever was behind that bus, that was the criminal they were after.

“Assuming that it travelled Route Sixteen at the posted speed of forty-five miles per hours, and alloting for distance, that second bus should have reached the I-Twelve intersection nineteen minutes and twelve seconds later,” Toyboy noted, moving the center window off to one side and bringing up the camera for the intersection at I-12. Pausing the playback, the doll enlarged the area of the window that displayed the timestamp on the footage. “Instead, it appears on camera twenty-five minutes and forty-eight seconds later.”

“Seven minutes off.”

“Presumably the time that it would have taken to off-load the bus and load the children onto this second one.”

Dick finished the bagel with another bite. Rubbing his fingers to dispel the crumbs, the man asked, “What happened next?”

Toyboy resumed the normal playback. Dick watched as the bus made a turn right and then disappeared off camera. “Our mystery bus appears to turn onto I-Twelve North,” the doll noted aloud, before cycling to a third highway camera window. “However, the bus does not reappear on the camera for the I-Twelve/Highway Three-Thirty interchange.”

Dick began buttoning up his shirt. His mouth fell open to speak, but Toyboy seemed to anticipate the question. “I checked the cameras going south, but it does not appear on the I-Twelve/I-Forty interchange either.”

Dick just gave a slight nod of his head. Internally, he had to admit that he was impressed. When he’d decided to pull Toyboy from out of storage to assist with this case, he hadn’t anticipated that the doll would be this capable. “So it turned north onto I-Twelve and vanished somewhere between I-Twelve and Highway Three-Thirty,” the detective noted, as he began fiddling with the tie.

“That appears to be the facts as we know them presently,” Toyboy affirmed quietly.

Hitching the half-Windsor up to the base of his throat, Dick smoothed out the collar as he said, “All right, I’ll see what I can come up back at the precinct and be back in touch.” Stepping off to the side, Dick grabbed his service pistol and holster from a coat rack near the computer. Slinging that around his shoulders, he next picked up a package and turned back toward Toyboy. “Are you programmed for sewing at all?”

The doll just turned to give Dick a kind of curious, head tilt. “Of course,” the automaton answered simply. “The Toyman made certain that I could help him to knit and assemble dolls.”

“Think you could manage some clothing alterations?”

The doll just blinked. It was difficult to ascertain all of the variables involved in a hypothetical when one was missing key components of the problem set. “What would you like altered?” Toyboy asked finally.

“I need you to alter this to fit you,” Dick said, tossing the package over toward the doll.

As Toyboy caught it, the red and green ensemble became clear. It was Dick’s old costume from when he’d been younger. Holding out the Robin costume, Toyboy seemed confused at the meaning or purpose of the task. Finally, lowering the garment, the doll asked, “Are we playing a game?”

Shrugging on his suit coat, Dick just gave a slight nod. “We’re narrowing in,” the detective supplied cryptically, before adding, “When we make our move, if it is Cunningham, then he would recognize you.”

That would bring up questions about what had happened to Toyboy after Hinkley Creek. Which would implicate Dick, Sara, and S.T.A.R. Labs if the right questions got asked by the wrong people. Complications that Dick preferred to avoid.

“Mister Grayson?”

Turning his head up, Dick just looked back over at the doll that was holding the suit that Dick had worn in another era. Another Dick. Another Bruce. Another lifetime ago.

“Why do you trust me?”

It was a pointed question. With a shrug, Dick shuffled toward the door as he offered, “You proved who you are a long time ago.”

His hand turned the knob. “Don’t you mean what I am, sir?”

Standing in the doorway, one foot already out the door, Dick turned back to look at the doll. “No,” the man answered simply. “I do not.”


“CHAMBERS!”

It was known as the Grayson Effect. The name for the collective pucker of every asshole from the newest police academy graduate to the veteran captains, from the lobby of the police headquarters all the way to the top floor. Commissioner Grayson moved like a man on a mission, each step resonating through the interior as all other sounds immediately stopped. No one so much as breathed.

His voice rolled like thunder, echoing off the walls as he brushed right past the blond haired lieutenant. “My office. Now.”

Her arms full of case files, a report that was past due, and a cup of Starbucks that had been cold for the better part of the last hour, Cissy Chambers came chasing after Dick’s coattails as she dumped her armload of crap off on the nearest desk and then scrambled to make it through the doorway before Dick had slammed the door in her face.

Again, that is.

“Fifteen children missing from our jurisdiction in the last month,” the commissioner growled, stalking around behind his desk and tossing his keys down. Then he turned his head up and said, “Give me something, Chambers.”

Wringing her hands, the woman’s mouth fell open for a moment. “Sir, we have no conclusive evidence that the previous incidents of missing children are connected to the…”

“Bullshit.”

Cissy went up on her toes, hair standing on end as Dick summarily silenced the lieutenant. Recovering, or attempting to, the woman smoothed the front of her uniform as she said, “We’re still processing the bus. Now, there are no fingerprints, but we’re hoping that some fibers might come back from the lab and...”

“Chambers, I don’t give a flying fuck what your hopes are,” Dick stated flatly, looking the woman hard in the eyes as he laid it out like that.

Cissy’s jaw was hanging open.

“I asked you to give me something and what you’re telling me is that you’ve got nothing,” the commissioner stated, in the same matter-of-fact tone that so neatly cut the woman straight to the bone.

Dick was quite adept at creating that effect in people. And he should have been. He’d learned it firsthand from the very best.

Bruce Wayne.

Reaching into his pocket, Dick flipped an object down onto the desk. Glancing down, Cissy realized that it was his badge. “You want my job, Chambers?” Dick demanded, pointedly.

Lieutenant Chambers brought her head back up. “Sir?” she asked.

No, she wasn’t sure.

“Fifteen kids,” Dick said. “Inside a month.” Another pause. “Our jurisdiction. My watch.”

Each statement rang out like a nail in a coffin. And the tombstone was engraved with all of their careers. “If we don’t have something soon, I’m going to have to resign,” Dick stated. It was same same level-headed tone. “When that happens, I need someone who is capable of running this department.”

Cissy opened her mouth to speak. Then hesitated. Then opened her mouth again, thought twice about it, and just shut up smartly.

“Where were you in ninety-six, Chambers?”

The woman gave a slight shake of her head. This conversation seemed random. “Nineteen ninety-six? High school… I think?”

“I was on the homicide desk in ninety-six,” Dick stated, at last dropping down into his chair. Looking up at the woman, he continued. “Nine children were abducted from that exact same spot on Route Sixteen. Practically the same day and time. Five made it back alive,” he explained, leaning back to put his feet up on the desk. “Now, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a copycat. But it’s worth finding out if any of those five are even still in this jurisdiction.”

Popping to military attention, Cissy gave a firm nod. “On it, sir.”

The young woman made it halfway to the door of Dick’s office before she’d paused. “...wait,” the woman murmured aloud. She stood there a moment, then cut a slidelong glare over at the commissioner. “You already know the answer.”

It hadn’t been a question.

Dick just gave a slight nod of his head in response. “If you’re going to do this job, I can’t spoon feed you, Chambers,” the man stated firmly. Then, looking squarely at the woman added, “But I’ll give you this much, one’s in Blackgate and another’s in Ellsworth.”

“Ellsworth?”

“It’s a hospital in Metropolis.”

Another nod and Cissy popped open the door out of Dick’s office. His voice stopped her in her tracks. “And Chambers?”

Holding the door, the woman looked back over at her boss. “Sir?”

“Experience has taught me one thing about child abductions,” Dick stated, lifting his feet off the desk and then leaning forward as he said, “Time is not on our side.”

He watched as she left.

Once she had, Dick called up another view of Google Earth. There were several county roads that branched off the section of I-12 that Toyboy had identified. A few were no longer in use, ending in cornfields and dead ends.

If the bus was just hauling bodies away for disposal, it could have gone anywhere. Except, if that were the case, why the elaborate re-creation of the abduction of a school bus that had set-off the Hinkley Creek disaster?

No, to follow through with that example, the kids had to be held somewhere.

A couple of hours polling through city records and cross-referencing the most recent Google Earth footage, Dick had identified two possibilities.

There was a barn on County Road 448. The farm had been foreclosed on, but the structures were still there. That kind of abandoned acreage would make an ideal spot to disappear.

The other was a self-storage business that had gone under when the anchoring strip mall had closed. Later development had made that particular part of I-12 less traveled, as people took by-passes that reduced commutes by a rather significant margin.

Two locations that they’d need to investigate.

Apparently Robin wasn’t the only one making a comeback tonight.

_{Hydra Facility, Argentina - Present Day}

Issue 1.04.4: Battleground

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Issue 1.04.3: Enemy at the Gates

Black Widow gave Agent Carter a brief nod as she finished sticking the adhesive of the “Welcome Party” device, which didn’t appear to be more than a metal cylinder sticking out from the door frame. Agent Carter was finishing up setting a small receiver into the foam explosive that had been sprayed over the hinges of the metal door leading into the security room. The two agents began stepping back behind a line of SHIELD operatives that had their rifles at the ready. Romanoff began tapping away at her wrist computer to sync things up. ”I heard about what happened in London. I’m sure it was a hard choice.”

Sharon was caught off guard as she tilted her head, taking a moment to process her partner’s sudden concern. ”It’s the job.” Carter fetched a small detonator from her utility belt. ”We do what we have to in order to keep people safe.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. ”Great, I am surrounded by patriots and pencil-pushers. I might as well go back home to Moscow for some excitement.” She tapped a button, and the sound of a thermite charge could be heard cutting through the security office.

Carter shrugged. ”I’d hate to see you go. I was just starting to like you.” Sharon gave a cheeky grin as the repeated sound of compressed air firing cluster grenades into the office, followed by a cacophony of explosions and screams. Natasha rolled her eyes as Sharon detonated the foam explosive and the hinges were blown out. With a terrifying metallic screech, the door fell to the ground with a thud. The inside of the office was completely spattered with blood.

”Control room secured. It’s your turn, boys.”

---

”It’ll take us a minute.”

Cap spat out a little bit of blood as he rose to his feet. The mountain of a soldier began slowly shuffling towards Rogers with a large wrench in his hands. He was making his way down one of the aisles of the boiler room, with the door to the generator room standing behind him. Captain Rogers lifted up his fists, giving a cocky smile. ”What’s the matter? Getting sleepy?”

The HYDRA engineer lifted his wrench into the air to take a swing at Steve, but was interrupted as Masters quickly rushed in with Cap’s shield. Tony threw his weight behind the shield to force the engineer to crash into a large console. Tony quickly tossed the shield towards Steve, who was able to catch it on the rim and use both hands to swing it directly into the engineer’s ribcage. He cried out in pain and swung a fist towards Rogers, but Cap was able to sidestep it with ease. Masters delivered a few blows at the engineer, but without much progress. The engineer turned his gaze towards Masters, lifted his fists up. Two quick strikes to the abdomen. Use the distraction to deliver a palm strike…

The sound of a gunshot rang out, echoing along the walls. The HYDRA engineer crumbled to the floor. Cap turned around to see Fury holstering his revolver. Masters wiped the blood off his face, shaking his head. ”I had that under control.”

Fury rolled his eye. ”I’m sure you did, Masters. Now why don’t you ballerinas start heading down towards the lab. I can handle things from here.”

---

Natasha and Sharon were waiting in the elevator as Cap and Tony jogged in to meet them. It was an old service elevator, and a decent enough contingent of SHIELD operatives were surrounding the four officers. The elevator began slowly grinding down towards the bottom level. ”What took you guys so long? We could have brought Zemo to you if we knew it would take so long.”

Cap rolled his eyes. ”He’ll be locked up in time for us to get back home and watch some Wheel of Fortune, so don’t you worry Nat.”

The elevator was nearing the bottom floor when it suddenly jerked to a halt, and the service lights cut out. Carter sighed. ”Right… cutting emergency power. Guess we’ll have to take the stairs down the last few flights. Steve, can you give me a lift?” Carter automatically made her way towards the emergency opening in the top of the caged elevator, motioning for Steve to help hoist her up. He grabbed her by the hips and lifted her up with ease, and then helped Natasha and Tony.

They all stood on the grid-like metal roof of the elevator. Tony and Natasha managed to pry the elevator doors open enough that they could walk back into the facility with Carter close in tow. Steve had managed to vertically jump out of the elevator and on to the roof and begin walking towards the open doors when two sensations overwhelmed his senses: the roar of an explosion up above, and the lack of a floor beneath his feet. The other three watched in horror as the ceiling of the elevator shaft had erupted into a fiery inferno, with the cable lines snapping immediately.

Cap and the elevator fell about three stories before they crashed against the concrete flooring. One of the heavy cables slammed and crushed the elevator cage directly next to Steve’s head, forcing him to roll to the side instinctively and avoid another cable that certainly would have crushed him. By the time the dust had settled, Steve heard a voice come in over the comms channel. ”Sit tight, Steve. We’re heading to the stairwell, we’ll meet you at-“

Steve heard another explosion above him, this time more muffled, and then heard nothing further. The comms were simply static for a moment, forcing Cap to his feet to examine the elevator shaft. The door to the final sublevel was right next to him, and was probably Steve’s best bet for finding a stairwell to go find his friends. The Captain ripped open the metal doors leading out into the complex with the tips of his fingers, surprised to find no Hydra forces waiting for him. This sublevel looked surprisingly simplistic, with stark white floors and walls. There were high-tech computers along the walls, and work stations and labs were clearly visible through reinforced glass doors and windows. It looked too much like a SHIELD facility for comfort.

As Steve pushed farther down the sterile hallway, all the monitors suddenly flashed live, and all broadcast a sight that made his stomach turn. A man in a business suit and wearing a pink cloth mask gestured in the direction of the camera, and Cap could tell that he was smiling without having to see his face. ”Ahhh, Captain America. You know, I was hoping to meet you in ‘42 so that I could atomize you before you killed my father. But perhaps this is an opportunity in disguise. After all, I get the glorious opportunity the HYDRA council never got: I get to kill your friends, then you, and then I can travel back in time to kill you and your friends all over again. So what are you waiting for, Captain?.”

 

_{Hydra Facility, Argentina - Present Day}

Issue 1.04.5: From Here to Eternity

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Up Above

Steve’s feet pounded against the sterile hallways as he charged towards the lab. All the monitors showed the device was still warming up: the lab clearly had its own generators. Worst of all, Steve was alone. Zemo would have dozens of guards protecting him and the machine. But there was only one thought that surged through Steve’s mind with each pounding step: vengeance. Vengeance for Natasha and Tony. Vengeance for Sharon. Vengeance for Peggy, and Isaiah, and Hogan. Vengeance for Diana and Billy. HYDRA had hurt so many people that Steve had come to cherish. And that all ended today.

It took Steve less than a minute to weave through the complex tunnel system and towards the open doors of the lab. Standing there, waiting for him, was Zemo standing all alone in the middle of the large lab space. Steve knew it was too easy. But his anger boiled over into his arms, and the Captain jumped into the air to spin around and launch his shield with all his might at Helmut. Zemo instinctively ducked and held out his hand. As the shield flew over Helmut’s head and Cap was able to land on his feet, a large broadsword flew from the corner of the lab and into the HYDRA officer’s grasp as he rose to his feet. Cap clenched his fist, and his shield was able to rush back to his arm.

Behind Zemo, the contraption seemed to be warming up. Rina had various IV’s and wires connected to her, though she appeared to be so far drugged out at the moment it was a miracle she was standing. Helmut noticed where his nemesis’ eyes were glancing, and clutched his broadsword with both hands. ”This is the beginning of your end, Captain America. In mere moments, I will be able to stop you before you even got that serum in your veins. Your name will be forgotten, while the name of Zemo is one that makes the world leaders tremble in fear.”

Captain grit his teeth and readjusted the grip on his shield. ”Your grandfather took everything away from me the first time, Helmut. It’s time I return the favor through you.” Steve quickly rocketed the shield forward towards Zemo, who was able to lift his sword up just in time. The shield ricocheted into the as Steve continued rushing forward. Zemo delivered one swing towards Rogers’ chest, but the Captain was one step ahead. He ducked into a slide at the last second, lifting up a hand to grab onto Helmut’s leg and pull him to the ground. Zemo slammed into the ground as Steve quickly began to crawl on top of Helmut to deliver a beatdown.

Zemo had a trick up his sleeve. His left hand slipped from his blade and to his utility belt, giving him just enough time to pull a small bead. He slammed it into the ground before rolling a foot away from Steve. Cap’s knee pressed down over the spot the bead had been but a moment later. When he attempted to lift his knee up to get closer to his ally, Steve found his knee was completely immobile. Zemo smiled as he rose slowly to his feet, walking over to pick up his sword. ”I didn’t think you’d forget about my grandfather’s special compound. He designed it just for you. It’s fitting it should lead to your death.”

Zemo lifted his sword up and swung it towards Cap’s head, only to watch as the shield flew past Helmut’s blade at the last second to mount back on the Captain’s wrist to intercept the blow. The sword bounced wide, leaving Cap an opening to launch the shield the small distance towards his nemesis’ chest before it returned automatically to his wrist. Helmut was stunned by the sudden force, and his cloth mask began to change colors near the mouth from a light pink to a deeper shade of darker red. Steve cracked a small smile. ”I can do this all day, Zemo.”

As if on cue, the gateway of the Tinkerer’s contraption began to glow with an opaque bright green energy. Rina, who was once sedated, seemed to jolt awake. She struggled against her restraints, screaming in extreme pain. Zemo gave a small smile as he rushed up to his feet and began charging towards the portal. Steve turned his gaze towards the machine. He didn’t have long to come to a decision on what to do. He quickly looked at the machine. There wasn’t any exposed wiring, and there wasn’t anywhere instinctively noticeable as a kill switch. He had only one choice on what to do.

Steve threw his shield directly towards the cage in which Rina was caught. The shield spun vertically, seeming to cut directly towards the mutant’s chest. Her eyes widened in fear as the vibranium disk barely slipped in between the steel bars. At the last possible second, it cut left and slice through the various cables and wires hooked up to the Initiative Agent. Immediately, a bright flash of light filled the room that blinded both individuals. After a few moments, Steve’s vision had returned. Helmut turned his gaze back towards Cap, and the undeniable look of panic was evident.

Steve quickly pulled a small bottle from his belt and gave his knee a quick spritz. After a brief moment, Cap rose up to his feet and looked at Helmut. The villain’s eyes shifted from fear to pure rage. The villain reached into his suit coat and pulled out a rather high-tech sidearm. He pointed it towards his nemesis, his hands shaking slightly. ”I’ve dedicated my entire life to this, and I’m not going to let you ruin my plans now. You die today, Captain America!”

Steve saw a brief blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. His heart sunk as he began to understand the situation. His body felt like it was moving in molasses. Zemo pressed the trigger, and a beam of light shot out of the gun and towards Rogers. But before it could impact against him, Agent Carter dove forward in front of the Captain. Steve reached out for her, but it was too late. The beam of light impacted against her and began to envelop her. In what felt like an eternity, Steve watched in horror as she began to disappear atom by atom. He stumbled forward clutching at his companion, but there wasn’t even dust left. Steve looked at his empty hands in complete shock for a moment, before his eyes zeroed in on Zemo. The fear was back in the HYDRA agent’s eyes. He quickly reached into his jacket to reload his disintegrator.

BANG!

Zemo stumbled backwards, clutching at the hole in his jacket. His hands were then wet with blood. Steve held his sidearm pointed directly at Zemo. His finger squeezed the trigger again. And again. And again. The Captain lost track of the number of bullets, and hadn’t realized that the clip was empty until Romanoff was pulling the gun from his grip and waving her hand before his eyes. Rogers was suddenly aware of the sound of pounding blood in his ears. His eyes began to readjust to the scene. SHIELD operatives were carrying away the corpses of Rina and Helmut. Other agents were busy examining the scene. Colonel Fury placed an arm around Steve’s shoulder, and was steering him towards the lab’s exit. But Steve couldn’t hear a single word.

Sharon Carter was dead. But her vengeance had just begun.

---

---

11:30

The only reason Peter knew he was in lunch period was from the clock, every tick punctuating another pulse of pain from his shoulder. With every twitch of the second hand and spark of electricity in his nerves his eyelids forced themselves back open, coasting on what meager sleep he’d gotten.

No more playing chicken with the X-Men on school nights...

Peter’s notebook was splayed open over the particle board of the cafeteria table. Every line was filled with pseudocode in handwriting that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be small and dense or huge and loopy. It was ostensibly a worm to get inside Police servers remotely, once he’d finished analyzing everything in his case files, but the way the letters swam in Peter’s vision was not inspiring great confidence. Even if it worked, there was still the matter of sneaking into Connors’ lab on a half hour of shut eye to actually analyze the evidence. Connors had always told him to embrace ‘guerilla science’ as he called it, but Peter imagined that guerilla forensics was frowned upon.

His lunch was laid out in a tray before him, some mix of frozen chicken nuggets and an orange substance that probably wasn’t poisonous, but Peter wasn’t keen on finding out. Altogether it looked like a pool of toxic sludge, festering and rising and… What?

And he was back again. That was the one thing that weighed on his mind since meeting the X-Men. It was like there was a shunt in his mind, like one of the ones they’d put in Uncle Ben during one of the surgeries. It was just little, little moments, spots of… Blankness. Darkness, maybe. A kind of indescribable absence. It came and went so quickly, Peter could hardly say whether they happened it all. All he had was the chill across his back and goosebumps up and down his arms. He felt like an alien in his own skin.

His hands came up and he rubbed his thumbs against his closed eyelids, elbows pressed against the table. He focused on the texture of the pocked surface of the table through the cotton of his shirt. The drum of kicks against linoleum and plastic forks across metal trays. The steady throb of his shoulder muscles, a second heartbeat against his skin.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

“Peter?”

Peter jumped up in his seat, metal legs of the table rattling against the ground. There was Gwen, holding her tray in both hands. Her blonde hair was held back today with a thin black headband that he couldn’t remember if he’d seen before. His eyes settled on hers. They were blue, like the ocean. Then he caught the blush on his cheeks and looked back down.

“Uh, hey, Gwen.” Peter shifted in his seat, suppressing a yawn. Gwen sighed through her nose and slid into the seat across from him. The cafeteria was beginning to fill up now, waves of other kids returning with their food across the lunchroom. Gwen looked him up and down, and bit the inside of her cheek.

“Pete, as your friend? You look like shit.” She said.

“Really boosting my self confidence.” Peter grumbled. He reached for the tray in front of him with the wrong hand. His muscles twanged against each other in protest and he recoiled, setting his jaw and bringing the arm back in towards his chest.

“That’s what I’m here for.” Gwen said. She stirred the orange goop in her tray. Peter pulled his food in with his other arm and poked at the nuggets. They were lukewarm, shrunken little balls of chicken inside breaded skin that was just too big for them. Something about them made his stomach turn and he pushed his little pile aside. He looked back up at Gwen half-lidded. She supported her head with one hand and stirred with the other in tight, practiced circles. Something was missing.

”Hey… Where’s Harry?”

“Peter! He’s helping Norman -- It’s the expo tonight. You guys have been talking about it for weeks.” Gwen said. Peter closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with both hands.

“It’s tonight? Oy vey. I just want to sleep.” He complained.

Great, I get to analyze shell casings running on fumes and in a hurry. With my luck, the results are gonna show it’s lizard DNA...

“A little restless for your first day back?” She joked. Peter leaned forward into his hands. He felt his palms against his eyelids.

“Had to come back sometime, right?”

He opened his eyes, hands shielding him from the light fixtures bearing down on the cafeteria. Motes of it shone through between the gaps between his knuckles, like a thousand eyes staring back at him. He gulped and moved his hands back down his face, settling forward in his chair. He felt hairs rising on the back of his neck and swallowed hard.

“How’s the, uh, song coming along?” Peter scooped up some goop with his spoon.

“Good, so far. We had to call off practice tonight, though. Apparently something happened at the station last night, and Dad wants some quiet to deal with it.”

Oops. Peter laid his spoon down on the tray and swept his notebook closer to him, closing it as casually as possible.

“Ouch.” He took his utensil up again, picking at the brussels sprouts the lunch lady had dropped onto his tray. “I’m uh... I’m sorry about Saturday, by the way.”

Gwen stopped stirring to move a strand of hair away from her eyes. She looked up at him. “You’re under a lot of stress, Pete. When my Mom, y’know… I understand. It happens.” Gwen shrugged.

“Thanks, Gwen. Really.”

“How’s he doing?”

Peter rested his chin on his hand. “Coming home soon, next couple days. Can’t wait for May to burn up some casseroles for us.” He smiled.

“Oh, God. Remember how we used to have Horror Movie Night? Every time, ‘you kids want my casseroles? I found a new recipe!’”

Peter laughed and choked back a grunt as his shoulder rolled in its socket. Sneakers squeaked across the floor and he glanced sideways. Flash Thompson’s girlfriend was walking between all the middle tables, as was her custom, talking to Rand Robertson and Kenny Kong from the football team. She saw Peter looking and cracked a smile. She gave him a little wave and turned back to talk to Artemis Crock from girl’s lacrosse.

Gwen fiddled with her spork, spinning it around like one of her drumsticks.

“Where’s Flash today?” She wondered aloud.

“Ugh. Really not prepared to deal with him today.”

“I’m not sure he’d need to do much. You look about ready to keel over anyway.”

“At least I could get some shut eye if he socked me.”

The lunch bell dinged, rapid brrrrring of metal on metal. Something in his stomach shifted and he bit his tongue as bile rose in his stomach. He forced it back down and swept his notebook off the table, trying to maneuver it into his backpack one handed.

Gwen stood and took Peter’s tray along with hers, stacking them on top of each other. She shouldered her backpack.

“See ya, Stacy.” Peter offered a fistbump. Gwen knocked her knuckles against his.

“See ya, Parker. Take a nap for me, kay?”



7:00

The numbers blazoned in the darkness of Peter’s room, the only illumination but for the subtle rays of moonlight trickling in past his cheap plastic curtains.

“Sev’clock…? Eh… Fi’ more minu…”

Seven O’clock, huh? Seven-o-clock, Seven-o-clock, Seven-o-- goddamnit.

Peter was off his bed in a tumble of sheets, smacking against the carpeted floor with a hard thump. He wrestled in his cocoon of sheets, trying to shove a hand out without tearing through them. He passed the blanket, the comforter -- there! Black fabric instantly laced up his arm and his fingers found the center of his palm. A glob of webbing smacked the switch and the bedroom was awash with light.

“Ow, ow…” He squinted in the light as he worked, worming his way out of the blanket burrito layer by layer. He threw the last layer off and stumbled forward, his head smacked into the doorframe and he grunted, pushing off as the fibers of his costume traced up his chest.

He pulled the nodule of web from the switch, taking a nice chunk of facade plastic with it, and shoved it back into the fabric of his suit for reabsorption. He shot again with his other hand and pulled himself up with a strand, settling onto the bed as the mask closed around his face.

The room was small, dominated by a wooden bed Peter had outgrown some years ago, that made long mournful creaks if you sat on it. The carpet was hidden beneath mountains of t-shirts and groves of unwashed socks. A desk rose out of the chaos of clothing, a small brown thing weighed down by an army of papers and bargain bin video games askew across it, plus Peter’s craptop with the cracked screen.

In the corner was the bookshelf, slumped against the wall like a particularly unimpressive leaning tower of Pisa. A random combination of studies and novels with broken spines stuffed it to its breaking point -- Connors’ studies, laminate Stark Expo photo albums, Star Wars novels, and a book or two about Lex Luthor or Charles Xavier hidden away somewhere in the menagerie. And, between a metabiology textbook and a bound compendium of Fox Tech Readers, was a slim faded green binder marked “PARKER SHOOTING CASE + EVIDENCE”.

It was in his hands as soon as he’d fired the webline, he tucked it under his shoulder and reached for his nightstand for his --

Wait a minute. Where’s my…? The flash drive was missing. Goddamnit. Buried somewhere under Fort Shorts or Hoodie Keep, certainly.

Great, all hope of actually reading police data buried in a B-52’s shirt.

7:17

Ten minutes later he had produced it, a little grey flash drive covered in white tape, with “GOOBER” written on it in big letters. It had probably meant something to him when he wrote it, but that memory was gone in the haze of his dreams. His eyes went back to the clock. He swore.

At this rate my spider-science project is gonna make me miss the expo…

As if on cue, his phone chirped in the background, and the ringtone began: “S-A-T-U-R-D-A--”

Right now, Harry? Cmon, man… Peter pulled it towards himself with a web, as his mask unmade itself, slinking down his face. He thumbed ‘ACCEPT VIDEO CALL’.

Is that…? Beside Harry’s signature haircut that was sculpted to his head, was a man Peter had only really seen in magazines and Gizmodo articles: Ted freakin’ Kord.

“I -- Harry, what? I…” Peter blubbered.

“Cool, right?” Harry said. His grin was plastered across his face. Peter hadn’t seen him this happy since the time that MJ ‘toooootally said yes to pizza, dude!’. “This is Mr. Kord! I was just showing him the stuff I messed with on Byerim.”

Ted Kord was a little heavier than Peter imagined, he looked almost like he was wearing something else under his clothes. He had wrangled a tousled mop of hair into something presentable and wedged himself into a suit, but Peter saw something unmistakably Kord in there, that light in his eyes, even the little gut the tailor hadn’t managed to hide.

Holy shit.

“It-uh, it’s an honor, Mr. Kord!” Peter said, taking extra care to keep the camera from tilting down and showing the white spider on his chest. He swerved the camera around, trying to settle the background on something hopefully more becoming than an old Pockobeast poster.

"It's an honor to meet you too, floating teenage head -- ah there we go."

Peter brought the camera down another inch, moments after the suit rushed down his neck, hiding at the edges of his collarbone. He tried his best smile.

“Pete, spit something out, man! You’ve wanted to meet this guy since we were kids.” Harry said.

“Y-your work is fascinating! I didn’t think we’d see a solar panel that’d get that close to the S-Q limit this decade!” Peter stammered.

"Yeah, well... it's a pity we won't be seeing too many more for a while. Should have them available for order if you have an in with the Space Program. Sorry, still a bit of a nerve there. But you know how it is. Gets seen in a space mission, some kind of demand comes out of it, then maybe we'll get a lot more. It's a frustratingly slow process, progress." Kord’s eyes stayed firm on the camera as he spoke, undivided attention.

“Right? That’s what Doc Connors says -- I mean, uh, my science… Instructor?” Peter stumbled over his words.

Hi Mr. Kord, this is my bedroom, here are my Pockobeast posters, and, oh, here’s my spider costume! And the name of the scientist whose lab I’m about to break into!

“Oh yeah, Mr. Kord, Pete’s got an internship with the Curt Connors -- isn’t that cool?” Harry said. Kord perked up at the mention.

"Curt Connors? Even I know that name and biochem isn't generally my thing. Keep your head down and your nose clean and something pretty good might come from that. Learn what you can from a man like that."

“Yeah! I mean, that’s the plan."

“Well, what kinda stuff does he have you working on there? A teacher like that you want to make the most out of your extracurriculars.”

“Uh, well, we’re looking at medicinal applications of metabiology, kinda. It’s based on what we can recover of the old Captain America serum, and combining it with lizard DNA to try to graft their healing abilities into the human genome. Er, it was lizards, initially, but we’re heading in more of a stem-celly direction now. It’s… It’s really, really cool, honestly.”

"Wow... so a lot more advanced and practical than growing broad beans in jars, huh? Amazing opportunity for a young kid. That's actual work, there's a lot of that Super Soldier Serum stuff going on in the biochem field these days. There's a Ted Sallis guy down in the Everglades trying something similar with plants instead of lizards. Heh. Hey! Maybe Curt got the idea from seeing the gators down there, huh?" Kord talked with his hands, gesturing out of the camera’s vision. Harry stretched his arms forward, trying to catch the swings of his arms, but Kord kept absently moving closer, framing his face in the camera.

“Heh. First gators, then lizards,” Harry cut in, “next thing we know it’ll be spiders, or something. Hell, maybe that’s how we got a Spider-Man.”

“Um, yeah! Maybe…” Peter felt his suit creeping up the back of his neck, hairs standing on end. He set his jaw and willed it down. You will not out yourself as Spider-Man to Ted Kord.

"You two are from New York. You ever seen him?" Ted’s eyes drifted down from the camera as he spoke, settling on the image of Peter further down the phone. He was the right height, build. Age, too. Peter coughed.

“God, I wish, seeing him swing around like that. How d’you think he does it?” Harry said. Ted’s eyes glided off of Peter and back to Harry as he spoke.

"I don't know. I mean I've seen him. Once. I've got some theories. A friend of mine has some theories. But they're just that, I guess.Though I gotta say… My friend’s theories? They’re not off too often."

Peter had that question himself -- it might be useful to find another way to produce the webs, maybe to increase staying power, or stopping power for that matter. Maybe it had something to do with his diet. “They’d need high tensile strength. Prolly woven at the microscopic level, if I had to take a stab at it.”

"Well, my friend's first thought was a spray dispersal system that fires a resin polymer over a chemical silly-string like chain, solidifying it in the process... Me, I was thinking more broadly, like he's found some kind of fluid that solidifies on contact with the air. Then he threw in the possibility that maybe he's a mutant. Which, I don't know, doesn't seem right for him to me. Maybe I'm crazy. That said... bunch of these X-Men kids jumping around roughly his age. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they inspired him. It's science, kids. Wisdom is knowing what you don't know."

Great, I’ve got a squad of super geniuses thinking over my powers; I’m sure my secret I.D isn’t far behind...

“I’ve always thought that wisdom is the ability to keep ahead of the competition. Through experience, of course. Something even K.O.R.D could learn from, I’m sure.” Peter heard Norman Osborn’s voice from somewhere offscreen. Harry’s face twisted for a moment, before returning to a half smile. His eyes didn’t crinkle.

“Why, Norman? What are you up to?” Ted Kord grinned cheekily.

“I, uh, might need to call you back, Pete.” Harry whispered, drawing the camera away. “Will we see you at the expo tonight?”

Peter’s eyes went to the clock.

7:25

“I’ll try my best, Har.”



8:02

The ESU Biology Lab was different at night, defined by sweeping shadows cast in through the skylight and the steady glow of reptile cages embedded in the walls. If Peter listened close he could hear them moving, tiny feet and fat bodies sliding past ground cover of wood chips and dirt. Lab tables stood in lonely assembly, clean of beakers or chemicals, instead lying dormant for the next day’s work.

Peter descended on a web, spiraling down from the skylight that dribbled in moonlight and the quiet night air punctuated by the trills of crickets and sounds of distant cars. He dropped and landed on the tables, balanced on the balls of his feet. He moved forward, rocking his body into each step as it came, bounding between each table and making for the microscope bay, embedded in the far wall.

In moments the case was laid out before him, three collected shell casings lain out before him, plus a smattering of dollar bills dropped from the loose bag of the robber. He hung upside down as he worked, tweaking an upper knob of the microscope.

First things first… Examine casing material. He reached for the first casing, examining the way it reflected the moonlight, a clean brown shine to it. Short of a chemical analysis and spectrogram, likely brass -- oxidizes under extreme heat. Like that produced by a gun fired in rapid succession.

He remembered. Three dull thuds breaking out against the blistering sound of New York traffic. Smack of flesh and cloth against pavement. His eyes flicked to the report. Eyewitness statements backed it up. There was a photograph attached, the stretched white flesh of Ben’s chest and stomach, punched clean through twice. There was so much blood. One grazing shot, running a fine gutter across Ben’s side. Peter shuddered and pushed the photo aside.

Okay. Breathe. He counted his teeth with his tongue. Just… Okay.

He put the first casing down and reached for the third.

Sweat might’ve been oxidized along with the brass in the heat of the chamber, leaves a definable trace -- a fingerprint, burnt into the surface. He turned the bullet over in his hands. It was old, probably touched without gloves, given the goons manhandling the case.

Could do to be dipped in solution… But maybe I could still extract the shooter’s DNA from sebaceous oils...

He was a whirlwind around the lab as he worked, jumping between tables and pulling bottles of chemicals as he worked, mixing and tapping at readouts and machines.

Okay that’s… Probably too many DNA samples. Take me weeks to test them all. Have to hope for a print.

In moments he was back in the bay, twisting the casing under the microscope, looking for the fine detailing of a fingerprint pressed into metal. There, ridges towards the bottom. It was only partial, but it’d have to do.

He slid the case back into its folder and pressed it against his chest, subsuming it into the costume. He had the impression of the print. He slid forward, across linoleum and over a table as he went to a hub of ancient computers, blocky grant-given iMacs taking up space in the back.

9:45

Peter jammed his flash drive in and went to work. He could feel the pulse in his fingertips as he typed.

Prints are returning multiple matches in the NYPD database… Narrow to released convicts.

204 Results.

Hmm… Add Keyword: Tombstone.

0 Results.

What? Okay, remove keyword… Narrow to larceny, robbery.

59 Results.

Okay, getting somewhere… History of violent crime?

14 Results.

Closer… Connection to organized crime?

13 Results.

Only one odd man out? That means… Peter reversed his query. One name blazed at the top, in tremendous, blocky white letters.

“CARRADINE, DENNIS.”

"I’ve got you, you son of a bitch.” The plastic of the mouse cracked in Peter’s grip. The mugshot attached was grainy, riddled with artifacting errors. He could make out a mop of blond hair, a shit-eating grin… Peter skimmed further down the file.

“EMPLOYMENT: JANITOR; THOMPSON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL”

What? That can’t be right. This whole thing can’t be right -- unusable mugshot, no connections, no -- Peter felt it before he heard it, the sudden rush of air into the lab and the sound of a hand groping for a lightswitch.

He was halfway to the skylight before the lights flared to life. He recoiled, throwing an arm over his face.

“Vhat the hell are you doing here, Spyder?” A familiar voice greeted him. Morbius? Why’s he here? Peter looked down, across the laboratory. Jet black hair slicked back to his head, evolving into a rolling wave of locks that fell to his shoulders, cloaked in a black faux leather jacket.

Well, no one else would willingly dress like that much of a tool.

“I could ask you the same thing, chuckles.” Peter rotated to look at him, huge white bug eyes coming to meet the unpolished green of Morbius’s. He seemed unphased.

“I’m calling the police, insect.” He moved for the beige telephone mounted to the wall.

“I wouldn’t do that, Archduke Ferdinand.” Peter shot a hand forward to stick Morbius to the wall. Fingers lanced out to tap his palm, but the suit acted. A line of black sludge launched from his wrist, blasting through the air and crashing across Morbius’s chest. He rocked backward, slamming into the wall as the goo expanded, spreading across his torso and planting him firmly against the painted cinderblock of the wall.

“That’s… New. Impact webbing. Er, uh, sludge.” It popped and fizzled over Morbius’s body, a thin layer of blackness holding him back with impossible strength. The scientist wrestled with it, straining against it and pushing off the wall. He cleaved at it, taking off handfuls only for them to drain from his hands and reconstitute into the whole.

“You monster!” Morbius hissed.

Well, we call that a job well done in the Spider-Man household. Guess he can sit up there and think about why you shouldn’t just announce that you’re calling the cops. Or about the glory of Markovia, or something stupid like that. He made for the skylight.

“Keep your pants on, I’m pretty sure it’ll come out in the wash. Use extra detergent… probably the whole bottle. Uh, toodles!” A webline arced from his hands, and he swung into the night.

A new lead and a new power… Maybe this whole Spider-Man thing is working out for once.