G O T H A M C O U N T Y

---

The former Boy Wonder managed to hobble his way across the open yard, pressing his back against the side of the barn.

Reaching down with his left hand, the weathered acrobat probed the knee cap. Pain shot through the joint as he tried to massage the tension there. He was going to have a hell of a time moving around with that leg, which was part of what had prompted him to give up the Nightwing identity in the first place.

Peering out from around the side of the structure, Dick surveyed the farmstead. Across, in the farm house proper, he could see lights on. Silhouettes in the windows suggested that a handful of people were mulling about, throwing back drinks. Probably the higher ups of the pecking order. The barn that Dick was scouting was the meth lab.

As Dick crept down the side of the barn, he stayed out of sight of a guy who stepped out for a smoke. The generator supplying power was out the back. The alarm started from within the moment that the generator cut out. The doors to the barn came rolling open, as voices inside complained of the darkness within.

The smoker was the first to arrive at the generator, followed shortly after by a handful of others stepping out to check on the power. Meanwhile, a shadow passed unnoticed from the rooftop overhead.

Edging out from the ledge of the roof, the grizzled acrobat looked around the dimly lit inside of the barn. Rows of tables for cooking up product were juxtaposed by the side where the product was packaged for distribution.

Reaching down to his belt, Dick withdrew a batarang. Unfolding the weapon, he depressed a button in the center to activate the small explosive charge set there. Most of the people had filtered from out of the barn, drifting along the peripheral. It gave him the perfect opportunity to hit the lab itself.

It was a hook shot. Flying in through the top loft, arcing down toward one of the center tables. The batarang gave a flashbang as it struck the table. It wasn’t meant to be a powerful charge, but the spark was enough to set off the volatile chemicals around it.

The fireball blew out both ends of the barn, sending men diving for the dirt as loud curses howled through the air.

Several went running for the cars, where they discovered their friends unconscious and the tires slashed.

The fire ought to get the local sheriff’s attention, but just in case Dick decided to force fate a bit. Flipping open his burner phone, the man dialed 9-1-1 and then casually dropped the phone into the bushes.

The rest ought to take care of itself.

Dick just hoped that Toyboy could take care of himself until Dick could figure just how the hell he was going to get out of here on a bum leg. Let alone navigate a different route back to the main road, so that he could get back to the highway and venture down to the storage facility.

Gotham Corridor Self Storage
Bludhaven, New Jersey | Present Day

“Psychopath!”

The doll-faced man staggered away from the black-and-red costumed child before him. The short cape framed the boy’s slight frame as he squared off with the much larger figure that was still framed against the door frame behind him.

Anton Schott turned. The camera lens irises holding the reflected image of the man pivoting on his back foot as he prepared to make his retreat. Toyboy’s hand flew to the utility belt that encircled his wait. That much of the Robin outfit was actually vintage, being the same belt that Dick had worn as the original Boy Wonder.

The doll drew the grapple gun from the compact holster that was attached to the belt. With a single, smooth motion, Toyboy leveled the launcher and pulled the trigger. The line whipped outward, striking against Schott’s leg as he brought it down to take that first step. As the grapple wrapped around the man’s legs, he stumbled.

Seizing hold on the line with his free hand, the doll pulled back on the grapple line. The coiled line around Schott’s legs snapped taut. His body weight still shifting forward with the momentum of his halted flight, the self-proclaimed Dollmaker went down hard to the floor.

A feral screech cut through the air, as the torch-armed girl came barreling at Toyboy with everything that she had. The girl’s body slammed into the costumed doll, taking him back a step. As she jumped onto his back, the two other doll-faced boys followed suit.

The grapple line and attached launcher gun went sliding across the floor as it fell from the doll’s grip. His hands were otherwise occupied, fumbling to steady him as the four children spilled onto the floor, with the Toy Wonder pinned beneath a dogpile.

Retracting a hand to the utility belt, the doll used two fingers to fish out a gas capsule. Squeezing that between his thumb and forefinger, a sharp hiss gave the only warning before a haze of white-ash smoke shot out from the pile of children, slowly dissipating away. The three small forms went limp almost immediately, allowing Toyboy the freedom of being able to gently push them off.

When he’d picked himself back up from the floor, Schott was gone.

Toyboy debated pursuing him. A momentary calculus that arrived at its answer in less than a second, but for a robot it was nonetheless a rather lengthy debate. In the end, the children in the cages took priority.


“Nine One One.”

“...hello?”

“Hello. Are you okay, sweetie?”

“No.”

“Are there any adults there with you?”

“No, but we’re worried that the bad man might come back again.”

“Who is ‘we’, sweetie? Are there other kids there with you?”

“Yeah, we were all on the school bus together when the bad man came.”

“Sweetie, where you do go to school?”

“Bludhaven Elementary. We’re in the fifth grade.”

“Sweetie, I’m sending some police officers to you. Can you describe where you are? What’s the room like?”



“All Units, be advised, possible hostage situation at the Gotham Corridor Self Storage. All available units proceed to Interstate Twelve. Repeat, all available units proceed to Interstate Twelve. Missing Bludhaven Elementary students are on the line with dispatch and report the scene is clear, but that suspect may be nearby.”

Dick labored to sit in the driver’s seat. His lower back was killing him, his left knee had locked up on him, and his elbow had never forgiven him for throwing that batarang without properly warming up first. As the adrenaline faded from his body, the old man found himself winded just making the trip back to the car.

He’d reclined the seat and just lay there to try and catch his breath, when the call came over the radio.

Chambers called his personal cell almost the same moment.

“What? And the kids called it in?” Dick uttered, feigning surprise.

It was actually easy to do. He’d told Toyboy to observe and then report back. If the doll had actually cracked the case and then thrown wide the gates, more power to him.

Another time, another life, Dick Grayson might never have doubted that Toyboy could have done it. But there was too much of Bruce in him now. He doubted everything. And everyone. Which made being proven wrong satisfying for the notion that his concerns hadn’t been justified.

“Take control of the scene,” Dick uttered, trying to keep the wince out of his voice as he popped his seat back to the usual position and then started the cruiser. “I’ll be there shortly.”

M A N H A T T A N , N E W Y O R K

---

^{Present Day | C’mon man, pay attention. Manhattan New York}

The Skywire kept retracting, carrying Ted in a seated position up towards the hull. As the end of the wire approached the moondoor opened automatically, and Ted rode the cable all the way inside the Bug. The hatch closed and Ted gingerly stepped down from his perch and ran to the pilot’s seat to take full control.

Ted quickly turned the craft down 7th Avenue to give chase to one of the swarms, he needed to ascertain just how bad this situation was. Citywide? Statewide? A national threat, or was it contained to the isle of Manhattan for now?

The cloud of metal was far ahead and kept surging onwards. Ted pulled up to better his view and watched as the swarm split up at Washington Square Park, with half turning West towards Greenwich where it maintained perfect formation and joined up with half of the other swarms which had been travelling parallel down 8th and turned back North. He saw a huge rising smokestack in the distance between the high rise buildings downtown near City Hall and the new WTC developments. And the slightest glimpse of smoke coming from far off Staten Island at the horizon.

They weren’t leaving the island. At least not to the South. They were turning back on themselves as if to paint Manhattan with mayhem. Ted assumed the smoke must be coming from a blaze started by crazed affected citizens.

“That’s— A relief, I guess?”

Ted turned to the console and hit some buttons, suddenly the police band broke into his cowl’s earpiece. The Blue Beetle winced at the sudden burst of cacophonic chaos blasted into his ear. Too focused. New York was madness and he was hearing a city’s wails for help. He changed the band for a wider scope, picking out a National news network, and re-routed the audio to the cockpit’s speakers rather than just his headset, to get a proper sense of the situation and turned the Bug around up 5th Avenue to go back towards Central Park and Ground Zero of this catastrophe. As he completed his turning circle he saw similar smoke rising from the horizon over Brooklyn, and similar smoke rising from the Park, it was then that he put two and two together.

These weren’t just the symptoms of the infected population. They were the cause, and its root was greater than just what he saw on the video at Central Park. Now he had a decision, but it was barely a choice in the first place. The people who did this WERE, maybe still ARE, at Central Park. If there’s any hope of ending this at the source right NOW and limiting casualties, its there.

The Blue Beetle steeled his resolve and accelerated down 5th Avenue past the Flatiron Building, urging the Bug onwards through Midtown.

Then he felt it. Resistance coming from the undercarriage as if someone was suddenly yanking on the Skywire, which was impossible. It was fully retracted. Seconds later there was a CLOMP! As if someone jumped on the hood of a car and started walking around. Followed by a sharp knocking. Ted flicked a button on the console to bring up a camera from the rear of the roof of the Bug to see the source and saw Spider-man in his telltale Black Suit crawling around looking for a weakspot in the roof’s plating.

“I really hope you’re on my team, dude.” Spider-Man searched for any divots in the plating, signs of an entry hatch. “If not, you’d better leave the keys in the ignition for me.”

Ted frantically yelled into the cockpit’s radio handset, which came out of external speakers “Hey! Hey! Stop that! It’s expensive! Give me a minute, I’ll get the damn door!”

The Blue Beetle hit an overhead button and the sundoor slid open, revealing a curious Spider-Man.

The other hero moved and wormed inside, like a sheet of black fabric sweeping over the interior of the Bug. It was the first time Ted had seen him since that day in New York. He'd read the Bugle articles, everyone had, but there was something to be said about seeing the real deal. His muscles were tight and wound under his costume, and he crouched against the ceiling as if it was the ground. Even this close, Ted still couldn't make out how he did it. There were no obvious devices about his ankles, no humming of power cells or distortion of magnetic fields, he simply stuck. Maybe he was a mutant after all. The spider scanned him up and down from tremendous silicate lenses stretched over his eyes.

"Sweet digs in here, man. But if you're another spider-themed superhero, I'm suing."

“That’d be right. You drive around in a hotrod like this, all of a sudden you’ve got every two-bit wallcrawler out to make a buck stepping off the curb in front of you to drop a lawsuit.” The Blue Beetle quipped, not looking away from the display.

“I hope you don’t have family back in Staten Island or Brooklyn, because this thing is spreading fast. I just took this down to Lower Manhattan to see how bad it’s gotten and, the good news is it doesn’t seem to be spreading East or West off the island. Bad news is it looks like this isn’t just one incident.” Ted peered off to his right side to look for more smoke. Spider-Man flipped down from his perch, landing beside Blue Beetle. He was slighter than Ted had expected, built like an acrobat, or maybe a teenager who'd skipped his Wheaties. The teen hero reached down and his costume opened of its own accord, and he produced as Oscorp-Branded phone from the pocket inside -- fitted with a K.O.R.D battery-case, Ted noticed.

"The island's full of bugs, at least up to Central Park, maybe further. Probably further."

“So good news if you’re from Queens or the Bronx, I suppose…”

"You got me pegged, Boston blue." Spider-Man tapped at his cracked screen, pulling up a Bugle article.

"...Beetle." Ted said, turning and quickly offering a hand, before retracting it just as fast to retain control of the Bug. "Boston's Blue Beetle. And you'd be Spider-Man." He quickly returned to piloting the aircraft, looking straight ahead and trying to pretend the swerve didn't just happen.

“Annnnyway, can’t see to the West from all the Highrises to check out Jersey… but it’s Jersey.”

“--So how much worse could it get…?” The pair said together.

“Right? Right. That was my thinking. Robots would only go a couple miles inland, get sick of the tolls and turn around and come back.” The Blue Beetle joked.

"Ol' pointy head probably doesn't want to tangle with those mutants they've got on the shore. But that's a good question, what do you figure the range on one of those bad boys is? And then is it the bugs or the towers that's important?" Spider-Man asked. He put his phone on the dash, there was a livemap of confirmed tower locations, plus superhero sightings superimposed on top. Wonder Woman and Supergirl in Central Park, with more dots and logos cropping up across the city by the minute.

They zoomed past Bryant Park, whilst Ted’s hyperactive memory thought back to the question that he first said to Janet Van Dyne about her husband’s work. And how she had rephrased it to Hank.

“I guess I was going to ask about whether he finds it easier to work with more complex individual nanodrone programming and a central processor which can then delineate--”

“That’s OK, hun. Ted here was just telling me what he thinks of your work. He was curious about your programming the nanodrones and whether you preferred complexity in the programming within a central processor or more autonomous individual nanites with a broader rule-governed framework.”

Ted shook his head as if to clear it and the memory away from his current thoughts.

“It’s both. The question is to what extent. I’ve a feeling I know the answer to that, but I've got to be sure. I need to get down there and have a look at one of them. I have a friend who’s worked with nanotech. There might be maybe six people in the world who are capable of doing what I’m worried about, but if I take out the towers cold and I'm wrong-- Have you seen that episode of Black Mirror with the robot drone bees?”

"Yeah, not really a great alternative to the Kingsman thing we got going on." Spider-Man said. He took a moment to appraise the technology of The Bug, in the readouts and boards of buttons that defined the main console. "Unless K.O.R.D or someone dropped a hell of a showstopper, I'm guessing you built this thing yourself. Figure we lock down one of the towers and you see what makes it tick?"

"Sorry pardner," Ted said, putting on an Old West lilt to his Boston brogue, "I picked up the last kit from RadioShack before they went under."

Spider-Man flicked the map, enlarging a quadrant. "I'm supposed to have a hot date with the X-Men by Herald Square, and the Bugle says there's a tower in Madison Square Garden a few blocks away, seems like a fit."

"Pity they only just dropped these things in today, or the Knicks could have blamed it for all of their lockerroom troubles..." The Blue Beetle jibed, turning the Bug down an alley to head back to the Garden.

The X-Men... I wonder if they ever had anything to do with Tora? Or Bea?" Ted thought to himself.

“Holy…”

It was Rory that broke the silence first. The unlikely duo had been amongst the wreckage of the English pub for some time now. Long enough for Illyana’s tears to come to an end and for her to rise.

She had been tending to the body of the Canterbury Cricket, doing her best to avoid the gruesome mess where he’d been split down the middle. She had located a tablecloth from behind what little remained of the bar and had placed it over him ceremoniously. She hadn’t known the creature for long at all, yet he had wanted to help her. A decision that cost him his life. S’ym would pay for what he had done. But now was a time for mourning.

Rory had been watching in silence, both out of respect for the fallen, and out of pain. He’d offered to help at first, but Illyana had simply told him that she had to do this alone. As such he simply kept where he was slumped up against a wall. Until now anyway.

Illyana turned towards him and saw that his gaze was no longer on her, but directed towards one of the dusty old television screens that hung near the bar. She was a little taken aback that it had survived the carnage that had taken place here, however what surprised her more was what it was showing. A news broadcast from America showcasing a man in a metal mask;



Her blood boiled as she listened to the man's speech. She never felt such shame about being a metahuman. About being a mutant. It was a side to her that she didn’t really think about much, given what had happened to her. However, as she looked on at the silver madman on the television, she just wished she’d done more. That’s what she wanted to do now.

But a thought held her back.

Belasco has a new pet to play with.

S’ym’s words filled her mind and they made her sick. Her mind began to race through all the possibilities. Who they were. Where he’d taken them from. How were they? That had to be her priority. This mutant terrorist couldn’t be her concern. Besides, the world had other heroes. Wonder Woman. The Spider guy. Hell, even Batman was supposedly back. They could surely be enough to handle whatever was happening/.

Then the metallic swarm began to fill the screen as an image of Central Park appeared before them. Her heart sank further. All those innocent lives. She watched in terror as a young girl ran in fear from her mother, who chased her like a ravenous tiger. No. There was no point in rescuing this child in Limbo if there wasn’t a world worth bringing them back to. The words that Rory said next was the confirmation that she needed.

“We have to do something.” He wheezed with determination as he struggled to find his feet. His movements were rigid as he moved, with him stumbling slightly from the pain of his arm. She frowned at the sight, taking a second to glance back towards the body of the Cricket. Rory couldn’t help her. She wasn’t losing anyone else today.

“No, I have to do something.” She stated boldly. “You’re not going anyvhere with vhat arm.”

Rory gawked at her in confusion, before gesturing to his arm, which he attempted to move.

“C’mon, I’m fine. We have to— ackk.” He let out a cry of pain, as he crumbled downwards. His spare arm went to support himself. Despite how he tried to recover and keep a straight face through the pain, Illyana knew that he was done today.

“I’m sorry. I’m sending you home.”

She couldn’t even face him as she pointed her arm towards him, summoning a stepping disc. As much as the words stung, she ignored his cries. The room grew silent as he disappeared; the body of the Cricket vanishing with him.

Taking one last look towards the unconscious body of Rath, who was still buried underneath the wreckage of the bar, Illyana Rasputina summoned a stepping disc once more, whisking herself away.

As she appeared in the streets of Manhattan, Illyana found herself in what could only be described as a warzone. Screams and shouts echoed around her, as Magik navigation through a sea of burnt out cars and bodies. People charged frantically around her; some scared for their lives, while others with a lust for blood, clearly infected by the swarm.

Magik reacted swiftly as one such infected made its way towards her. Her Soul Staff appeared within her hand as she swung low, taking the individual out by its legs. As they catapulted to the floor, she jabbed downwards with the butt of the staff for continuing onwards. The next few infected men and women that came towards her fell to the ground in similar ways, however as more and more kept coming it was clear to Illyana that she wasn’t even making a dent.

She moved backward, sending out a cone of frost from her hands to slow down the approaching horde, an icy incantation escaping her lips.

There were too many. She needed help. She needed to get back to the Sanctum.

A stepping disc appeared beneath her feet to teleport herself away, however, once she had arrived, Illyana found herself emerging into a much different New York than she had been in before. Around her were the all-so-familiar streets of Greenwich Village, however, the brownstones were now flooded with a tinge of blue. The sky around her seemed to follow suit, and as she stared, Illyana seemed to spot its source; a dark blue bubble seemed to encapsulate the surrounding area, spreading its magical light down onto the streets below.

Illyana’s eyes stared around her, shocked at the sight of refugees from the rest of the city resting against the stationary New York taxis, tending to their wounds and just being thankful for being alive. A smile spread across Illyana’s face as she realized what was happening. It was a safe zone; free from the terror of the battles currently being faced out in the rest of Manhattan.

“Ah Illyana, I was wondering where you’d gotten to.” A calm voice called out from above.

She knew exactly who was the cause of this even before she laid eyes on the billowing cloak of scarlet that floated above them miraculously.

Doctor Stephen Strange was an imposing presence in the New York skyline. He sat in the air, his legs crossed in front of him, reminding Magik of their frequent lessons in meditation. Despite the wrinkles that were beginning to coat his face and the flakes of grey littered throughout his hair, he radiated power, with mystical energy flowing around his body. With each breath the bubble above seemed to grow slightly brighter in colour, growing closer to the shade of the deep blue robes Strange wore.

“Be a darling and come give me a hand.” He smiled boldly before waving for Magik to join him.

His father stood in front of him, a lone shining force in the darkness that surrounded the two of them. Even in death Odin appeared to be everything one would think of when they pictured a god. Strong yet merciful, wise yet ready for action, the Allfather stood as a testament to what Thor always dreamed he would be. Yet Odin had died like the rest of them while Thor survived. How could it be that this pillar of strength was no longer there to prop up the God of Thunder when he needed it?

"Quit pitying yourself," the father raised an eyebrow at his son. "You just defeated a mad tyrant and escaped his clutches. You should be reveling."

Thor looked down at himself, still wondering whether these visions of his father were in his head or whether they were real. Part of him wondered if that mattered. This was the place he was coming when he exerted enough of his energy. It must mean something, and he was going to make the most of his visits. Maybe they could help in some way to quell the coming storm.

"Revel? For what?" Thor responded dejectedly. "For harnessing a fraction of my power and passing out afterwards? For falling into a trap that should have never caught me? For falling behind our adversary so far that he plunders our treasures? I see not a reason for merriment, father."

He had won the day. That much was to be certain. There was a time that was all he needed to start feasting and drinking in the halls of Asgard. But that time was not now. Now he still had an anger in his belly towards his still unseen foe. He was furious that he still felt no closer to discovering who had destroyed his home and his people.

"You're looking at the negatives," Odin shook his head and looked down. "Did you not find Heimdall? Did you not discover our people still live? Did you not reclaim Jarnbjorn and harness the lightning once more? Are these not accomplishments worth celebrating?"

"Aye," Thor nodded. "I harnessed the lightning but for a few moments. And then it overpowered me."

"You have lost Asgard," Odin placed his hand on his son's shoulder. "It was where some of your power came from. Until you learn how to ground yourself without it, you will not feel yourself. But you will find a way to harness it once again. You will find our people and protect them. For you are Thor. God of Thunder. Odinson. You were born to lead our people out of the darkness, and so you will. Fare well, my son. And remember who you are."?

He woke with a startle, sending the multiple people around his bedside jumping back. He saw Quill, Heimdall, a small rabbit of some kind, the tree, a Thanagarian warrior, Korg, and Meik. As his eyes adjusted to the light on the ship, he saw he was on a larger, yet not wholly different ship from Quill's Milano, as if someone had merely stretched the ship out slightly. He sat up, and his head spun momentarily before he regained his wits.

"We got off the planet then?" he asked Heimdall. "How many came with us?"

"What you see here, and close to a dozen more on the bigger ship," the former sentry of Asgard reported, not without some satisfaction. He had been stuck on Warworld for too long. Getting off the gladiator world clearly brought him joy, as it should have. "Mongul may not like that we took both his fastest ship and his biggest one. The other is a pleasure yacht, but has potent defenses."

"And this one is a kickass, tricked-out Milano clone," Quill smiled like an idiot behind Heimdall. "I love it so much."

"Yea, and I made sure there weren't any tracking devices operational on either of them," the rabbit shrugged. "We don't need Mongul waking up and sending the dogs after us."

"Yes, rabbits do hate dogs," Thor pondered.

"What the hell is a rabbit?" the furry creature bristled at the word.

"I am Groot," Tree responded matter of factly.

"No I do not care if it means I'm cute and furry. I am an intergalactic killing machine. I ain't cure," snapped back before turning to Thor. "Name's Rocket."

"And I'm Hawk," the Thanagarian put out our hand.

He hesitated to take it, "A Thanagarian ship was the reason we ended up on Warworld. Yours?"

"Yea," she nodded as she took off her battle helmet. A cascade of auburn hair fell from within, draping over her caramel skin. "You guys had a bounty. I'm a bounty hunter. But seeing as I was just seen helping you escape by everyone with access to Mongul's broadcast, I assume I have a price on my head as well. Considering how big the one was on both of you, I assume it's pretty substantial."

"Shit, wait what?" Rocket sputtered. "You're tellin' me I got a price on my head now?"

"Probably," Hawk nodded.

"Great. Out of the frying pan and into the friggin' fire."

"I am Groot."

Rocket nodded, "You're right, pal. It isn't fair, is it?"

"So what's our next move?" Heimdall asked.

As the others chattered amongst themselves, Thor pondered the question. Quill wanted to run back to his Ravagers. Rocket just wanted to run. Hawk wanted to fight. Thor liked that. But as they tried to plot and plan, he came up with the only way he could think of to find his enemy as well as help his people escape harm.

"Quiet."

The request came out of his mouth unlike any other time he could remember. It remind him of his father when he was on the throne. It was not threatening, but it carried power. Until now he had never thought he had the ability to command a room in such a way. He had done it plenty of times on the battlefield, but not in a setting like this.

"Heimdall," he looked at his old friend, "as much as this pains me after being reunited, we must part ways. You said yourself that our people are out there and scattered. They are being hunted as we are, yet we know many of them do not have the skills the two of us do. You must take the gladiators and find our people. Collect them. Protect them."

Heimdall considered the command. It made sense, but Thor saw the trepidation he had with leaving the God of Thunder, "And what shall you do, Odinson?"

"We," he motioned to Quill, Hawk, Rocket, and Groot, "will provide you cover. While you are hunting to save our people, we will be traveling the galaxy, flaunting our living status. Helping those that need it, and, with luck, find who put a price on our heads and destroyed Asgard. And when we do, we'll go and kill him."

His four new potential traveling companions considered what he had said. Thor knew Quill was in, and Hawk seemed eager as well. It was Rocket and Groot who were the wildcards.

"Listen, we ain't usually the joinin-"

"I am Groot," Groot cut him off.

"What do you mean we stand a better chance with them!?" Rocket growled at the tree. "We survived all this time without 'em!"

"I am Groot."

"Grrrrrrrrrrrrr," Rocket growled again and ran his hands...paws...whatever through his fur in frustration. "Fine. We're in. But I do not love the idea of flaunting around while someone wants me dead."

Thor stood, before kneeling in front of the small creature. He placed his hand on Rocket's small shoulder, "My friend you have the heart of a warrior. With the rest of us, those who stand against you do not stand a chance."

"Shake the bait, see who bites," Hawk cracked her neck. "Sounds good to me."

"Shit I've been an outlaw this whole time anyway," Quill shrugged. "I'm in."

"Then let us begin," Thor smiled broadly at his new companions. "Our enemy does not rest, and neither shall we."

---

G O T H A M C O U N T Y

---

The Gotham County Sheriff looked like he was having a bad day.

Steven “Shotgun” Smith had been a detective on the Gotham City police force. He hadn’t been the best cop, but he hadn’t been the worst either. His departure from the force had come amid an internal affairs scandal that had implicated Smith in several excessive force incidents that may or may not have been racially motivated. Even still, the next county election, Smith had popped back up and somehow come out with a win even with the skeletons in the closet waving to the crowd.

Now it wasn’t that Smith had his deputies turning a blind eye to what was happening out in the county, but the man seemed to be picking and choosing who he arrested and what sort of activities he cracked down on.

At worst, Smith was on the take. That would explain some rather strange campaign financing that had taken place during the county elections. Especially the last round, in which Smith had been unopposed.

At best, the man was just being a pragmatist. Trying to maintain public order without inciting a gang war or pissing the mafia off to the point that eliminating Smith became their desired objective.

Which was the truth? Honestly, Dick wasn’t sure. If he’d been a betting man, he’d have opted for the former and said that Smith was in the pockets of the Black Cullens, but several arrests -- while minor bit players in the organized crime drama that took place outside of Gotham proper -- had been just enough to make Dick question his assumptions even while still questioning Smith’s loyalties.

As Dick’s police cruiser rolled up on the derelict storage center, he could see Smith giving Chambers the business.

“Look, I don’t care where these kids are from. You can get your ass back to Bludhaven and the fuck outta my...”

“Steven.”

Dick’s voice wasn’t raised, but the was enough to ensure that he’d be heard. Both Smith and Chambers’ heads turned, as both Dick and another man got out of the car. Making his way toward the pair, Dick gestured to the figure who’d been riding shotgun with him. “This is Mack Flannagan.”

Smith squared off toward the approaching pair. “Like I give a fuck,” the sheriff tossed back at the former Boy Wonder. “Like I told the lady, get the fuck outta here.”

Mack pulled out his credentials. Holding up his badge, the man simply replied, “New Jersey State Detectives.”

Smith’s reaction was viceral, his already ruddy face turning a heated violet as his mouth fell open, before he seemed to think twice about speaking again.

Putting away the badge, Mack continued. “We’re assisting Bludhaven with this investigation. Given that the scope now exceeds their jurisdiction, the state will be taking it from here.” With that, the state detective merely walked on past the slack-jawed county sheriff.

Casually kicking his head to one side, Dick merely offered Smith a shrug as he followed suit. Chambers fell into step beside him, as the two peace officers ducked under police tape and entered the crime scene. “You sure took your sweet time getting here,” the lieutenant hissed under her breath.

“You’re going to a party, always a solid plan to bring a friend,” Dick deadpanned in answer. Cold sapphire eyes moved to survey the scene. Abandoned storage units, ambulances, and police lights. Amid which, there was a herd of baby humans wrapped in blankets with an assortment of uniformed officers. That much bothered Dick.

He knew what that was like. To be at your lowest point. To be at your most vulnerable. With only the cold comfort of a uniform and a badge looking down on you. “Someone wake up Child Protective Services and tell them to get some social workers out here now,” Dick snapped, a tad more forcefully than he’d intended. That was when he saw the most memorable icon of his childhood.

An EMT wheeling a gurney with a sheet draped over a body.

He felt the blood drain away from his face. “Were we too late?” the man asked. He couldn’t help the emotion that was riding on that question.

Chamber seemed oblivious to how her reply cut straight to the bone. “Understatement,” the woman answered, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Then, gesturing to indicate the cluster of kids, offered, “We’ve got thirteen of the fifteen kids who’ve gone missing over the last month. There were three more, as well. We’re still working to ID them, but we’re pretty sure one’s a kid missing from Camden since March.”

Dick was hardly listening, barely able to hear anything as he seemed almost a robot himself, cutting a path straight toward where the gurney with the sheet over it was out beside the ambulance. They were waiting to load it in, as they had three more gurneys coming out of the open storage unit, each with a kid on it.

Two looked as though they had some kind of prosthesis in place of their hands or arms. Dick realized he was grinding his teeth, forcing himself to take a breath. “How bad is it in there?” the man asked finally.

He could see Chambers shiver at the question. “You have to see it to believe it,” the woman remarked, her voice thick with emotion. She paused a moment, the mask of composure restored as she added, “Hell’s right under our feet. Old Cold War bomb shelter.”

Dick gave a nod. Then he felt the lieutenant’s hand on his arm. “Commissioner, whoever did this, he...”

Her mask was slipping. Placing his hand over her’s, Dick merely turned and gave a curt nod. “I’ll take it from here,” the man offered. Gesturing toward the EMTs, the commissioner said, “See if you can ID what hospital they’re taking the kids to.” He needed to get his head back into the game. There was yet more work to be done. “Then get me a list of who all we have with training in juvenile interviews.”

As Chambers went off to do as he’d said, the last survivor of the Flying Graysons looked out at the Circus of Horrors for the modern age and braced himself to go in.

And in he went. He saw the cages. He saw the chains. He saw the tables converted into some version of a Texas Chainsaw Massacre operating table, blood stains and discarded limbs that were being bagged and tagged.

Stagnant blood had a particular odor to it. If there was a Hell, he was sure that this was how it smelled.

He pulled a handkerchief from out of his pocket, holding it over his nose as he did the best he could to mask the partial limp from the bum knee but there was no hiding the tears slipping down his face as he emerged from out of Anton Schott’s toy shop of terrors.

Coming out of the storage unit, Dick stepped off to the side. He stared up at the night’s sky for a long moment. Wiped the edges of his eyes and then put the handkerchief away.

Then his hand stuck out into the abyssal darkness of the shadows along the wall of another storage unit.

There was a cherubic echo of juvenile giggling, as Dick casually tousled hair of the doll. A strained, weak smile tugged at the deep lines on Dick’s weathered face. “You did good, kid.”

The faint outline of Toyboy’s face was visible in the dim lighting on this side of the storage center. Looking up at the commissioner, the costumed Toy Wonder asked, “You’re not angry?”

Dick’s hand was still resting atop the boy’s head. At the question, Dick did a double take. Another time, another place, he might have laughed. Instead, the man dropped down to one knee in order to get down on the doll’s eye level. “Why would I be angry?” Dick asked, moving his hand to the child-like robot’s shoulder.

“I disobeyed you,” the doll remarked candidly. “Your instructions were to observe and report, not to intervene.”

The man’s hand squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “I’m not angry,” Dick offered softly.

Footsteps. Sliding his hand away, Dick turned his head as he realized that someone was coming this way. Probably Chambers. With more effort than should have been called for, Dick rose back to his feet. “Can you find your own way back to the apartment?” the man asked, his back now to the shadow.

“Yes, sir.”

“Make yourself at home,” Dick offered quietly, adding “I might not be back for awhile,” even as he started moving to meet Cissy as she came around the corner.

Uttering a single word, Magik drifted upwards into the sky. Her blonde hair blew gracefully behind her as her Soul Staff moved her forwards. The higher she got, the more she could make out the surrounding area and see what was happening. The mystical dome encapsulating them was actually a lot smaller than it had first appeared glance, with the shining blue energy spanning just a few blocks. Its circumference seemed to tear through Washington Square Park like a jagged scar, turning Garibaldi Plaza into a rubbled mess.

That wasn’t the most interesting thing about the remains of the park, however. Just within the dome sat the remains of one of the obsidian coloured obilists that had started this whole ordeal. It jutted crazily out of the ground, a mess of warped colours and jagged edges as if the dimensions around it had been turned inside out. That was certainly one way to deal with them.

Strange smiled at the look on her face as she approached where he sat floating above the streets.

“I see you’re a fan of my handiwork.” He jested, motioning for her to sit opposite him.

She scoffed mockingly.

“Vit’s no Naum Gabo but you have potential.”

He merely chuckled in response. Joking was easy with Strange. It helped. Especially with everything that had happened today.

Moving in front of him, Illyana sad down into the air, crossing her legs in front of her. She took a breath as she did so, as was the norm, however things just felt different. It was too hard to clear her mind. There was too much noise. The sound of S’ym blade. The thud of the Canterbury’s Cricket’s corpse hitting the table. S’yms words. And now the sounds of the innocent tearing themselves apart. She had no clue how Strange was staying so calm right now. She glanced up at him, and watched as he surveyed the city outside of the dome.

She followed his gaze, catching sight of a flick of blue, rocketing through the sky into Central Park like a speeding bullet. The supers were coming.

“As wild as it seems, I feel I have things covered here for the most part.” Strange explained calmly, turning back towards Illyana.

She raised an eyebrow in confusion. That was certainly not how it seemed right now.

Ignoring the inquisitive look on her face, he continued.

“I need you over in Star City. The magical defenses there are... Lacking. And the last I'd heard their Emerald Archer had vacated the city. They don’t have the kind of force that New York has.”

She simply nodded in silence, as if in another one of his lessons.

“Find somewhere safe and prepare the incantations we went over last week. Remember your pronunciations. We don't want another repeat of the island.”

The words cut against. Another hit of guilt from their “field trip”. He’d taken her to a remote island in the Bahamas a few months ago in an attempt to help stimulate her magical abilities. He thought a change of scenery from the Sanctum would help calm her. It didn’t. It had simply resulted in nearly half of the Island’s wildlife being burnt away. Another day of damnation for Illyana. Another one of many.

She continued her silence as she floated back to her feet.

“I’ve got it.” Her words were almost a whisper as she drifted away. Her hands trembled around the hilt of her staff as she raised tried to focus herself.

Before she could summon a stepping disc, however, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. She shook at the touch in confusion, before turning back towards her teacher. He stood in the air before her, a concerned look on his face. Gone was the power and fury of the Sorcerer Supreme. Now there was only Stephen Strange; her friend.

“Ilyana. What’s wrong?” His voice was kind. Comforting. Regardless, Illyana shied away from the question.

“I’m fine.”

Lie.

He smirked slightly.

“I mean, your mascara is literally running across your entire face right now. You're definitely not fine.”

Panicking, her hand went to her face, where she rubbed profusely. Confirming Strange’s statement, her hand returned stained with a mixture of black and blue makeup. Her breathing increased slightly, as she attempted to wipe it away after wetting her hand. How stupid must she look right now? How weak?

“If you're not up for this, you can say no. I won't hold this against you Illyana.” He continued, trying to be nice. But Illyana could hear the pity in his voice.

He thought her weak. At the thought, she seized up slightly for a second.

No. This wasn’t going to happen. She wasn’t going to just sit back anymore while other people suffered. She was going to do something. She was going to fight back. She wasn’t a monster.

With one last wipe of her eyes, she tried to stand tall. She wasn’t weak. She was going to do this.

“I’m fine.” She confirmed. This time she meant it. Her voice no longer held the pain it had moments ago. Now it held strength. Now it held determination.

Stephen nodded, somewhat understandable. Squeezing her shoulder to comfort her once more, he drifted backward, before glancing back over to the outside of the protective bubble, where another group of infected could be seen charging in their direction. Facing Illyana one last time, he gave her one last smile.

“Once this is all over, let's have a chat, ok?”

She managed a smile herself, giving Strange a short wave as his crimson cloak whisked him down towards the action.

She could do this. She was not a monster.

She took a deep breath, before summoning a stepping disc beneath her feet.

After much speculation, the Gotham City District Attorney's office announced today that it will be launching a sweeping investigation into the city's boxing and prizefighting scene. Their explicit target: Connections between organized crime and the boxing community. District Attorney Joseph Porter held a press conference for reporters today, laying out the details of the upcoming investigation.

"For far too long the professional fighting scene in this city has been controlled by bookmakers," said Porter. "Fans of the sport, people who pay to see honest and fair fights, are instead often treated to fixed contests that the gamblers control. This inquiry is the first step in a battle to wrestle control of the sport from the criminal elements of this city."

Porter himself will serve as the lead counsel on the investigation. Heading up the team of investigators will be the always colorful GCPD Captain John "Two-Gun Jack" Grogan, commanding officer of the GCPD's Major Case Squad. Captain Grogan's six man task force will provide the brunt of the investigative force, as their operational mandate lies within organized crime.

"Ain't nobody [sic] better at policing organized hoods than me and my boys," Grogan said during the press conference. "If there's anything worth finding, we'll find it."

While forthcoming with details of the probe, District Attorney Porter remained mum on his political future. He is among a small handful of candidates who have been rumored to seek the US Senate seat recently opened by the sudden death of long-time senator Charles Henderson. When asked if this is a stepping stone to a possible campaign run, Porter discouraged any such talk and only offered a “no comment” on the subject.



06/19/1946
West Gotham
1:13 AM

Slam Bradley rode shotgun in the car. Captain Grogan sped through the city at "Fuck-Traffic-Laws-I'm-A-Cop" speed. Slam smoked and saw the sights. Winos blasted on cut-rate hooch wagged their wieners at the passing car. Hookers peddled their stuff by the curb. Slam cracked the window and blew smoke.

He smiled. He felt alive. He felt jazzed. Grogan's squad worked the streets. They ran the streets. They were the landlords out here, and everybody paid their rent. The cost for not paying up was a quick and brutal eviction from this world. Two-Gun Jack was a hick from somewhere out west -- Oklahoma or Texas or something -- and he had that southern twang prairie accent. The hump wore two six-shooters on both hips. The hump wore shit-kicker boots and a white stetson with a goddamn bolo tie. He chewed tobacco and thought he was Jonah Hex reincarnated. He looked like a clown on the surface. Beneath it he was all killer.

Grogan spat tobacco juice in a coffee cup. He wiped his mouth and said, "Samuel, how you been liking these past few months."

Slam beamed. "Fantastic. Anything to get me out of Vice."

Vice straight bored him. It was either hooker rousts or gambling busts. He was too well known around Gotham to work undercover, so it was roust duty. Pop prosties and bust bookies. It was straight shit-work. His brain was wired for the street. He needed to be out here in the thick of it. This was his element. Grogan picked him because he was big and intimidating. The captain promised muscle work and he made good on the promise. Anybody he wanted worked over, Slam worked over. Fist work, brass knuckles work, rubber hose work, followed by dental and surgical work.

Slam flicked his cigarette out a window. The butt hit a passing wino in the forehead. The wino flipped it away and shook his fist at the car. Slam laughed. Gorgan roared.

Grogan wiped his eyes and said, "And what do you make of our current assignment?"

Slam made the jack-off sign. "Prizefighting has been corrupt since the days of gladiators. And now they want to get a hard-on for it?”

Slam knew firsthand how corrupt the shit was. Corruption got him a pass on the war. He threw a fight back in ‘40 and got a judge paid a few grand. Said judge remembered the favor when Slam’s draft number came up. Said judge helped him get a job on the PD and deemed “essential personnel.” No war for Shirker Slam. He parlayed his status as a local celebrity to get plum patrol beats. Southpaw Slam volunteered to box in late-night smokers for the GCPD brass and city hall bigwigs. The fights got him political clout. Smart Slam leverages clout for internal juice in the PD. He went from harness bull to gold shield detective rápidamente.

They had two ex-boxers under lock and key who weren’t as slick as Shrewd Slam. Said pugilists were working with the DA to present testimony to the county grand jury. They were, to wit: heavyweight Robert "Scotty" Lees and light heavyweight Manuel "Goodnight" Garcia. Slam went six rounds with Lees back in ‘38. Even back then he was a fucking stumblebum. Years of too many pops to the dome meant Scotty couldn't remember who he was half the time. Goodnight Garcia played up a faux swish persona, but he had a taste for young stuff. Said taste had gotten him in the jackpot. Testifying would quash a 'stach rape beef.

Grogan said, "The good District Attorney wants his pound of flesh, more so for a launchpad than anything else. So we do our job and give it to him. But I suspect the investigation will be coming to an abrupt end shortly."

They hit county territory. Upper-middle class homes became the main view. Slam chained three cigs while Grogan spat tobacco and the radio squawked Bing Crosby. The radio crackled as Jack Benny pitched toothpaste. Grogan pulled up to a three-story home sprawled over four lots. It ate up half a block. Feature: A bronze R.T. plaque on the mailbox.

They got out. Grogan led, Slam followed. They walked around the house and to the backyard. Floodlights on: A pool, patio, pool house. A fat man with gray hair did laps in the water. Slam checked his watch. Two in the morning. The fat man flopped out the pool. Butt ass naked. He dried his hair on a towel and walked over to them. Still sans clothing.

Grogan shook hands with the man and said, "Congressman."

"Captain Grogan."

Grogan looked to Slam. "Congressman, this is Detective Samuel Bradley. Samuel, this is Congressman Rupert Thorne."

They shook hands. Slam kept his eyes from drifting downward. Thorne guided them to the patio. He flopped on a chair. They followed suit. Thorne sprawled and smiled at Slam.

"I need no introduction, Slam,” said Thorne. “I saw you fight Mike Moldando years ago. I think you won that one.”

“TKO, sir,” said Slam.

Thorne smiled. “A win is a win, right? Captain Grogan has been telling me an awful lot about you, son. He says you have potential."

Two-Gun Jack spat juice in his coffee cup. He winked at Slam, "Slam here was originally recruited because he looked every bit the part of the mean sum bitch he actually is. Turns out he's smarter than he looks. I think he's ready."

Thorne reached for a wooden box on the table. He pulled out a fat cigar and lit it. A look passed between the two older men. Grogan nodded. His nod meant GO.

Thorne said, "Slam, do you believe that certain aspects of crime, vices like gambling and prostitution and drugs, are unavoidable and should be allowed to exist in a contained form?"

Slam shrugged. "Yeah. We can't stop people from doing what they want to do. As long as nobody gets hurt, it's fine with me."

Thorne and Two-Gun Jack traded looks. Grogan took off his stetson and placed it on the table. He leaned forward. Slam caught whiffs of tobacco. Grogan's tie was tobacco spritzed. His teeth were brown with tobacco juice.

Grogan said, "The three of us are riding the same wavelength. People like the DA see it like we do, but they're worse. They act like they want to change things but what they really want to do is make just enough change to fuck over the rest of us and get themselves elected to a higher office."

"Crabs in a bucket," said Thorne. "Nobody wins."

Slam picked up brainwaves. He rode a hunch into speculation. DA Porter, "higher office." He implied: The boxing probe. His implication confirmed by the congressman.

Thorne looked straight at Slam and said, "This little fact finding mission Porter is carrying out has the potential to damage a lot of important people who share our common outlook on this city. These people are your gateway to a whole new world, son. If you hitch yourself up to the captain and I, you'll be police commissioner within ten or fifteen years. After that? Who knows. But before that destination can manifest, the journey must begin. If you share our common interest, Slam, then we expect you to step up and see that this investigation ends before it can go before a grand jury. Do this, Slam, and you'll be one of us."

Slam scratched his neck. "How?"

Thorne opened up the wooden box. He laid a stack of bills down on the table. C-notes tied together in two thousand dollar bundles. Ten thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.

Grogan spat tobacco into his cup and said, "Be creative."



06/22/46
The Gotham Arms

Scotty Lees dug into his nose and stared up at the ceiling. He sat on the bed while the radio played late night big band music. Slam sat on the other bed and chained-smoked. Night work, guarding Scotty from anybody who would do him harm. Ten grand stashed in the truck of his car assured he would be the one doing the harm. Thorne laid out the details. Goodnight Garcia would play ball once Scotty was dealt with. He'd spout qué? No hablo inglés to the DA until he was blue in the face. Slam's eyes fell on Scotty. Robert "Scotty" Lees: a pale as fuck heavyweight with bright red hair. The Glasgow Gouger had a record of 22-5-32. He had mush for brains and brayed like a donkey.

A radio commercial featured a talking rabbit shilling cars. Scotty hee-hawed and ate boogers. Slam stubbed his fifth cigarette out and stood. He peaked into the room next door. There's Goodbye Garcia sleeping his ass off. His bodyguard Officer Tommy Burke was ditto. They snored in sync. Slam closed the door softly and turned off the radio.

Lees said, "Aww... why'd you stop it?"

"We need to talk, Scotty. Answer a few questions for me."

"I can try, Slammy."

"What year is it, Scotty?"

Scotty made a face. It looked like somebody asked him to do advanced trig.

"I... 1943?"

"What did you have for dinner tonight?"

"I... I don't remember."

"Who won when you boxed Chili Rodriguez?"

His eyes lit up. He said, "I did. It was by majority decision. Chili had a hell of a left cross, but I got underneath it and managed to go the distance with him. Nobody can beat me when I get my jabs working."

"Quick, Scotty, what's twenty-four times twelve?"

His eyes stayed bright. "Two hundred and eighty-eighty. See, some stuff I don't know good... but I can ‘member names and numbers. It's why I used to run bets for Frankie Momo and Mr. Thorne."

Slam cursed. He shook his head and adjusted his necktie. He sighed and cracked his knuckles.

"Come here, Scotty. I need to show you something."

Scotty stood and walked over. Slam guided him to the window. Sixth story looking down. Slam pushed him hard against the wall. He banged Scotty's forehead into the plaster. His eyes went cross. He went loopy. He babbled incoherently. Slam shoved him hard into the window. Scotty broke glass. He fell out the window screaming. Two seconds and then a loud crash. Slam looked out. Scotty's broken body resting on top of a parked car.



Max polished off a bottle of gin on the way to the crime scene. He swilled Listerine to help cover up the smell. He chewed gum to hide his booze breath. Rolling to the southside of the city in an unmarked. His notebook resting in the passenger seat.

Second straight month working the graveyard shift. Nights tapped him out. The work tapped him out. His career was tapped out at sergeant. Five straight lieutenant's exams, five straight times scoring at the top of the list, five straight times he was passed over. He had a reputation as a lush and someone with a hard-on for the rules. They could handle promoting a drunk to LT, but not a tight ass. So here he was. He worked the midnight to eight shift and paid a sitter to watch Mary while she slept. The late nights meant grief from his ex-wife. She'd left him before the war and never looked back. She was talking through a lawyer conduit, threatening to challenge him for full custody of Mary. Just one more problem on the pile.

The current call he was on came into the homicide pen twenty minutes earlier. He and Fields played rock paper scissors to decide who went. Max pulled scissors, Fields pulled rock. Max flipped him off and got his gear. He drove at a steady pace and no lights. It was a code 7, probable jumper. No rush on a suicide. He hit the brakes when he saw police lights.

Three prowl cars parked in a semi-circle around the Gotham Arms. Lights and crime scene rope. Max got his notebook and walked towards the tape. He flashed his badge to the uniform on sentry duty and identified himself: Sergeant Eckhardt, Homicide.

Max stepped on the scene and went to work with the layout and details. The DB: sprawled out on top of a car. A broken window six stories up. The body a white man, his pale skin cut up and bloody from the impact with the car. Someone loomed close by. Max turned. A big man with black hair eye-balled him. He had a good five inches on Max.

"You the homicide dick?"

Max said, "Yeah." They shook hands. "Sergeant Max Eckhardt."

"Detective Sam Bradley. I'm with Major Cases."

“I thought you looked familiar. I think--”

Bradley shook his head and looked down at Max.

"I did this..."

Max looked at Bradley and raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

Bradley's hands shook. He swallowed loudly. "I was supposed to be protecting him and... I... he... just jumped."

Max frowned. He opened his notebook and got out a pencil.

"So tell me what happened."

Location: Washington Avenue, Dakota City

Time: 8.00 PM

---

The blade cut through Mari's jacket like a hot knife cutting through a jacket that was made out of butter rather than leather. It was a tragic sign of how far the once proud garment industry had fallen. Thrift store leather just wasn't the same, it wasn't the armor Mari needed, not anymore. Worse still, the steel that cut against her shoulder told her that she'd been too slow. Searing pain faded to familiar numbness as Mari darted back out of range of the machete. She'd messed up. She'd fucked up. She'd been cut, but the wound to her ego was far deeper. Some random mook wasn't supposed to get the better of her. They weren't supposed to make her bleed. She had standards to live up to. She had irritating spiders of a questionable divinity to keep quiet.

"You're bleeding," Nancy lazily drawled from somewhere in the darkness. He'd scampered away as soon as the fighting started. He wasn't much of a fighter. Unless the battle involved capturing and eating a disgusting amount of flies in one sitting.

"I know."

"That was sloppy," the spider added in a sing song voice, lowering himself down from a nearby street light by a thin thread of silk. His eyes shone with unrestrained mirth as he watched the two combatants, "You won't last long if you keep this up."

"I fucking know," Mari hissed between gritted teeth as she tossed her jacket aside. She needed to be able to move, she needed to be faster. She was done playing. She was done being nice.

"If you're done talking to yourself, then let's finish this," the woman taunted twirling the bloodied machete in a figure eight in front of her. "I've got better things to do with my time than to fight some masked lunatic."

"Fine by me," Mari agreed, circling closer. The thug could fight, Mari would give her that. She obviously knew how to slice and dice her opponents with her blade. She might even be a metahuman. She was fast. She was too fast for a normal human.

Launching herself forward, Mari swung wide with the claws of her right hand. She caught fabric and threw herself aside to avoid the blade that whistled past her in reply. The snarky comment that Mari had lined up was replaced with a sharp grunt as she threw herself aside from another cut that would have gutted her. Mari growled with frustration as she was forced on the defensive. Dodging each blow at the last minute she danced beneath and beside the deadly arcs the steel drew in the air. The young vigilante could see a smile, a great, mocking smile plastered on her opponents face. It made her mad, so mad. She was the huntress, she was the predator. She was not the prey. She would never be the prey. She would not be toyed with.

"Do something tricky," Nancy finally shouted. "Stop trying to win a knife fight."

Mari stumbled and cursed out loud. Another cut appearing across her unprotected arm in a flash of blood.

Tricky?

What sort of trick was the spider expecting?

What could she manage to do with a knife wielding psycho breathing down her neck?

Armored plates a voice whispered.

Bone, it clarified with a laugh.

Bone plates.

Visions of a dinosaur flashed across her mind. Razor sharp teeth the size of her head. Claws that could cut her into ribbons. And plates of fused bone. Armor thick enough to stop steel. Mari laughed. She was going to die. But she was going to die with style.

Bone, Mari thought as she bounded forward. Bone, lots of bone. She saw the wicked edge of the machete racing towards her face and raised an arm desperately above her. Her eyes closed protectively and she heard a loud thunk. The sound of steel hitting something heavy, something solid, and something that made the finest in Swiss steel wail in protest.

Opening her eyes, Mari stared at the blade caught in her hands with surprise. Her skin was covered in thick plates of bone, from her fingertips to her neck. The other woman was struggling, trying desperately to pull the blade free. It wouldn't budge. Mari grinned. She winked before she smashed the closed fist of her free repeatedly into her opponent's face. The sickening crunch and blood that followed made it clear that she'd hit her mark. A broken nose made fighting hard and made it far easier for her to subdue an enterprising criminal hellbent on fighting to the death. Mari wasn't much for killing. A sound beating was usually enough to get the message across. For now, she needed answers, which meant at least one of the scumbags had be conscious and able to talk.

"Bet you didn't see that coming, did ya, Miss Big Knife," Mari huffed, tossing the machete into a pile of garbage.

---

"Concrete face, where is he?" Mari asked, slamming the woman face first against the nearest wall. A wet smack followed, the sound of flesh meeting unmoving brick, and blood splattering onto concrete. Mari hesitated. Interrogations had never been her strong suit. She took no pleasure in the suffering of her prey. It was the thrill of the hunt that drove her. A growing need matched only by her desire to clean up the streets, to act when and where others would not. In the forgotten neighborhoods where the cops and capes would never venture the hunter stood alone. No one else would act. No one would keep the rabid wolves at bay. Not before it was too late, not before they'd slaughtered the entire flock of sheep.

"Don't worry about it-"

"What's that? Speak up."

"The name's Tarmack not Concrete Face," a deep voice full of gravel and rocks boomed, accompanied by the rasping laughter of the unnamed woman.

"Fuck," Mari managed, unceremoniously dropping her latest victim to the ground.

"We didn't think you'd be dumb enough to try this again."

"Well, you clearly don't know me very well," Mari said squaring off against the monstrous man of asphalt and tar. "You know, for a man I just set on fire you don't look that much uglier."

"Ebon told me to make you an offer. He said you deserved a chance. He was hoping you'd be reasonable about this," Tarmack began with a shrug of his massive shoulders. "But, fuck it. I'm just going to chalk up this failed recruitment drive as another unfortunate case of irreconcilable differences of personal opinion."

Ebon. The name didn't ring any bells. Not that Mari knew much about the gangs that operated in Dakota City. No one did, not anymore. The Big Bang had changed everything. Hopped up thugs with superpowers had smashed the rules and redrawn the maps. But a name was a start. It gave her something to work with. Nancy would know. He had to.

"I don't work with losers," Mari replied. "How about I just beat you until you tell me who Ebon is and where I can find them?"

"Nice armor, where'd you get it?" Concrete Face offered with a nod in her direction.

"Pretty slick, huh? It's a new trick I picked up. I'm basically bullet proof now," Mari bragged, shrugging her shoulders. The slag of molten asphalt and smoldering tar that came hurling towards her in a ball of grime seemed a rude reply. Concrete Face wasn't as dumb as she had figured. He could even work with a plan. He was big, he was strong, but he was also slow. Mari sidestepped the flaming projectiles he tossed at her with little effort. Working her way closer with each weave. She was done playing. She wasn't sure if she could kill him, but she knew she could hurt him. She'd slice him into pieces. Then she'd stomp him into the ground. She was going to send a message to all the drug dealers in Dakota City. She was going to make them pay. Most of all she was going to make them afraid, she was going to remind them what it felt like to be hunted.

Mari was prepared for the improvised projectiles hurtling right at her, but she wasn't ready for a gunfight. It was her armored skin that saved her. She heard the gunshot too late. The bullet hit her arm with the force of a truck, sending her reeling. The rounds of 9 millimeter parabellum that followed sent her diving behind a wooden barrier for cover. The 124 grain hollow points propelled at more than 1200 feet per second easily punched through the thin wood, smashing into the wall behind her. Cordite powered thunder and the rattle of bullets smashing against the ground near her had her scrambling towards the concrete base of a street light for solid cover. Covering her head with her armored arms, Mari pushed herself closer to the ground. Eating bullets was not part of her plan. She could feel the bruise growing across her arm. She couldn't take another shot like that. Not if she wanted to keep fighting. Not if she wanted to capture Concrete Face. He was a heavy hitter and far too big prey to stop wounded, at least by herself. She needed backup, she needed a plan.

"God dammit, Tiny, no guns, I said no guns," Tarmack roared over the shooting, slamming a great fist down on an innocent dumpster that exploded in a cloud of recently recycled plastic. Mari heard a loud thud, a lower scream, and peaked her head over the wooden barrier to see the wounded gunman collapsed on the sidewalk. The giant hands of the concrete monster loomed above his prone form and Mari could hear the big man hurling insults at the his unconscious colleague.

"How about you surrender now, Concrete Face, before I really have to hurt you," Mari quipped. She could hear the sirens getting closer. Burning buildings and gunshots tended to cause a scene. Pyrotechnics attracted the sort of crowd she preferred to avoid. Firefighters, EMTs, and cops, lots of cops, lots of cops with guns. Cops who wouldn't see any difference between her and the monster she was fighting. She was running out of time.

"Fuck you," the monster of asphalt replied as he threw another ball of tar and asphalt at her.

"Nancy," Mari commanded from behind cover. "You got any bright ideas, seeing as burning clearly only manages to piss this guy off? What's the plan?"

"И Все идет по плану. Все идет по плану," Nancy sang in reply as Mari dodged a burning car that crashed into the light pole she was hiding behind before somersaulting through a glass bus stop that shattered into a mixture of glass, demolished car parts, and burning petrochemicals. Mari didn't have a chance to move before yet another burning car came hurtling past her, crashing into a ruined building behind. She turned to hear a loud boom and flames leaping upwards through the windows of the collapsing building.

Pushing herself to her feet, Mari tried to close the gap between her and Tarmac. She managed several yards before the next car came sailing at her. Throwing herself to the pavement, she watched as it spiraled off the pavement into another building. Concrete face was going to level the block if she didn't stop him. There were plenty of cars lining the street. He had more than enough ammunition. A part of Mari was impressed. Concrete Face really knew how to party. He was a one man riot.

A particularly large pickup truck bounced off the pavement and clipped the vigilante. Spilling onto the ground in a heap, she sputtered as heat and flames enveloped her. Mari rolled to the side. It was all she could manage to do. When the cloud of dust and grime faded, Mari could see that Concrete Face was gone. The monster of asphalt and tar had somehow, impossibly, managed to make his escape.

"What the fuck? What the fuck did you say?" Mari spat, coughing, and feeling a wave of rising anger tugging at her throat.

"And everything is going according to plan. Everything is going according to plan," Nancy repeated in the same unfamiliar language. But this time the words made sense. Mari could understand him.

"Great plan, really great plan, Nancy," Mari growled back, stumbling forward, desperately trying to keep her feet moving. "I love the part where it ends with Concrete Face getting away and me getting shot by some trigger happy cop that thinks I'm gonna disintegrate him with my laser eyes."

"No, no, you don't understand. I needed you to make some noise. We had to get the attention of the right people. And we did that. You're a blip on the radar now of the peeps that matter, girl. Mission accomplished."

"Fantastic, now about those trigger happy boys in Blue that are about to roll up on us..."

"Just trust me."

"Trust you?"

"Trust me."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Because tonight, my dear girl, I'm going to teach you how to fly," Nancy concluded, bursting into a maniacal fit of laughter that sent a shiver down Mari's spine.

---

Weaving through traffic, Officer Mikhailov, respected ten year veteran of the Dakota PD raced towards the scene of the latest crime. He had no real bead on the situation. All he'd gotten from dispatch was chaos. Multiple fires. Multiple casualties. Gunshots reported. Metahumans. Mikhailov could feel the sweat running down his brow. Protect and serve, sure. He knew the drill. His father had been a cop, his father had been a cop, countless generations of Mikhailov's had worn the Blue since the family had come to the country. Mikhailov knew his duty. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. But, he hadn't signed up to fight monsters. What good was a gun against a metahuman?

Mikahilov did not see the large crow that came flying out of an adjacent alley until it was almost too late. He slammed his brakes and let out a string of curses as he fought against the wheel. He juked his patrol car to the right, preying that there were no pedestrians on the sidewalk. The row of trash cans that he barreled into sent week old garbage flying across his windshield and his car careening into the wall of the nearest building.

Drawing his firearm and stepping out of his car in a swift, well-practiced motion, Mikahilov found himself standing in the aftermath of a battle. An entire block's worth of cars lay scattered across the streets and sidewalks around him. Two crumbling buildings roared with flames and a third threatened to follow. Tied to a mailbox he found two people. A young man with a deep cut on his arm and a woman who looked liked she taken quite the beating. Her nose was certainly broken and he didn't doubt that she was missing some teeth.

Sighing loudly, Mikahilov gazed at the growing inferno. He hoped the fire department were putting the pedal to the metal, they wouldn't have much time. Removing his cap, Mikahilov brought his radio to the his mouth,"Dispatch, this is Officer Mikahilov, how about next time you send me into a war zone, you give me a bigger gun."

---

---

Virgil shielded himself behind a over-flowing green garbage bin. He gagged at the sour smell of chinese take-out and mouldy shoes. He would have preferred a car or a large fridge but it was the only thing that prevented him from turning into mincemeat. Blasts of buckshot and bullets thundered through the fetid alleyway air, perforating the garbage bin, his shouts being lost in the cacophony.

“ Look, why don’t you pick on someone with their own gun?!”

On second thought, that sentence didn't make much sense. The officers replied by just continuing to fire at him. His muscles were beginning to ache from how long he’d been levitating the garbage bin for. Alright, enough of playing target practice. He steeled himself, breathing out, waiting for the inevitable sound of an empty -

CLICK

He lashed out with his right hand and the garbage bin flew down the alley in a lurching arc, its metallic frame bouncing off the walls and ground. An officer slid out of cover to avoid being crushed, just in time for a whip of electricity to catch him in the chest. A kevlar vest could stop bullets but 50,000 volts of electricity was a different matter entirely. The two others ignored their convulsing comrade laying on the ground and leveled their rifles out towards him. Only to find that their rifles had been pulled out of their hands by an unseen force. Virgil smirked. Guns were made out of metal. Magnets attract metals. And when you were a living magnet, the answer was obvious. Twisting his hands to adjust the polarity, the rifle stocks slammed into their foreheads, knocking them out cold for good.

" So much for gun safety seminars..."

Virgil let his hands down and the pair of guns clattered to the ground. He began to stroll out of the alley, readying himself to surf away if it wasn’t for the glint on the back of the unconscious men’s necks. He crouched down to examine further. Virgil closed his eyes, concentrating on the ambient electricity in the air, within his body. If high-school biology taught him anything about neurons.....

It was a spark at first. Tiny but concrete. It was there. He just needed to bring it out. He coaxed it slowly, concentrating on the cracks, the places that weren't insulated from him. It was maddeningly slow. Made sense, though. Human bodies were terrible conductors of electricity. However, a grainy after-image was forming slowly over time.

Bingo

It was like looking at some weird, screwed up X-Ray. A skeleton of wires, a blueprint of the human nervous system. The largest tangle of wires was in the shape of a hairball - the brain - and like a parasite, the drone attached itself to a long strand that trailed outwards from it. The spine. He could see that the drone was still pulsing, sending electromagnetic frequencies to the brain, commanding its host what to do. His finger brushed against the metallic surface of the drone. All it would take was merely overloading that robot with enough juice that could turn the man sane again. Or turn him into a living vegetable. He didn’t like those odds.

Perhaps, that thing in Central Park’s the key to stopping all of this…..

It sounded like the beginnings of a plan. He zoomed out of the alleyway out into the bloodied and rioting streets of New York, plagued by the infection that had taken hold of its inhabitants in the last 3 hours. Virgil zoomed over top the skyline of the Big Apple, cars rumbling excitedly and lights flickering in his wake. His target was Central Park or Ground Zero of whatever Stryfe had unleashed all over the USA. For a moment, thoughts of Dakota City, the people, his family came up in his mind and made him wonder whether or not Stryfe's drones had managed to sink their claws into his hometown. The thought only made him push forward faster, ionized air trailing behind him.

As he neared Central Park, two things came to mind.

One. That ugly as hell art statue in the middle of Central Park was even uglier now. Being demolished sure didn't improve the aesthetic.

Two. The drones were currently swarming someone. Someone who was floating in the air like he was at the moment.

Another metahuman?

No time for curiosity. He leveled his hands out, laced with electricity, and began showering lightning down on the figure. Upon contact with the bolts, some of them exploded into puffs of grey smoke while others short-circuited and fell onto the grass, wingless flies. His eyes began to widen underneath his yellow googles as drones shed off her body. He recognized her. No, everyone could recognize her.

AP Metahuman History had entire chapters dedicated to her. He'd seen her face crop up on Dakota NTV7 and Youtube channels alike, millions of viewers fawning over her. Dolls resembling her were a birthday present pastime to young girls all over the world. There were numerous facial products, clothing lines and a cereal, Wonder Wheaties, with her logo on it. Richie wore her namesake on his underpants (That had been awkward to explain at the laundromat).

Wonder Woman. The living legend of WWI and international hero. Gosh, Richie would be fuming in his ears now if he found out about this....

So, how exactly did a small-time vigilante introduce themselves to a big-time celebrity hero? Virgil levitated himself down towards Wonder Woman, struggling to hold down his excitement as the manhole he was standing on drizzled electric rain below the both of them.

“ So, uh, never thought I’d meet you like this. I’d imagine an autograph session, not an apocalypse.” He sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “ My name’s Static. You got a plan to take down that Stryfe chump, Wonder Woman?”