_{Location: Triskelion}

---

The Helicarrier Argo floated silently over SHIELD headquarters as Nick Fury peered out of it from the conference room window, his one good eye following the floating fortress's lazy arc across the sky. The Helicarriers were the backbone of SHIELD's response capability, and the Argo was the most advanced ship in the fleet. He had helped oversee her construction under the former Director Mace's leadership. It was capable of crossing the Atlantic in three hours thanks to the new repulsor engines. The others in the fleet were good, but this was going to be the thing that allowed SHIELD to respond to anything across the world. A net of these carriers spread evenly across the globe like a suit of armor.

At least that was Director Pierce's desire. Fury had always hoped that they would only be support. It was an old fashioned notion for sure, but Nick had always hoped they could work with the metahumans of the world rather than against them.

Top brass in the governments of the world felt differently, though. Things were spiraling, and politicians were scrambling to try and keep up. Rogers had reappeared and was tearing through random locations across the states. They hadn't been able to piece together a motive or a pattern yet. Some rando that look liked he dropped out of a barbarian movie showed up in the middle of Oslo. A girl who could fly and pick up a car over her head was treating Metropolis like her personal playground.

The normal humans of the world felt like they were losing control, and that was always a dangerous situation. When people panicked and lashed out, someone usually died. Taking into account that the people in this case could bench press a Buick, that could be a recipe for worldwide disaster.

But the path had been set, and Fury wasn't sure there was a way to change that.

The door to the conference room slid open, and Pierce, Amanda Waller, and Maria Hill all entered. Pierce, a man in his sixties who looked like he was in his forties, was dressed in a sharp navy suit. From the outside he looked like any typical military man who went into government service afterwards. Hair greying the black out of his temples, and a strong frame that was only now starting to deteriorate. But there was a cunning ambition behind his green eyes that honestly scared Fury sometimes, and that was hard to do.

If Pierce was hiding his intimidation factor, Amanda Waller wore it proudly in everything she did. A former CIA analyst, a less proper description of Waller might have been that she was "built like a brick shit house". On top of that, she had a personality to match. Waller believed that the super powered age was a existential threat to the human race. She was pushing hard for stricter surveillance on mutants and metahumans, civil liberties be damned.

Hill was Fury's protege, and one of the few agents in SHIELD he knew he could trust. She nodded to him as she took a seat at the conference table, her short hair bobbing as she did so.

Fury took a seat as Pierce began, "What's your update on Rogers?"

"He and an unknown mutant tore through a town in Mississippi last night," he started. "No idea why he was there or what he was doing. In the end, he allegedly blew up an abandoned orphanage in order to kill the mutant. Our agents didn't find any traces of him or the alleged mutant. But we did find tire tracks from two motorcycles."

"Meaning the former Captain isn't working alone," Waller mused. "Does the Widow know anything?"

"If Natasha knows what he's up to, she's not saying," Hill added.

"And we can trust that?" Pierce looked over the rim of his glasses at Fury.

"Romanoff is one of the best espionage agents the world has ever seen," Fury chuckled back at the director. "If you can find some way of ensuring she's telling the truth, I'd like to see it."

"I'm sending Masters after him," Pierce looked back down at the files he had brought with them.

"We're turning Captain America into a criminal now?" Fury was shocked. "Listen, Director, I know you haven't been here long, but I know Steve Rogers. If he's doing what he's doing, he has a good reason."

"I don't care what his reasons are," Pierce shot back. "He's flaunting the agreement he made with SHIELD after he murdered a man on national TV. He wrecked a town in Mississippi. What happens when he goes to Chicago or New York? I'm not taking that chance. Masters is going to bring him in, and we're going to take a rogue, unpredictable agent off the board. Masters is the best choice to do that."

Fury clamped down on his anger. Masters was a great agent. He was cold, calculating, and lethal. Sending him after Rogers was exactly the kind of move that was going to set off a powder keg.

Fury shook his head, "Whatever you say, sir. And what about the situation in Norway?"

"We sent Coulson," Waller scoffed. "I doubt that case isn't going to be anything other than a teleporter who just discovered his powers, no matter how big and buff he is."

So Coulson was abroad now too. Another one of Fury's trusted agents away. He could trust fewer and fewer agents on the Triskelion. That was a dangerous proposition.

"I'm giving you Masters's leash for this mission, Nick," Pierce looked directly into Fury's eye. "Masters is a pro. We both know it. If this goes belly up, or if you delay at any time to give Rogers some breathing room, it'll be your head. Understand? The security council is losing patience with us. If we don't start getting things under control, we'll all be out on the street."

Location Unknown, Space

Celestial bodies danced across the black canvass of space as if guided by a divine hand. Suns rose, set, and rose again on planets too numerous to count as their unsuspecting inhabitants went about their perfectly ordinary lives. All was at peace in the cosmos until its stillness was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a crimson scythe. It tore through the darkness with intent and left behind it a blood red streak that seemed to scar all that it came into contact with.

Aboard the crescent-shaped ship was J’onn J’onzz. The Martian was immersed in a deep sleep. He had long since stopped staring out with wonder at the stars as they went about their balletic journey through the dark. For J'onn there was no beauty in it anmoyre, only pain. It had been a hundred million years, more perhaps, since he had held his youngest daughter’s hand and pointed out the constellations to her, her absence was ever present. Not even sleep provided the Martian with respite from it.

On his way back to his ship, J’onn’s thoughts had turned to the boy on Jiden-V again. “There’s been enough death for one day,” he had said. At that moment with the Kymellian’s hoof resting on him, the Martian had felt the weight of their suffering. Though he was but a boy, J’vanna had seen and endured terrible things: things that ought to have compelled him to urge J’onn on, to bid him to make the Centaurians suffer a thousand times over, and yet he had done the opposite. It had puzzled J'onn. Perhaps if he had seen into the hearts of those J’onn had sent to their deaths, he would have understood that some wickedness could never be allowed to go unpunished.

The Martian had managed to exorcise the doubts from his mind by the time he'd reached his craft. It was the lone connection J’onn had left to his homeworld. A living, breathing bio-ship psionically connected to its pilot. No civilisation before or after had been able to replicate the psychic link his people had established between pilot and ship. Were they to have asked, J’onn would have explained that what they lacked was not ingenuity, but desperation. The Green Martians had pooled cutting-edge technology with ancient and wicked magic to will the bond into existence, running roughshod over their traditions to do so – but it had been for the most noble of causes.

An unexpected judder caused the sleeping J’onn J’onzz to wince. With the disruption there had come a stabbing pain in the Martian’s side. The tank he was floating in shook slightly but steadied once the pain subsided and the green liquid he was immersed in began to calm. Though his body was at rest the Martian’s mind was in turmoil.

He could see his home planet as clearly in his mind’s eyes as the day he had fled from it. The screams of his wife and children rang in his ears until his heart pounded so loudly that it could be heart from outside the tank. Every recollection was as painful as the first time. My’ria’h on that plain holding K’hym and T’ania against her whilst the White Martians approached. J’onn watched on helplessly while their whole world burned. Even now his throat grew hoarse remembering how he had screamed to them, and how his strong, beautiful, loving wife had confined him to their ship and bid it leave their world with her last action. He was out of orbit when he felt his children slip from this world into the next, followed by My’ria’h’s rage burning brighter than any star ever could. It too was extinguished by those monsters.

It was to this ship, propelled by My’ria’h’s love, that J’onn owed his life. Where millions of Green Martian crafts fleeing their world had been gunned down, J’onn’s survived. It would be millennia before he realised that his had been the only one. In his desperation to escape and return to his wife and children, J’onn damaged the ship's navigation system, and still bound to My'ria'h, the ship proved unable or unwilling to respond to his demands. Once rage subsided and grief set in, J’onn succumbed to his grief and entered a catatonic state. His unpiloted ship tore through space for millions of years before the Martian finally rose – and was forced once more to grieve for his lost loved ones.

Still the ship forced J'onn on an unwilling pilgrimage. Celestial bodies grew old and withered, passing from one life into the next, replaced by those with limbs less wizened by their eternal dance. Suns were born, died, and born again on planets whose inhabitants took their first mewling steps onto dry land and in a blink of an eye depleted those same planets of their resources. It was only when J’onn’s grief turned to rage that the Martian found meaning again. The Martian would wield the scythe. He would make those that razed Earths and murdered innocents fear him.

Once J’onn had entered into that deadly compact with himself the ship’s pilgrimage came to a halt. J’onn was not a superstitious man, but even he could not deny that he took the ship's stoppage as an endorsement for the lethal justice he intended to dole out. It would not be long before he learnt that striking a man’s mind with madness was a far more effective form of punishment than extinguishing their meagre lives.

All the while J’onn’s mind remained focused, determined. The passage of years were as nothing to a Martian. Thousands of years turned to millions and all the while the Martian's crusade continued. Empires rose, Skrull, Kree, and Shi’ar all fell at his hands in equal measure during their demented scramble for territory, and the toothless Green Lantern Corps, serving order whilst all the while claiming to defend justice, proved too enmeshed in politics to investigate J'onn's existence.

A deep and throaty alarm roused the Martian from his sleep. His green eyelids slid back and revealed red orbs resting in sunken sockets. “Existence,” J’onn thought to himself as his feet pushed the dark green liquid apart for a few moments. The Martian listed eerily through the liquid and his green arm passed through the hardened glass tube encasing him seconds before. One of J’onn’s huge green hands hit a switch and the tube began to drain leaving him stood covered in globules of swampish gunk. If it bothered J’onn he did not acknowledge it and instead calmly walked towards a monitor to assess his vitals.

They were good. What few wounds J’onn had taken on Jiden-V had healed without complications and it seemed that the little problem he had encountered on D’bari last month had gone. He reached his hand down to deactivate the monitor and stopped abruptly upon noticing something was amiss. Without warning, his hand had passed through the station. The Martian looked down at his hand, which in the last second or two had become faint, and tried to touch his fingers against one another with no success. Growing perturbed, J’onn looked to his other hand for confirmation that it was some trick of the mind but no such reassurance presented itself.

The Martian wasn't sure why or how it was happening but it appeared that he was phasing out of existence. There was only one person J'onn knew that might be able to help him. He let his ghostly hands fall to his sides and instructed his ship to change direction at once. <Denuvi-VII.>

_{Location: Central Kingdom - Earth 1349}

Post #3.00: Prologue

---

The quaint little town was silent as the night as the stranger arrived in the village. On horseback, his horse was big and strong, but old. It's once black mane had now turned gray from aging. He tied the horse to the post outside of the cottage that had a sign on the outside that said "Gazette Inn." Once, the Gazette had been a reputable establishment. One of the finest in the entire kingdom. The poets and writers would all gather there, to that mild degree that the news pamphlets were named after the inn. But, that was a long time ago. Before the war.

Before all of the destruction. He mused on the times past and a solemn sign escaped his lips.

The man wore a grey cloak that almost looked black. It was draped over his shoulders, covering almost all of his clothing, but the clanking of his steps betrayed that he was clad in armor. He walked into the inn, pushing the wooden door open with his left hand, the light bouncing off the dirty plate armor that adorned his chest. It was quiet. As it always was. A handful or so patrons, one barkeep who was sitting next to the bar, drinking a lukewarm ale. The man walked in and scanned the room. His eyes were weary. Tired. He hadn't slept in a long time. He knew well that even when he did, he wouldn't get much sleep anyway. There just wasn't enough time.

Time. Such an abstract concept that truly should have so little meaning. Times past, and times to come were all that occupied his mind, when he let it wander. Refocusing at the task at hand, he sized the barkeep up and the pudgy man, dressed in a butcher's apron that was a little dirty with spots of spilled beer got up out of his seat.

"Uh, oh, greetings Sir Knight. What can I do you for?" The barkeep asked the knight, whom sighed. Full-armor certainly didn't make stealth an option. He saw some ruffians in the back make a face upon the mention of the knight.

"An ale would do me just fine." He knight said, flipping a shimmering bronze coin onto the bar. The keep took it and grabbed the tankard, dunking it in the keg. Slamming the wet-glass onto the counter, the beer frothing. The knight took a swig and made a grimace. The ale was truly terrible. Tasted like shit. That's beer without any oats, he supposed. Harvest had gone to shit for the past five years.

"I've got a couple questions." The knight asked the barman who's eyes grew wider.
"Aye."
"I'm looking for a man. One James Jesse. A Rogue, cheat and scoundrel. He cheated me in a game of cards a few weeks back."
"Purple hair?" He barman asked, and the knight nodded.
"Aye. He was here a few days ago. Headed East, I think."
"East? There's nothing East." The knight told with an extra stern tone.
"Did I say East? I meant North. S-Sorry, times are tough, my mind is not what it used to be." The Barman corrected, sweat beading on his forehead. He wiped it off with his right hand, his sleeve rolling up as he did.

The knight noticed the black mark on the barman's hand and his grip on the beer loosened as he took a step back. "Right. I guess I better pursue Mr. Jesse, then." The knight said, making his way to the door, only to find two of the ruffians blocking the door. One of them was a head taller than the knight, the other about the same size.

"You shouldn't have poked your head where it don't belong. Knight. This isn't where you belong. You belong back behind those precious city walls." The thug mentioned, producing the long knife from his pocket. Twirling it in his hand. The knight scoffed.
The thug lunged at him, knife first, the knight took a step backwards, Upper-cutting the thug's elbow, breaking it immediately. His companion swung a knuckleduster at the knight, hitting him in the cheek, making him stumble backwards, where two more of the brigands had gotten up of their seat, one of them kicked the knight in his chester, the other swong his wooden club at him.

The club was dodged by an inch, stepping backwards the big guy guarding the door grabbed him by the hood, yanking him backwards. Pulling down the hood, revealing his ginger hair. From behind the barman, the trap-door to the attic opened a little. A crack. A crossbow peaked out and a bolt was let fly towards the knight's back. As the knife came at him from one direction, the bolt from another, and four very angry men attacking him. He found serenity. Quiet and peace.

God, he was tired of fighting. He was so tired of men being this stupid. Not seeing the big picture. How they'd try to kill him just for the chance to steal his armor and make a few gold. Not realizing the bigger picture. That the war wasn't over yet. It was only starting. That back east, the enemy was amassing their army and soon, it would all come crashing down. He fist-pounded the mark on his left shoulder as he was yanked backwards. And the room lit up. He caught the bolt and threw it back, hitting the purple-haired assassin in the chest, sending him falling down stairs to the attic. He dodged under the knive, drawing his own sword from his back, the blade being fitted in a reverse-sheath under his cloak. It was his short sword, his two-handed one resting on his horse.

In three strikes he had disemboweled the men, at a blinding speed where lightning filled the room and blood painted the walls. Their heads rolled, one guy got his arm cut off and then his leg. The other was cut in half and the last one simply got impaled. Painless, mercifull deaths.

Sometime ago, the Knight would've been sickened at this display of violence. But he wasn't the same kid as when he was knighted. He wasn't the squire who had spared brigands for the sake of redemption anymore. He was a soldier in a war that threatened everything. And defeat was never an option.

He cleaned his blade on his cloak and holstered it in it's sheath. Walking towards the panicked barkeep, whom was crawling backwards behind the barkdesk, only to be met with the body of the supposed bounty the knight was hunting, James Jesse - The Trickster laid there, the bolt lodged directly in his heart.

"W-Who the hell are you?!" The barman cried out as the knight extended his hand to him to pick him off the bloodstained floor.

"My name is Sir Wallace of the West. A Knight of the Riders Of Lightning, in service of the king. And I have to talk to you about the shadow who gave you that mark on your hand."

Leonardo and Raphael's footfalls echoed through the sewers of New York as they ran towards the place they were set to meet Donatello and the rest of their family. The two brothers had spent most of their lives in these sewers, and knew them like the backs of their shells. While anyone who came down here would be lost in the infinitely twisted labyrinth of stone, piping, and humid, stale air, the turtles moved through the space like rainwater after a storm. Each turn was made without thinking, each move to a level lower without hesitation.

It was good too, since they were being hunted.

"Any idea where these damn things came from?" Raph looked over at his brother as the two of them lept over a pipe in their way. Behind them, they could hear the tiny, metallic footsteps of their pursuers. While the sewers had seemed to stop them in their tracks for a short while, the robots had seemingly re-calibrated when Raph and Leo met up with one another, restarting the chase. "Don't seem like anything we'd see from the Dragons. Though they're the only ones with reason to send a bunch of murderbots after us!"

"Not important now," Leo responded, motioning towards the subway access hatch directly in front of them. "We get to Donnie, we see what he can do."

"For once having a mega nerd as a brother is gonna come in handy," Raph mused about their situation. "Who woulda guessed!?"

Leo looked over his shoulder for a moment as they approached the panel. What he saw gave him an even higher sense of urgency. A new battalion of the robots flowed forth around the nearest corner like an angry flood of snapping, metal jaws. Whatever had scrambled their circuits down here had clearly been cleared up, and they were back at their full ferocity. They rushed closer and closer as the two turtles unsealed the hatch and slipped in. As Leo closed and sealed the hatch behind him, the metal indented, showing the form of the teeth behind it. The metal seal began to buckle under the repeated blows of the unstopping automatons.

"You know, this reminds me of a Next Generation episode where the Borg-"

Raph cut Leonardo off, "Really? Now? We're gonna do this now?"

"I'm just sayin'," Leo shrugged and smiled sheepishly.

Before Raphael could display any more outward signs of frustration at how much of a geek his brother was, a loud rumble began to approach from down the subway tunnel. The rails nearest tot them vibrated in an unnatural way, and a pair of lights very much unlike anything either of them had ever seen on a subway car. To Leo they almost resembled the shape of the turtles' eyes when they were wearing their ninja masks. Donnie was nothing if not literal when he designed the thing.

The vehicle began to slow as it approached the two brothers, and the large mass of metal came to a sudden stop with a last jolt. Raph and Leo exchanged looks, both of their mouths hanging open in surprise. What stood in front of them was an old New York Subway car that had been completely painted over. Graffiti of the four turtles and Splinter adorned the outside, along with other various tags that Mikey had been trying out.

"We seriously need to sit Mikey down and remind him what 'ninja' means," Leo rubbed his temples as Raph chuckled.

The door to the car hissed open, and Splinter stood in the opening, offering his hands to his sons, "Come, Donatello says we must keep moving or we could be struck by a train."

"Comforting," Raphael sighed as they hopped on.

Before Splinter could close the door, the robots broke through the access panel. The metal door blasted against the side of the transport, and the little metal monsters clambered over one another to get to the mutants. Donatello threw the vehicle into gear, sending the three mutants stumbling to catch their balance. The subway car lurched forward, its wheels searching for a grip. It seemed as if it would never move, before it shot forward like it was launched out of a canon. Not fast enough, as two of the robots lept into the vehicle with them. One was smashed by Mike's weapon, while the other was skewered through its optical panel by Splinter's walking stick.

"Welcome aboard the Shellraiser, dudes!" Michelangelo exclaimed victoriously.

"We haven't agreed on that name!" Donnie called back from the control cabin of the subway car. He made his way back to them, and gingerly took the robot off the rat's staff. "If we have any chance of knocking these things out, I'm gonna need to see how this thing ticks."

"Uh, dude," Mikey threw a thumb over his shoulder at the controls, "who's driving?"

"The computer, of course," Donnie responded absentmindedly as he approached the workbench at the back of the moving train car. Leo looked around, and had to admit that Donnie had done one hell of a job on this thing. The small workbench was located next to Donnie's computer station. There was a small cot with some first aid supplies on the other side, and up front were chairs everyone could strap into if need be. "It runs on an automated program that compiles subway metadata running through the New York Transit system which-"

"Donnie, we talked about this," Leo sighed. "Short, easy to digest sentences."

"It talks to the other trains on the track to know when to turn," Donnie grumbled.

"Wait, didn't two of your test cars crash?" Raph panicked. "Two out of four? As in half?"

"Yea, sure," Don waved his worry away while he started to crack open the robot. "That's why I have a failsafe button. Someone just needs to pay attention and press the red button up front if it blinks."

"Sounds like a job for-" Mikey started.

"No!" everyone else responded in unity.

"Aw," Michelangelo's shoulders fell.

Splinter moved up to the cabin, nodding to the brothers as he did. Leo patted Donnie on the shoulder, "You gonna be able to figure this out, bro?"

The outer shell of the robot cracked open, revealing the complex circuitry inside. Donnie's hands worked like that of a surgeon, pulling out anything and everything he didn't need to do his job. He considered Leo's question, "Yea, but I'm going to need some time."

"Well, lets hope this piece of crap doesn't fall apart on us," Raph looked around at the vibrating train car.

Suddenly a loud thunk emanated from the roof, and Mikey slapped Raph on the shoulder, "Way to be a major jinx, bro."

Leo motioned towards the hatch on the top of the train. Raph and Mike boosted him up, allowing him to flip open the panel. On the other side, the robot was waiting for him. He quickly caught the robot by the neck, and tossed it into the side of the subway tunnel. He watched as it bounced along the concrete and fell to pieces, sparks flying through the darkness. But even as that one was taken care of, multiple new invaders fell from the roof of the tunnel.

He pushed himself onto the roof of the train, rolled, and unsheathed his swords as he came to his feet, slicing two in half as he did so. One fell from above him, and he sliced its head off before it hit the roof of the Shellraiser. Calling down to his brothers, he announced, "Gonna need some help up here! Looks like they're dive bombing us from some maintenance tunnels running above us! You keep working on the drones, Don!"

"Actually they're not drones. More like a cybernetic hive mind that-"

"No one cars, Donnie!" Raphael called down as he joined Leo on the roof. "Just shut 'em down!"

Michelangelo joined his brothers, spinning his nunchaku with vigor, "No joke, I totally had a dream that was just like this. But instead of robots, it was sewer alligators."

"Shut up and smash some robots, you dummy," Raph growled as he plunged his sai through the body of one of the robots. He spun and flung it off his weapon into two other bots, knocking them off the side of the train car. "Man, these tin cans are fun to smash."

The three brothers formed up around the rooftop entry hatch as more and more robots fell onto the vehicle and began to close in. The three of them knew that they had to give Donatello as much time as he needed to do whatever he needed to do. Wave after wave of robots came at them, and the brothers moved as if they were melded with one another. Leo slashed with his swords at ones that attempted to get withing Raphael and Michelangelo's shorter reach. Raphael used his brute strength to tear apart any that got by Leonardo's blades. Michelangelo used his uncharacteristic fighting style to move around the circle in flips and slides, drawing the robots off balance.

But Leo knew it wasn't going to be enough. For every one they struck down, it seemed like four more dropped down onto the Shellraiser's hull. He was getting tired. He figured Raph was as well. Mikey was always enthusiastic in a fight, but he was always sloppy. IF Raphael and Leonardo's proficiently sound fighting slipped, Mikey would get overwhelmed. It wasn't a good situation, and there was a good chance it was going to get worse.

"Uh, bros," Mike sounded worried. "Low bridge coming up fast."

Leo looked over his shoulder and saw that a station was indeed approaching, luckily with no train in it. But it was a low bridge. They wouldn't be able to stay on the roof.

"Father!" Donnie called. "Press the red button! It'll divert us from the station."

"Wait! Don't!" Leo called out to the two members of his family inside the train. "Stay on course!"

"Leo," Raph responded cautiously, "I'm not really keen to be tenderized tonight."

"We won't be," Leo assured him. He kept his eyes on the approaching wall, "Closer...closer...Now! Turtles! Hand six!"

With that, the other two mutants knew exactly where their leader was going with this. The three of them rushed to the back of the Shellraiser, cutting the robots down as they went. When they reached the edge, the slid off the side, grabbing the edge and hanging off the side. The wall ledge smashed into the robots on top of the train, pulverizing them into a blizzard of wires, metal, and circuitry. As the train blasted through the station, Leo almost laughed at the confused humans that watched it fly by in a blur.

"I hope someone throws that up on Tik Tok!" Mikey whooped.

The three pulled themselves back up to the top of the Shellraiser, and their smiles immediately melted away. The robots had already replenished their numbers. The three brothers looked at one another and sighed, readying their weapons.

Before the bots could attack, however, a spasm went through them like a wave. The little metal monstrosities all seized up before falling over, motionless. They all began to slide off the side of the train like penguins on those National Geographic specials Don loved. They all clanged and shattered on the floor of the subway.

"Donnie!?" Leo called down.

"Did they shut down!?" he asked. "I used this one's receiver transmitter to send a simple binary malware that initiated a complete system-"

"Are they gonna turn back on?" Raph cut Donatello off, knowing that he'd go on forever if he let them.

"Not for a while, no," Donnie confirmed. "In the meantime I'm gonna set up a surprise for them if they come into our sewers again."

"Hell of a job, Donnie," Leo smiled.

"Nerd power, bro," Raph agreed.

"Bros, I think this calls for a little deep dish action!" Mikey called out.

"Ugh," Splinter grumbled. "Kids."

The Shellraiser made for the Den, having an adventurous maiden journey. Leo felt pride in his family, but one thing still had him feeling uneasy. Whoever sent these things knew who they were, what they were. They sent incredibly advanced robots after his family, and the turtles had no idea who they were. Their enemies in the city were piling up, and they hadn't even begun to put a dent into any of them.

His family was in danger, and there was nothing that scared Leonardo more than that.

---

---

Using the suit was like riding a bicycle, Peter had pre-programmed every little move to control his speed into his muscles. Every twist of his shoulders to bring the weblines around and launch him deeper into the concrete jungle, the angle of his wrist as a new web stuck fast to nearby skyscrapers. It probably helped that the route was familiar -- out of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel like a rocket, hooking around the Empire State and driving down the same streets and over the same rooftops until it loomed in the distance. The Thompson Memorial Hospital.

As far as Peter could put together, it was owned by one L. Thompson Lincoln, a millionaire noted for his… skin condition. Speculation was that it was a little like what The Thing had, a slow degeneration into rock. Mister Lincoln was one of the few that managed to power through it and survive to adulthood. His daughter wasn’t so lucky. This Hospital was supposed to act as a research facility to help find a cure. Or at least something to lessen her suffering.

And instead Tombstone is using it as a Crimes R Us.

Spider-Man landed a rooftop away, hitting it at a roll and springing up to his feet. He perched on the roof’s ledge and stared across the gutter between buildings, surveying the Hospital’s roof. He couldn’t make out any Enforcers lying in wait, but then he hadn’t seen them the first time.

Not to mention that Speed Demon could just zip outside and cream my corn whenever he felt like it.

He needed another way in. If he had learned anything from Ben’s stay there, its that with Hospitals, there was always another way in. Different doors, wings, emergency exits, loading docks… But most importantly, most every room had a window.

Spider-Man stepped off the roof and into a swing, slipping above the mid-morning traffic without a whisper. He released in the air and dropped, heaving his momentum to the side and sticking fast to the Hospital’s walls. Long curving panes of glass and panels of stone passed as he wormed between windows, peeking a webbed head in to each occupant as he passed.

He passed a woman and her child, cooing and patting the newborn. He crawled on, past the maternity ward, and came to pediatrics, windows of children hacking their lungs out beside pictures of colorful cartoon animals. He passed on room where a Doctor cleaned a gaping wound on a boy’s neck. That would’ve been right where the MLF’s bugs had attached.

Peter shuddered and moved past, pushing up another few floors against the backdrop of stark white walls. He passed another room, a young woman holding an old man’s hand. Peter lingered, there, the black spot of his head and eye lenses sitting just above the windowsill. He watched the heart monitor tick through the glass. Bit by bit.

The next room he passed was the one he needed, empty, with torn paper laying off the end of the examination table. Probably wouldn’t be used again until the cleaning crew got sent in -- perfect. Peter’s fingers stuck to the window and the suit completed a seal, pressing down and sticking fast to the surface. He pulled and the lock came open with a pop.

Peter sluiced inside and sealed the door at the handle with a glob of webbing, before closing his eyes and settling into focus. He thought about the curvatures of his costume, how each individual fabric wound into every other. He thought about them stretching, elongating, the mask curling down from his face and weaving itself down into the fabric of a long white coat. He thought about the click of dress shoes against linoleum, and how the fluorescent lights seemed to bounce off the shoulders of each doctor that passed.

When Peter opened his eyes his Spider costume was gone, replaced with pale scrubs and a stark white labcoat overtop, where its inside was coated with the familiar inky darkness of the suit lined its inside. Peter moved to the door.

I’d like to see the Enforcers pick Spider-Man out of a lineup now… Peter twisted the handle. If security doesn’t make me for having no ID first…

Peter emerged into the bustle of the Thompson Memorial, flutters of labcoats sweeping by with eyes glued to medical diagnostics on clipboards, while techs wheeled in carts of equipment with practiced precision. Peter stepped into the throng and pushed past groups of med students and doddering patients being dragged by their IV stands.

The hospital seemed almost randomly arranged, linoleum tile giving way to carpet and back to blue and yellow tile at free random. Assortments of chairs lined each wall, half filled with medical techs trying to find a moment to enjoy their lunches. The most consistent element was the boilerplate, slate grey signage denoting each functionally identical office from the last. Peter looped through the hallway, backward and forwards, giving every janitor that passed the side-eye. Waiting for the moment one would have ‘CARRADINE, DENNIS’ printed on his lapel.

And then what, Parker? Bust him right there on the tile? Call down the goober Hospital guards and seven kinds of Enforcers on my head? If he’s even on staff today…

Peter massaged his temples and guided himself into one of the felt-backed chairs adjacent to an EKG lab. He could sweep every floor every day of the week and never run into what he was looking for. Hell, half of the staff did, and nobody seemed to be blowing any whistles. He needed to get closer to Tombstone’s operation.

How do you run organized crime out of a hospital? Not by operating openly on the main floor, that was for sure. Spider-Sense flared at the back of Peter’s mind like a dull headache. He stiffened.

“Hey, you one of the kids here on Certification Training?” A tech appeared out of the crowds in muted green scrubs. The steam from his coffee rose into half lidded eyes, like he expected the heat to knock him awake. Tattoos curled past his wrist and down his arm, into the folded mass of his scrubs. “Program Director went that way about five minutes ago, and you look… Lost.”

So much for a useful disguise, Parker… Maybe I can salvage this. The feeling of Spider-Sense remained, a weight behind Peter’s eyes, a lilt on the edge of his senses. He leaned into the feeling and scanned either side, then locked eyes with the tech.

“I’m actually here on the special assignment…” Peter raised his eyebrows, “for the boss.”

I’m boned.

The tech tilted his head, and a grin crept across his face. “You? Really? Aren’t you a little… young to be a Doctor?”

Not boned! Not boned!

Peter rolled his eyes. “Please! Tony Stark built a reactor at fifteen. Victor VonDoom --” The tech cut Peter off.

“Alright, alright. I’ll take you where you need to go, Doctor.” The tech waved him forward. Peter hopped up from his chair and fell into step with the tech, winding between gaggles of nurses and families clutching sick children.

They made the elevator. The doors parted to reveal it was empty, nothing but old metal and decrepit carpet, faintly echoing with royalty free music. The tech thumbed the ‘Close Doors’ button before anyone could join them, and began clicking each floor button in sequence, doubling back and skipping forward as he desired.

The elevator panel is a keypad? Did I stumble into a James Bond flick?

The music clicked off as the tech finished his entry, and he resigned to the back of the elevator. Gears hummed and metal shook as the elevator began its descent, trundling down and past each floor of the Hospital.

Peter’s Spider-Sense grumbled, the weight of it sweeping from the back of his eyes to his whole head. The hammer of a gun clicked behind him. Peter saw the tech’s handgun in the polished metal of the elevator’s walls, and raised his hands.

Well… I could’ve seen this coming.

“Boy detective beat is not working out for you, kid.” The tech kept the gun trained on Peter’s body, and used his other hand to pick at his teeth.

“You think? I did get this far.” Peter looked back at him over his shoulder, sizing the distance between them. The tech shrugged.

“I could make you from a mile away. You don’t even know who you’re supposed to be impersonating. That lab coat hardly fits you.” He gestured with his gun as he spoke, waving it in the air. Overconfident. Peter let himself dip lower, gathering his strength in his legs.

“Oh? Well, let me slip into something more comfortable.” Peter flipped backwards in the air and his costume started to change, labcoat melting against his body. The tech’s words choked in his throat and he jerked the gun up to meet Peter’s trajectory, but it was too late. A ball of webbing knocked the weapon from his hands and Peter was on top of him, costume already twisting up his torso and shoulders.

Peter slammed his palm into the man’s temple and he collapsed, pitching forward to the ground. Spider-Man caught him with a webline and hoisted the man into his arms. Peter heaved and pushed him up and out of the elevator’s hatch, leaving him in a heap on the roof, beside whirling gears and rotating hoist ropes.

Peter compressed his body against the roof of the elevator, pressing his legs out and swallowing all of the elevator’s light, drenching it in darkness as it continued its descent. Peter’s lenses stayed locked on the door as the elevator ticked down through each floor, a yellow light filtering down through the number-shaped cutouts. Five. Four.

Peter’s eyes closed and he reached out with his senses, tuning each fibrous strand of his costume to the thrum of the elevator’s gears and workings, sensing out to the Hospital beyond. Every squeak of sneakers and dress shoes across linoleum rippled across the placid surface of his mind, sending goosebumps up and down his arms. Peter sucked his breath in through his teeth and squeezed himself back against the elevator until he felt the cold metal pressing against his skin. Deeper.

There was something else, something below hacking coughs and clicking pens. Ungreased cart wheels whined through open hallways, echoing off of unfinished walls. The hard clack of magazines into gunmetal, and the groan of shifting crates. Dozens of heartbeats reverberating through the elevator shaft. The elevator dinged as it passed below the first floor. A sub-basement. Peter sensed two presences outside of the doors, steady heartbeats and the scratch of bored fingers against a rifle.

Peter’s eyes slid open in sync with the elevator’s doors. The sub-basement stretched forth a dozen meters before curving off into two paths, with raw cut concrete walls that ended in a crudely arched ceiling. Both elevator guards turned in unison to the opening doors, and both were met with sprays of webbing to the face, sealing to their skin, pulling them inside. They screamed impotently as Peter worked, spinning them into webbed cocoons and depositing them the same place he’d left the first man. They’d be fine… Probably.

Peter stepped past the threshold of the elevator and the doors sealed behind him, winding back up to the reaches of the Hospital. Industrial lights whirred in the background, casting the rough concrete in gaunt shadows and hard casts of bright. Peter stepped between the beams, superhuman fingers suturing themselves to the walls as he began his crawl along the ceiling.

How long has this been here?] Peter crawled forward, winding down the echo chamber he found himself in. Each corner he took brought him to another labyrinth, multitudes of tunnels spinning out to every direction. Like Tombstone’s personal sewer system.

How long until they install a map? He was coming to something now, something beyond the raw architecture of the winding tunnels. This was something finished, with walls reflecting the glare of more permanent lights, and the ringing blare of a reversing truck.

A loading dock? Peter emerged from the tunnels, concrete merged haphazardly with white facade walls. The new room swept out from him, and a menagerie of weapon-toting men patrolled the floor in patterns. Two unmarked eighteen wheelers laden with boxes sat at entryways, blocking what sunlight spilled in.

Peter stole through the opening and launched himself up the wall, weaving through supports and beyond the range of the security cameras on the far wall. He hid in the corner, beneath the fire suppression nozzles dotting the high ceiling. Men with dollies wheeled crates from truck to truck and to red steel shelving units lining the dock, brimming with crates and boxes.

What are they moving? Guns? Rare amiibos? Peter stuck fast to the ceiling, moving his vantage point, when the far pair of double doors flew open. Three men entered, one after the other, the first two sealed in black combat gear, with a third hulking member at their rear sporting a black tee stretched across his frame. Spider-Sense ripped across Peter’s mind like hundreds of insectoid legs, running. Enforcers.

Megawatt headed up the pack, yellow belt still sealed around his waist and seemingly sautered into the rest of his gear. Speed Demon was in step behind him, fidgeting with the goggles over his eyes. Just as quickly he wasn’t, instead zipping across the room on feet Peter couldn’t track, inspecting each thug’s progress. Kangaroo hung back, each of his plodding footsteps reverberating through the room like church bells.

“Mister Leydon.” Peter picked the voice out from the noise, one man breaking formation and stepping before Megawatt, bowing his head. “Doctor Harrow’s contact came through, sir. The formula, as promised. This is from a full shipment’s worth.” The man offered a vial, murky green and dotted with translucent spots clean through. Peter’s muscles squeezed. He’d seen those vials. Where?

Megawatt considered it in his hands, against the black fabric of his costume. “Tell Mister Morbius he’s done well.”

Megawatt’s lips kept moving but Peter couldn’t hear it over the thumping in his ears. Mister Morbius. The words echoed in his head. Michael at the lab after hours, his fights with the Doctor… The formula. Doc’s formula.

“... and tell him that Tombstone expects more next week.” Megawatt finished, dropping the vial back into the thug’s waiting hands. Peter dropped like a weight from the ceiling, slamming like a load of bricks onto one of the eighteen wheelers, crumpling its shipping container on impact.

“Guess again, super goons.” Two weblines trailed from Peter’s hands to the far reaches of the ceiling. His costume swelled, pulling his muscles with it, guiding him into place. “There won’t be a next week for you.”

“Spider-Man!” Speed Demon was moving before the rest had a chance to react, a red blur firing himself over crates and debris and bowling over every lackey in his path, but it was too late. Peter pulled and the fire nozzles above were wrenched free, sprawing gouts of water to the floor below. Speed Demon screamed as he lost his footing on the water-slick ground and hydroplaned, careening into a score of thugs.

“You.” Megawatt was next, gathering a ball of lightning in his hand, lines of power coalescing into one form. At once, they arced free, conducting from each water droplet to its neighbors.

“Slow your roll, Megawatt,” Peter leaped into the air, firing a webline, “or else all your boys are in for a shock.”

“Oliver! Take him!” Megawatt turned on his heel as the electricity died in his palm. Kangaroo stepped forward and Megawatt darted past. Making for the Fire Suppression Control, doubtlessly.

“Already squashed you once, Spydah.” Kangaroo crouched, legs as thick around as Peter’s chest coiling for a leap. Peter dropped from his line at the last second of Kangaroo’s spring. The other man rocketed forward and above Peter, kicking at the empty air, before the missile of his body collided with the steel storage structures. Weakened metal folded around Kangaroo’s body, crumpled, and collapsed, sending out sprays of barrels and cracked crates.

“Where’s the formula!?” Peter had tagged a goon with a strand of his web before the thought had crossed his mind, costumed glove snapping to the back of his target and reeling him in. The thugs were in disarray, running among the debris, dragging their fellows out from beneath the ruined mass of the shelving unit. It felt good.

“I don’t -- I don’t know! Please!” The goon kicked, whiteknuckled around the webline that dragged him up by his chest.

“You don’t?” Peter’s hand opened before he could think, willing the fabric of his costume to wrench his fingers apart. The webline dropped and the man screamed, plummeting below. Peter sucked in a breath and tapped his wrist again, grabbing the man out of the air.

“Please!” He groveled, twisting in the open air. “Crushed! Under the boxes! Please!”

Peter shook his head. Why did I…? Then, another sound, over the din of rushing water over concrete. Speed Demon.

“Put him down before I put you down, asshole!” Speed Demon visibly vibrated on the spot. The water collecting at his feet shook as one, like Speed Demon was a wave machine. His legs cracked and he was off, one leg pushing him off the ground and into the sky. Each kick ripped through the air as fast as lightning, each strong enough to bound from one group of water droplets to the next. Running on rain.

No formula. Peter stuck the man’s webline to the ceiling and pivoted. He slung a web, swinging off at an angle, and fired back at Speed Demon but the man cut his globules of webbing from the air, destroying them with vibrating fists.

No Carradine. Peter swung up to the ceiling, muscles guided by his costume, inseparable from his skin. Peter’s fists came up in balls, carving stone hunks out of the ceiling and heaving them at Speed Demon. The speedster sidestepped them, pinging through the air like a pinball.

But I do have Michael Morbius. Peter could feel the costume around his neck and his wrists, every inch of fiber beating with the thumps of his heart. Kangaroo was roused by now, stumbling from the ruins, shirt in tatters. Speed Demon still launched through the air like a drunken tiger, making awkward lunges in step with each gout of water.

And any minute Megawatt will make it three on one again. Peter needed his exit. He swung and released. Fabric across his chest shifted and pulled, adjusting the angle of his chest and avoiding the edge of Speed Demon’s fist as he bounced past. Kangaroo was ready for another jump but Peter hit the trucks first, rolling across the caved in shipping container and leaping past it into the light that spilled in beyond.

The city air hit him all at once, choking garbage and smog mixed with a breeze carried in from Central Park. He heard the booms of Kangaroo’s kicks behind him, echoing through the structure and out into the road. Peter had emerged from an office building, cluttered into the same plaza as the Hospital. He swung out and up, dragging himself into the sky. He spared a glace backwards as Speed Demon rushed out, soaked to the bone, eyes darting all over for Spider-Man, but Peter was beyond their reach now, already a block away.

Peter’s mind raced, and his costume guided his hand, sending him running over buildings and flinging himself between rooftops. So much of Connors research, stolen. Brought to Tombstone. Connors’ work. Gwen’s work. Peter’s work.

Enforcers can wait. His costume pushed him harder with every footstep, sending him exploding ahead. I'm coming for you, Morbius. I’m coming.

Uncharted Space

The inscetoid beast scuttled across the surface of the thick forest. Each step seemed to be more laborious than the one before. Pale, purple blood oozed out the wound on its side and it wheezed with every breath it took. The blood falling left a trail through the forest. It couldn't comprehend it, but it was leading its attacker right to it. It was being hunted, and the hunter was rapidly approaching.

It wrapped its tentacles around the trunk of a tree and began to shimmy up it. If it acted fast enough it could either hide or ambush the hunter as it came through the thicket. The beast snapped its razor sharp mandibles and watched with its slit eyes as the hunter came through the bushes. The hunter kept their eyes down to follow the blood trail. The beast's eyes

The animal jumped from its branch and let out a high-pitched scream. The hunter looked up and, with its eyes wide in shock, thrust forward with its weapon. A bright emerald lance shot from the hunter’s fist and impaled the beast in its forehead. The monster gurgled and twitched in its death throes as the hunter let it fall to the ground at his feet.

“Fuck,” Guy Gardner said aloud. “You better be one tasty space squid.”

---

Guy watched the fire cooking the alien animal’s body on a stick. He figured it would be his first hot meal in several weeks, at least since he’d arrived on this planet. His pack lay on the ground beside him along with a hatchet. The hatchet was made from Vibranium, one of the strongest metals in the galaxy. He'd acquired it over the course of his travels, traded for it with another wanderer out here in this part of space. Tied to his pack were Guy’s canteen and his Lantern battery. The pack contained everything he needed for his mission. Two years worth micro-freeze dried meals, a star chart, blankets, a few Richard Stark paperbacks, and Guy’s favorite Ravens knitted hat.

He cut off a piece of space squad with the hatchet and tried it out. It was chewy but edible. Could have used some Old Bay. But, fuck, what food out here couldn’t be improved by it? After dinner, he settled in and rested his power ring close to his mouth.

“Record transmission: Gardner’s log,” he said into the ring. “Day… 432. Jesus Christ, it’s been that long? Anyway, Pinkie -- you like that I call you Pinkie and you can’t do anything about it? -- I’ve been on this planet almost three weeks now and haven’t seen any clues that this is the one. I’m planning on heading out after I rest. I found out the hard way that these star charts you provided me with are a bit outdated… by like several millennia, but I have a rough outline of where to go. There should be some kind of civilization about three days transluminal burn from here. We’ll see if that intel is good or not when I get there. More news as it develops. Gardner out.”

Guy held his fist into the air and fired the message overhead. The green bolt of energy tore through the night sky before it disappeared in a flash of light. It would probably take a week or two to arrive on Oa. By then… who the hell knew where he would be? He took another bite of meat and scratched his face. His beard was coming in nicely. Before long he would have real mountain main facial hair.

After he slept, he rose and packed up after dousing the campfire. Guy strapped on his pack and looked up at the still dark sky. He stared up at the foreign stars above and thought about where he’d come and where he was going. He was outside his home galaxy, that much he knew. He was on the outer edges of somewhere new, somewhere people had explored a long time ago but hadn’t since.

He was following maps and guides that were ancient in search of some lost planet. This was probably a wild goose chase, but Guy didn’t really care. He was a long way from Baltimore and it didn't matter to him if he ever saw it again. He was home now. Out here on the frontier, living the dream. With a smile on his face, Guy let the green aura cover his body as he shot up into the sky and left this small planet behind for whatever else lay in store for him out in the void.

---

Oa
Space Sector 0001

Kilowog led the pack of Lantern trainees through space in a flying V formation. At a few hundred miles away from Oa’s surface, they were the furthest in space Kilowog had allowed them to venture thus far.

“Alright so you can fly,” he shouted to the group as the followed in his wake. “Congratulations on mastering the bare minimum, Slicks. Let’s see if you can actually do two things at once. Where’s my bright penny. Al-X?”

“Yes, sir,” the small pink-skinned Lantern answered from the back.

“Why do I call you poozers ‘Slicks’?”

“Our chests and rings,” said the young alien. “There’s no Green Lantern logo on either of them.”

“We have to earn it,” said the Daxamite trainee.

“I didn’t tell you to speak, Yat,” Kilowog growled. “But since you’re so eager, I have a question for you. What are the official Lantern designations?”

“Alpha, Beta, Gamma,” said Yat.

“Wyrm?” Kilowog shouted to the insectoid Slick over his shoulder. “How about you explain the difference.”

The cockroach-like alien rubbed his hands together before speaking. “Gamma Lanterns' purview is only to patrol and protect their assigned space sectors. A beta Lantern oversees their own sector as well as the six immediate space sectors surrounding their own. They supervise the Gamma Lanterns in those sectors. Alpha Lanterns oversee hundreds of space sectors and the Lanterns beneath them. The Alpha Lanterns answer to the three Senior Lanterns, who answer to the Guardians.”

“Not bad,” Kilowog grunted. “And are all of you Slicks content to be Gamma Lanterns?”

“No!” They shouted in unison.

“Well, show me what you got!”

Kilowog began to steer into a nearby asteroid field.

“Fall in behind me,” he shouted behind them.

The trainees formed into a single file formation as Kilowog picked up the speed. The asteroid field was as old as the planet Oa and the GLC itself. Every Slick took their first flight through the field. Its debris was spaced out far enough to not seriously harm any but the most inept Slick, but not far enough apart to offer any sense of comfort. Kilowog looked back at his charges and flashed a wicked grin.

“Try to keep up,” he said. “And sing me a lovely tune while you do.”

The pack of Lanterns flew into the asteroid field. Kilowog went faster as his group of Slicks began to sing the song that was Corps legend at this point, handed down by recruits from generation to generation for thousands of years.

“I wanted a ring ‘til I got the godsdamn thing.
Now I don't want it anymore.
They taught me how to fly, then they sent me off to die.
You can save those dangers for some other stupid rangers.
I wanted a ring ‘til I got the godsdamn thing.
Now I don't want it anymore!”

---

Venkoth
Space Sector 2813
72 Hours Until Solar Apogee

Tomar-Re and Arisia jumped out of transluminal speed and made their way to the surface of Venkoth. Winds in excess of two hundred miles an hour roared across the surface of the planet. It took every bit of their willpower to keep themselves on course for the rendezvous spot. As far as Arisia could see, the entire planet was dead. No water, no flora, and certainly no fauna.

"Where is everything?"

"The wind," said Tomar-Re. "With the solar equinox imminent, tt's a pale imitation of it at its height. Wind that blows so fiercely nothing can grow on the surface, wind so fierce it strips the flesh from the bones of everything that dares to land here."

Arisia nodded without comment.

“Is this your first time coming to Venkoth?” Tomar-Re asked politely.

“It is,” she said as they touched down in the dirt. The wind howled so loudly they could only communicate through the comms in their rings.

"But not your last. That much I can promise."

She followed him across the sand towards what looked to be a shack. How it was still standing in this wind was beyond her. As they got closer she saw why hadn't succumbed to the wind. It was rusty and dusty, but the entire building was metal. Tomar-Re banged a fist on the thick metal door and waited. A slot in the door slowly opened and an electronic eye surveyed the two Lanterns.

“Tomar-Re, Lantern 2813.1.”

“Arisia Raab, Lantern 2815.2. I believe we are expected.”

The eye retreated back into its slot. There was a whirring noise from the door and it shot open quickly. They stepped through and it slammed shut behind them. They were in a small room with yet another metal door. A laser scanner swept over them several times before the second door opened. A group of five aliens in black uniform greeted them. Four held blasters down low while the fifth spread his four arms wide as way of greeting.

“Welcome, Lanterns, to Venkoth.”

They followed the group of guards down a sloped catwalk towards a bulkhead. Arisia glanced down and saw nothing but darkness below.

“The drop is about twenty-five thousand feet,” said the guard. “In the event of an emergency, this catwalk will drop and cut off any attempted escapes. Not our last line of defense, but pretty damn close.”

"The wind is the real deterrent," said one of the guards, this one seemingly older and more gruffer. "I've seen fourteen runners since I been here. Not a one last more than a minute out in that wind."

At the bulkhead of the corridor was another reinforced door. All five guards took turns scanning their palms against the surface of the door.

“You need at least three confirmed biorhythmic readings to get passages to open around here.”

The door hissed as it swung on its hinges. The guards went first with the two Lanterns following behind. They stepped out on a landing. Stretched out before them was a floor that went on for miles. Gray jumpsuit clad prisoners could be seen as far as their eyes could see.

“Welcome to gen pop,” one of the guards said over the noise. “Population: sixty-five million.”

“We need your special ward,” said Tomar-Re. "Isolation, protective custody. Whatever you call it."

“Who are you here for?” one of the guards asked.

"A threat big enough to require two Lanterns," said Arisia.

A look from Tomar-Re silenced him. A hover shuttle arrived and they boarded it. The shuttle passed above the prison floor. Arisia looked out at the prisoners. So many all together, packed in close.

“Where did they all come from?”

“All over,” said Tomar-Re. “Venkoth houses the worst offenders galaxy-wide. I don’t understand how they're behaving so well..”

“Fear and discipline,” said one of the guards. “We give them a healthy dose of both here. None of these guys are getting off this planet alive, so we have to make them far more scared of us than they are of death.”.

Arisia caught a few of the looks from the prisoners as they flew above them. She was a Graxosian and her people were known for their empathic abilities. While she had far less sensitivity than other Graxosians, bu she had enough to read the emotion's of the prisoners below. She felt no fear from them, saw no fear in the eyes of the men. She only felt rage. Murderous, burning rage. And she could feel more anger, a powerful rage, somewhere off in the distance. But they drew closer with every passing second. The shuttle began to dip as they went deeper under the surface of the planet and deeper into the prison. The large spaces gave way to narrow corridors. They flew below a sign that read: SUPERMAX WARD, SPECIAL CLEARANCE ONLY.

The shuttle landed at a docking bay. Another round of guards scanned them and gave them the okay before another set of guards led them through tight rows of cells. Arisia could feel eyes watching her as they ventured further in. More thoughts of murder, mayhem, and other unspeakable acts.

A small, furry alien in expensive clothing waited for them outside one particular cell. He grasped his taloned hands tightly as the two Lanterns approached.

“Greetings,” he squeaked. “I am the warden here, I am always happy to meet fellow law enforcement officers.”

“Is this his cell?” Tomar-Re asked without greeting the warden.

“It is. We have restrained him and made him ready for his journey.”

The warden stepped aside and let two guards open the cell door. They disappeared inside and emerged several seconds later pushing a hover gurney. A hulking alien monster was strapped to the gurney and stared down at the two Lanterns with a neutral look. Arisia could feel that this was the source. All the rage that swept through the prison started here. This was its epicenter, the root cause of the cancer.

“Atrocitus,” said Tomar-Re. “For crimes against the galaxy, the Galactic Council has seen fit to sentence you to life imprisonment in the Oan sciencells. Do you have anything to say about your crimes and the massacre of Sector 666?”

“Let me out of here,” Atrocitus hissed.



“Let me out of here and I’ll do it again. Burn… I will burn… this entire galaxy. Set it all on fire...”

The next morning, Steve rapped gently on the door where Rogue had been placed to rest, hoping that the girl was in the mood to talk. After his discussions with Xavier, and what he figured was about to come down the pipeline, they needed to talk about what came next. His idea of leaving her at the school had gone out the window last night when they laid waste to an orphanage and a downtown of an American city. She'd be marked. He was sure of it. Whoever had abducted her and experimented on her was going to go all out to make life difficult for them. Leaving her here would put a target on the school's back, and Steve couldn't allow a safe haven to be in danger.

"Come in," the young' mutant's voice came from the other side. Rogers was relieved to hear that she didn't seem all that down.

Entering, he found her writing in a journal at the desk in the room, looking into the morning light flooding over the school grounds. The strands of white hair fell over her face as she stared down to the paper, scribbling furiously. Without looking up, she asked, "So you leavin'?"

"Yea," he leaned up against the window. Outside, on the basketball court, two mutants were playing one-on-one. A smaller boy dribbled around the larger one, before leaping nearly ten feet off the ground, going for a spectacular dunk. Before he could do so, however, the other boy's arm extended and smacked the ball away. The two of them began laughing. It was a beautiful moment between two kids, just being kids. It was still baffling to Steve that people saw these kids as abominations. That they didn't deserve to live their lives like all kids did. That they were a threat. Or, in the case of Rogue, that all they were good for was experimentation.

For all the ways the world had improved and grown since he went into the ice, it was startlingly similar in the worst corners of men's minds. It seemed like all it would take was a push to send things back to how they were when he first became Captain America. That's what he needed to fight against. To make sure humanity stayed far, far away from the brink.

Rogue's head snapped up, bringing his attention back from outside. He saw her eyes were fiery balls of determination, "I"m coming with you. After what we saw last night you can't leave me here. They murdered my family. Experimented on me. Ain't no way I'm-"

"Relax," he shook his head. She was so much like he was back when Erskine had found him. Ready to through all caution to the wind and dive headfirst into anything that would allow him to fight in what he believed in. She was young than he was at the time, but he probably would have been the same way. "You're coming with me. After last night, you can't stay here."

"Seriously?" she asked, stunned by how easy that was.

"Seriously," Rogers nodded. "But it's not gonna be easy. You're gonna have to train. Every day. It's not gonna be fun. We'll probably be on the run. Constantly."

"Sounds fun," Rogue smiled mischievously. That was what he was worried about. She was impulsive. She was a thrill seeker. He was certain she wasn't going to listen to orders. That would lead to problems. But if she was willing to learn, she'd be a good teammate.

He smirked beside himself, "Come on. Xavier and Summers want to have a chat with me. I think the blue furry scientist is gonna want to sit down with you."

"Wait what?"

_{All The Rest Of Us}

Issue Three: Storm

---

John twists and turns and rolls beneath his blanket as he tries to get comfortable stretched across Chas’ sofa. He has a pillow, which is an immediate improvement to his past sleeping arrangements, and the blanket is thick, and heavy, and keeps him warm against the cold morning air. He takes these small blessings and uses them as a shield against his sore back and stiff neck. He curses beneath his breath and gives up, sitting up proper on the sofa and gathering up his blanket around his shoulders. Morning light drifts lazily through half-pulled curtains and John takes a big deep breath of cool, fresh air, free from the stink of rubbish, dirty laundry, cigarette ash and stale beer. He feels awake, more rested than he has been in weeks, and the clarity of his consciousness strikes him unprepared. John realises the difference slowly, but with deep remorse when he does: he is not hungover.

From the kitchen he hears metal and ceramic clattering and then low, harsh swears. He stands from the sofa, clinging to his blanket as his modesty’s only protection, and slowly pads across the living room to the doorway. He peeks around the wall and is greeted by the back of Chas, rooting around in a feral, feverish manner. He tears through drawers and cupboards with animalistic abandon, while occasionally rubbing at his wet hair with what John can now see is a tea-towel. Chas is obviously searching for something. John clears his throat and Chas jumps and swears louder, but turns around to see John giving him a small, awkward wave with one hand while the other holds up his blanket.
“You alright there, chuck?” John asks, giving a nervous half-smile. Chas turns around to continue searching while he replies.
“Lookin’ for the damn kettle. Can’t start my day without a decent cuppa down my gullet. But uh, the missus appears to not be here anymore, along with a bunch of my STUFF!”
John jumps as Chas suddenly yells in frustration.
“Including the kettle, which I know she only took to spite me. And all the lamps. And all the towels!” He pulls on the damp tea-towel hanging around his neck as he explains. John can’t help but smirk.
“Why’d she run out on ya? You seem a nice enough fella.”
Chas gives up looking, and instead pulls out a metal cooking pot and fills it with water from the tap.
“Petty squabbles, mostly. Fightin’ over this and that, and then over fightin’. Big one was my mother, as the hag always is. Disagreements on how much participation in her ongoing care we should have.”
“I’m sorry about that. Can’t be easy to choose between family and romance.”
Chas shrugs, turning the stove on and setting the pot of water on top.
“Ah, she made it clear well enough before I left that she wouldn’t be here when I got back if I went. God knows what made me choose me mam over her. Spite. Same as why she took the kettle.”
“Spite is a strong motivator.” John agrees, half-musing. Chas just nods, and then takes two mugs and sets them on the counter-top. He fetches two tins, one filled with coffee and one with teabags, and points them both at John. John points at the teabags, and Chas prepares both mugs.

Chas talks as he waits for the water in the pot to start bubbling.
“I took the liberty of chucking your stuff in the tumbler while you was sleepin’. Don’t mean to be rude but, I noticed the stains.”
John rolls this around in his head, deciding if he’s offended or not. He isn’t. He does gesture to the blanket that’s still covering him, though, and Chas waves it away.
“Don’t worry about that - I put some clothes out in the bathroom you can borrow. Probably be a bit big on your scrawny bum but should suit you well enough for now. And here-” Chas throws John a fresh tea-towel, which he catches in one hand while nearly fumbling the blanket in the other- “feel free to take a shower if’n you want to. Cuppa’s’ll be up soon enough.”
John chuckles and thanks Chas, feeling that warm swell in his chest again towards this man who is quickly becoming the closest companion he has ever had, and turns around to hobble off down the hallway in the direction of the shower. The time he spent at home among his and his father’s shared filth managed to numb his somewhat to the grime and dirt that had built up around him; but now, as he walks down the hallway and takes the first left into the bathroom, he locks the door behind him and can feel the grease and sweat coming alive across his body, crawling up and down his skin and matting his hair to his scalp. The thought of scalding water to viciously blast away this slime feels divine.

John drops the blanket in the furthest corner of the bathroom from the shower and steps over the rim of the bath, pulling the curtain across behind him. He stares at the knobs, spends a moment to work out which does what, and then twists and pulls and is assaulted by ice-water upon his forehead which cascades down his chest, gives him a shiver as it passes by his nether regions, and then slowly dribbles down his calves as it warms up and flattens the goosebumps on his arms. The room quickly fills with steam as John enjoys the hot water bouncing off his scalp and forming rivulets down his back. He pushes his head back and lets the water fill his vision with myriad psychedelic patterns and colours through closed eyes. The shower cleanses him physically and spiritually; he wiggles his toes as memories of Ravenscar swim in and out of his mind.


John pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes as he wills these memories away. It does him no good to dwell on dark times. He has done too much of that already. He grabs the sponge and washes his body down in the warm water, feeling that old bubbling despair in his belly but not letting it take advantage. The water washes away his grime and grit and takes some of his anguish for good measure as well. He survived the darkness, and he will not allow himself to be undone by its echoes.

John exits the shower feeling like a man wading towards the river banks. The tea towel, though inadequate for the task at hand, still performs admirably despite its shortcomings, and John is only lightly moist as he slips on the clothes Chas left for him atop the toilet cistern: a pair of simple dark gray slacks, and a plain white button-up shirt. The trousers fit him around the waist, although are an inch or two too long in the leg, and the shirt hangs off his malnourished frame in a conspicuous manner. John tucks it in tight to the trousers and rolls the sleeves up until they rest comfortably at his elbows, but as he looks at himself in the mirror - gaunt face with cheekbones sticking out and eyes shadowed, his hair back to its natural spiky stark blonde with all its grease washed out, and the shirt loose around the collar with room in the gut - John is struck with the image of a boy wearing his father’s suit to a funeral. He cuffs the trousers, which haphazardly resolves the length issue, and decides to be grateful for the shirt, rather than bitter that the borrowed clothes of a man maybe a foot taller than him do not fit like a tailored suit.

John leaves the bathroom, wet tea towel in hand, and re-enters the front room. The curtains have been pulled back to allow the light fully in, although a familiar pit-pat upon the glass signals yet another day of rain. Chas sits on the sofa sipping at a cup of dark tea from a stained mug, John’s mug next to him on the table. Steam drifts lazily up. Chas’ free hand is wrapped in the tea towel he had been using to dry his hair. John points at it, arching an eyebrow instead of verbalising the question.
“Spilled some water as I was makin’ the tea. Cooking pots aren’t traditionally used for cuppa’s. Yours is all made up - no milk or sugar though, I’m afraid. Think the missus took those too.”
John waves the apology away and takes a seat next to Chas on the sofa. He cups the mug of tea in both hands, enjoying the warmth radiating into his palms, takes a deep breath of the vapours as he brings the ceramic to his lips. The tea is earthy and pure and opens up his sinuses, and the taste splashes across his tongue as he gulps it down, warm and grounded and calming. John is blown away at how wonderful the flavour is, and realises that it is because this is the first liquid past his teeth in the last fortnight that is neither lukewarm lager or pop that’s more voddy than cola.

A wave of self-loathing washes over John and he gags silently, masking the dry-heave in a throaty cough to save face in front of Chas. He left Ravenscar with Cheryl’s memory like a crystal bauble hanging in his mind, a reminder to do right and do better, to look after himself, to believe he deserved to be cared for and loved. Instead he’d gone home via the local offy and spent his meager release bursary on the most efficient alcoholic-units-for-money he could muster and drank away the rest of the day shut up in his childhood bedroom. Thomas was aware but he simply didn’t care. He had wasted 2 weeks engaging in below-petty crime to avoid sobriety at all costs. He hadn't even thought of his sister until he rediscovered the photo two days ago. He failed himself. He failed Cheryl.

It’s not failing if you learn, Johnny.

John whips his head around at Chas, anger and disbelief in his eyes.
“What did you just say to me?!” John demands. Chas is frozen mid-sip, eyes wide and carefully considering the situation. He puts his mug down slowly before he responds.
“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”
“You just called me Johnny. No one calls me Johnny.”
“I didn’t call you anythin’! I didn’t call you, simple as!”
John pauses and Chas studies his face.
“You okay there chuck? You’ve come over all dewy-eyed…”

John turns his head away and fiercely rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands, pushing tears away before they fall.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” John stands up, jostling the table in his haste. He quickly scans the room, not sure what he’s looking for. His breathing and heartbeat are high tempo and getting out of control and he can feel his cheeks blushing from the rush of blood to his head; he kneels down, pushing a hand beneath the sofa and coming out with the pills he had stashed there last night, out of sight from Chas for fear of stigma and shame. John sits back down and quickly takes his dosage with the dregs of his tea, trying to calm his mind. He startles when Chas lays a firm hand on his shoulder. John looks at him for a brief moment, and then takes a few deep, racking sobs before ceasing just as sharply, head buried in his hands as Chas delivers a few reassuring pats.

“You’re alright lad. Just a passing storm.”

Oslo // Midgard
^{Coulsons Questions by @HenryJonesJr}

The small man sat opposite Thor, two collections of parchment sat atop the table that was between them. One bore the insignia of this ‘S.H.I.E.L.D’ that this Agent Phil Coulson belonged to while the other one bore another, the other appeared to be a much older file one that he could barely read. Had the mortals of this realm truly forgotten how the ways of the nine realms worked? When an Asgardian showed up on Midgard there was some mighty foe in need of smiting. Yet they seemed to have a way on how to do things.

Thor had decided he would play along with this small man, at least for the time being. There was still information he sought.

“We are wasting time with your games little man. I shall humor you little man, ask your questions quickly so we may begin our quest to discover this threat to the nine realms.”

“Yea, yea. Grave threat to the realm. I’m sure Gandalf will want to know. You hit your head or something when you teleported out of whatever Renaissance Fair you came from?”

“Who is this-” Before Thor could finish discovering where he could find this ‘Gandalf’ the impatient little man began again.

“Anyway, how does the hammer work out there? Some sort of tech that imprinted on you?”

“Mjolnir was forged within the fires of a dying star out of Uru, the strongest metal known to all beings by the dwarves of Nidavellir, enchanted by Odin so that only whoever is worthy may lift it and within it the power of the Mother Storm.”

“Mhm,” the agent looked at the god sideways. “And what’s it do? We need to gauge your destructive capabilities.”

Thor looked at the agent for a second. He raised his hand in a grasping motion, gasps and crashing noises could be heard from outside before a section of the wall broke. The hilt of Mjolnir flying straight into the hand of Thor, a rumbling could be heard in the skies above. “Mjolnir is gifted with the power of the Mother Storm, it is a tool in which I can channel my powers or simply wield with strength to knock down foes. I have killed more beings that threatened the nine realms than years I have lived, which is saying something. More than you ever could in your short life-span. Though tell me now, what is the cause of all your questions? In the days of old when one of the Gods came to Midgard and brought news of a worthy cause warriors fought for the chance to prove themselves worthy of a place in Valhalla! Now you bring me here and ask me questions?”

If the agent was impressed or frightened by Thor’s show of power, he made no show of it, “Maybe you are who you say you are. I don’t know. Heavens know we have our fair share of weird here on planet Earth. But if you really are ‘Thor’, you should know that we humans have created our own way of life. We have our own ways of improving our world. And anyone or anything that threatens to up turn that way of life could be seen as a threat. I’m here to assess whether you’re a threat, or a friend. So far, I’m not sure.”

“Aye. I was told that your people have created a world full of marvels and more laws than stars in the sky. Ask what you will Son of Coul. I will prove myself to you to be the noble warrior I say I am, I only threaten harm to those who would harm Midgard and her people.”

“Good, that’s good,” Coulson nodded. “If that’s the case, and you are who you say you are, why now? Why stay away for so long and pop up without warning?”

“There was a time where war raged between the nine realms of Yggdrasil. While Asgard swears to protect the nine realms, there are those that would seek to wage war, conquer and torment. A war of the realms raged on Midgard centuries ago, in the Aftermath a treaty was signed between the Nine Realms. My brother Loki-”, There was obvious disdain on Thor's face as he mentioned his elder brother. “-capitulated to Asgards enemies, entering a clause that while not being from Jotunheim, Svartalfheim and Musphelheim can set foot on Midgard nor can any Asgardian. In order to ensure the treaty was enforced the Greek Olympians were paid handsomely to ensure the peace, less wars rage on eternally.”

Thor lowered his hammer down on the right hand side of his chair. The chair creaked slightly as he moved in it, no doubt he looked like some form of fool on such a small chair.

“And you think this peace is going to be broken?” Coulson’s eyebrows raised. “That someone is looking to start trouble and throw the realm into chaos?”

Thor nodded. “Heimdall can see things moving in a direction that could threaten to turn the World Tree and all nine realms to ash, the Dwarve Seers from Nidavellir have pointed to Midgard as the next and most important target. That is why I am here now, in order to discover this threat and end it before it brings ruin to all our worlds.” Thor left out the part about Beta-Ray Bill, calling him a demon after a ‘demon’ had attacked him. No doubt his mind had been addled by grief and rage, confusing him. No Asgardian could be responsible for such butchery.

“Any idea on what timeframe we’re looking at? Location of an attack? Source? Anything at all will help.”

Thor shook his head solemnly. “Nay.” He looked at Coulson, now he understood why the man sought to weigh him down with questions. It had been centuries since the Gods had set foot on Midgard, and men had taken their protection into their own hands. Coulson was not merely a warrior, he was a Guardian for Midgard. “Perhaps the norns have plans for us after all. You are here, and you are a protector of this realm are you not? Help me on my quest. Unlike my father and others of our kind I have fought beside Mortals before and would do it again-” Thor laughed. “-if I were to know where Jarnbjorn has ended up then it would truly be like the days of old.”

The request for the weapon seemed to put Coulson on a more defensive footing, “Yea, well, I’ll have to get in touch with someone higher up about that. But it looks like I’m stuck with your case. So don’t worry, I’ll be making sure you don’t leave my sight. Not until we find out what’s really going on.”

“I can fly us higher up if need be, but what is it you wish too-” There was a loud explosion nearby, screams followed. Sounds of panic and chaos as the entire building they were in erupted in a flurry of activity. “Son of Coul. The time for talk is over-” Hand outstretched as he stood up, Mjolnir came flying back to his hand from where he had put it down. “-now is the time for action. Come! Let us wage battle!”

April O'Neil stared at Casey Jones in amazement. Everything he had just explained to her made no logical sense in her mind. The turtles weren't monsters. They were completely sentient and were teenagers younger than the two of them. Their father was a rat. And they were fighting gangs in New York as well as a clandestine ninja cult that had just popped up. She cursed her terrible luck. This was possibly the best story anyone could ever write, and no one would believe it. I mean, the world was weird, but teenage mutant ninja turtles fighting an undead ninja master? No one was going to believe that.

"And you ran into them, how?" that much she still wasn't sure about. "How does a random teenager come across a group of mutant ninjas?"

His eyes narrowed at her, "Are you interviewing me? You writing a story in your head right now?"

She cursed herself, realizing that's exactly what she sounded like. April couldn't help it. Her mind was always thinking like an investigator, and the questioning came out like that. Casey was a nice guy, and if she was going to continue tutoring him, they'd need to at least be civil. No need to treat him like a story.

"Sorry, sorry," she shook her head and laughed. "It's a bad habit. Still, would love to hear that story."

"Yea, well," Casey's eyes darted from her to the floor, and his hands rubbed the back of this neck. "I, uhh."

Before he could answer, a rap on the window drew their attention. There, standing on the fire escape, were the four turtles as well as a large, humanoid rat at their forefront. April had to do her best to not gasp in shock. The creatures she had been searching for, here at the home of the guy she had been assigned to tutor. It was like the will of the universe or something. She could hardly believe her luck.

Casey got up and slid open the window. The rat looked down at him, turned his gaze to April, and sighed, "I believe we need to sit down and have a discussion."

---

Alopex watched in awe as Hob tore through the deactivated robots with such ferocity she was afraid to get near him. He was completely animalistic as he tore into the metal with his claws and even his teeth. Piece of metal flew through the air as if they were bloody pieces of carcass when the vultures come to feed. The small din of metal bouncing off the concrete of the sewer walls filled the air.

Behind her, Herman was injured, but not badly. Two of the robots had managed to crack the shell on one of his claws, but he assured her it was merely a flesh wound and he would heal in no time. Pigeon Pete, meanwhile, was still hanging on a pipe far above them, ensuring he would be far away should any of the robots come back to life as quickly as they deactivated. He hadn't stopped shaking since they came underground. She felt sorry for the mutant. He was confused at the best of times, she could imagine what was going through that tiny little brain of his at a time like this.

"Hob!" she called out to her group's leader, attempting to get him to snap out of his mindless fury. "Hob! Would you cut it out! You're gonna make Pete's heart explode if you keep that up!"

The mutated alley cat spun around and glared at her with his remaining eye, the anger burning in it unlike anything she had ever seen before. He snapped back at her, "This is all your fault. You and those damn turtles!"

"What the hell is your problem!?" she growled in response. "They didn't send those robots!"

"No, but the goody two shoes one drew them to us! To our home! And now it's gone forever!" he howled. "Everything we built! And now we're on the run!"

"So we'll set up a new home!" she motioned around her. "There's plenty of space in New York!"

"No," he shook his head. "Not any more. We're not going to sit around. We're not going to wait for another attack. It's time we actually live up to our name. The Mutanimal Liberation Army is going to take the fight to the humans. No more hiding. No more games. And if your turtle friends get in the way, we're gonna kill them too."

---

Jordan Perry rewound the video once again, watching how the mutants worked together, spoke to one another, and even, as crazy as it sounded, were smart enough to design an advanced vehicle in the subway tunnels. Everything about them was so much more incredible than they had ever had hoped. It told him that they were close to unlocking the final goal that TCRI had been built for. After all this time, he knew he was close.

"I can't believe it," Stockman said over his shoulder, just as in awe as he was. "This is everything we had hoped for and more."

Agent Bishop had left in disgust when the MOUSERs were deactivated, leading Perry and Stockman to conceal their looks of amazement. That one of the mutants they had created had the ability to hack into their own technology and override it was incredible. Just incredible.

"We'll need to run more tests," Perry started to muse. "Once we're sure they perform up to specification, we can start more fabrication."

"How do you suggest we do that?" Stockman's eyebrows raised at his boss.

"Simple," Perry smiled. "Agent Bishop is going to want more counter measures. We make sure those counter measures find their way to the mutants. He doesn't have to know that we really don't want them killed. Not yet, at least."

---

April sat, enraptured as the rat, who she now knew as Splinter, explained the mutants' origin. How he found the baby turtles crawling in a green ooze not long after his master had been murdered by the Foot Clan. How it turned them into the large, impressive creatures they were today. How they were the last ones whose burden it was to stop the resurrected Oroku Saki and ensure the dominion of the Foot never came again.

"So you can see," Splinter finished his tale, "painting my sons as the 'Terror Turtles' is not overly helpful, Miss O'Neil."

"Not cool, lady," Michelangelo shook his head in disappointment.

"Sorry," she winced. "That was my editor. He's...excitable."

"Well, you can make it up to us," Leonardo, whom April gathered was the leader of the group, offered. "We're going to need human allies. Ones we can trust. You guys help us out, and we can help you out."

April's eyes narrowed, "Help me out how?"

"Next time, we'll pose for the pictures," Raphael joked. "Make it look real good."

"The last one was incredibly blurry," Donatello added in.

"Hey!" April chuckled, beside herself. "It was dark. But, what could I even help you with?"

Splinter looked and nodded to Donatello, who placed a piece of one of the robots on the desk. He flipped it over and pointed to a cereal number, with a large logo plastered above it.

"TCRI?" April rubbed her chin. "That's a private think tank in the city. Why would they have sent the robots after you?"

"I do not know," Splinter shook his head, "but the canister of ooze that created us bore the same marking."

Jotunheim // 100 Years before the Dawn of Man

Odin stood, legs shoulder-width apart braced for the fight of his life. Gungnir was poised ready to strike. Fárbauti turned to his Queen muttering to her in their shared tongue. “ᛏᚨᚴᛖ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚲᚨᛋᚴᛖᛏ, ᚱᚢᚾ.” She turned and ran the casket in hand, taking massive strides. Odin took a step forward however Fárbauti took a step forward swinging the mighty frozen blade, slamming it down on the ground. A crack in the floor opened up, zig-zagging along the floor.

Odin stepped to the side, the floor below him opening up. Balanced on the edge of the chasm he avoided looking down into the very depths of Jotunheim. He turned to look at Fárbauti, raising Gungnir towards him with one hand. “ᛁᚾ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚾᚨᛗᛖ ᛟᚠ ᛗᚤ ᚠᚨᛏᚺᛖᚱ, ᚨᚾᛞ ᚤᛟᚢᚱ ᚠᚨᛏᚺᛖᚱ. ᛁ ᚲᚺᚨᛚᛚᛖᚾᚷᛖ ᚤᛟᚢ ᛏᛟ ᛋᛁᚾᚷᛚᛖ ᚲᛟᛗᛒᚨᛏ!”

Fárbauti laughed before raising his sword and roaring, the five other giants pushed running at him. A lance of light fired from Gungnir, hitting two of the giants square in the chest as they charged, Fárbauti continued the charge, they didn’t even flinch as for a Jotun to fall is to be weak. To be weak is to die. Two giants fell as Odin turned as the blade fell down beside him, he could feel the cold radiating from it. Slamming the end of Gungnir into the belly of one of the beasts he swung it around between hands slashing another one. Part of him wished Gungnir had the same enchantment the one Ve had on Dainsleif, where even the smallest wound resulted in death. It did push the Jotun back, however, giving him more room to breathe.

While the numbers had improved, Odin was still alone against four giants. Ducking below a blade Gungnir let out a blast of light into the ceiling, cracking it some of the giants ducked as the roof came collapsing down. Smaller than the giants Odin moved with ease between the pieces of debris, all of them landing harmlessly around him.

As one of the Jotuns charged him, the giant blade raised in the air Odin felt a sigh of relief slip from his lips as suddenly the giant's face exploded in blood and brains. The blade Skofnung landed in the ground, before being pulled back by magic into Vili's hands as he dove through the hole in the roof. The giants momentarily distracted, two of them fell as they were struck from behind as Ve slid past them as he re-entered the room.

It was now three against one, with a smile upon his face Odin raised Gungnir, parrying a blow from the giant. Moving his hands he flicked upwards, the giant frost blade being knocked from the giant's hands. Capitalizing on the momentum Odin put the spear into the ground, launching himself into the air. Both feet into the chest of the giant pushing him backward and onto his back. Odin let himself fall into the movement, spinning the blade in his hands. Pointing Gungnir towards the ground he held it in both hands, slamming it down towards the beast's chest.

Only to have it deflected by a blade. A look of confusion on his face, he turned to look at the culprit. As a being impossibly small held the sword, a look of disgust on Fárbauti's face.

Mount Olympus // Midgard
^{Greek Pantheon portrayed by @Mao Mao}

Upon entering the Hall of Olympus, Zeus saw his children in the midst of a heated discussion about their reason for being summoned. All of them received Hermes’ message, but the reason for the assembly was rather vague. The messenger was purposefully leaving out valuable details besides the visitor was the Asgardian God of Mischief. And he didn’t say anything else since handing the last scroll to his father. Regardless, the Twelve Olympians were called upon for an audience with an Asgardian. That was important enough.

Zeus approached Dionysus and Aphrodite, arguing about their affairs on Gaia.

“-I swear to the Gods if you dare to overstep into my profession again, you’ll regret it brother!”

Dionysus put his hands and gasped in shock. “My own sister dares to cry foul because she’s afraid of a competitor! It isn’t my fault that I love to engage in the activity. Maybe you should have tried harder to-”

Zeus coughed loud enough to get both of their attention. Aphrodite bowed down as a sign of respect while Dionysus crossed his arms instead. The God of Lighting didn’t have the time to correct his son’s disrespect. Instead, he scolded both of them. “Enough! Didn’t you both forget to never discuss your dealings in Man’s World?”

“Sorry, father.” Both of them apologized in different tones, but Zeus accepted it. For now.

“Go.” Zeus ordered and turned towards the other Gods. “Take your seats now. This assembly has commenced. Bring forth the Trickster of Asgard!”

The massive doors of the hall opened up and Loki, along with the Kolossi, made their way up the steps and into the center. The Twelve Olympians, including Hades, looked upon the Asgardian and were curious about the unexpected visit. However, they remained silent to allow Zeus the first word of the audience. And after a moment of examining the trickster, he leaned from his throne and asked a simple question.

“Why did you request to speak with us?”

Loki walked into the throneroom, the twelve thrones spread along the back of the room in a semicircle. At the head of the room was Zeus, ‘King of the Gods’. So he called himself, yet in the eyes of Midgard they were but a speck. The Asgardian race had existed for as long as Gaia had roamed the surface of the planet, since the Mother Goddess Gaia spawned Atum in order to protect Midgard from its former Elder Gods.

The Asgardians and the Olympians had a troubled history, word among the Pantheons that Odin stole the flame to give to man in order to spite his father Bor who hated the mortals. In retribution Bor told Zeus that the mortals had stolen the flame themselves, gifting Zeus Pandora's box to release pain and strife into the mortal world. He bowed, sweeping his head down low and his arm outstretched in the most flamboyant way possible. Oh the rage Zeus would have if he knew that Loki had been the one to steal the flame. “Oh great and powerful Zeus. I come before you in times of a great threat. As such I come to notify you that despite the treaty that Asgard and myself made, entrusting you to make sure no member of the other eight realms sets foot on Midgard my brother Thor, Son of Odin has returned in order to investigate and stop this threat from destroying the nine realms. I have come to inform you that your role in enforcing the treaty is no longer required, oh mighty Lords of Olympus.”

All of the Gods were caught off guard by the news. Dionysus nearly choked on his wine while Athena called out to her owl for guidance. The reveal as an Asgardian set foot in their world was truly a violation of the treaty. Zeus was visibly trying to contain his anger in front of the guest, but it was getting more difficult. “If such news is the truth, then why couldn’t Odin present himself to us. Why did he send forward a child to defend such a clear attack on the treaty?”

Loki smiled at Zeus, the self appointed God above all. “Need I remind you, oh Lords of Olympus that it was I that brokered the treaty between the nine realms and requested that you our closest allies in the pantheons of Midgard help ensure that the treaty was upheld. Your services are no longer required, let this be a burden raised from your shoulders Olympians! It shall give you all the more time to be among the mortals and their dreary little lives.”

“No longer required?” Zeus smashed the arm of his throne and pointed at the child. “Are you truly blind or just plain ignorant? What would Asgard do without our Kolossi and Amazonians protecting their precious tree? How would they have dealt with the other pantheons if they dared to challenge your father? You may have been an architect of the treaty and became the crown prince, but you are still just a boy!”

A smirk crossed Loki's face. “Need I remind you o’King of Olympus that we are around the same age. As for Asgard it would survive, as would Yggdrasil. The job entrusted to the Olympians, for which you received handsome reparations as you will recall, was to ensure that no-one from any of the other realms came to Midgard, and no harm came to it to which I might add you have done a wonderful job in letting the mortals govern themselves. As for the many other pantheons as you will recall have been dormant for a very long time, and some have retreated to the Omnipotence City. Asgard has fair relations with the ones that remain. We thank you for your service and are eternally grateful. Though our dealings are at an end.”

Zeus was filled with such anger that he couldn’t respond to the disrespect. Instead, he stood up and prepared to punish the child. His hand rose up as sparks flew from his arm, and the God of Lighting was ready to strike. If the boy wanted to act ill-mannered, then Zeus needed to teach him some manners. Before he could cast his hand down, Hera rose up from her throne and grabbed her staff. The other Gods watched in disbelief as she was breaking several rules created by her husband. Then, in a bold attempt to restore order, she stuck the marble flooring and yelled out with her matured voice.

“Silence!”

Zeus’ eyes widened in disbelief as the electricity slowly faded from his arm. He was offended that his own wife would dare to break his rules. But when he tried to reprimand her, Hera avoided it and kept on talking. “Have you both lost your common decency?! Husband, how dare you for thinking to strike our guest-an Asgardian-because he may speak truth?! And you, Asgardian God of Trickster, are foolish enough to insult the King of Gods during your audience! Both of you should be ashamed!”

As Hera took a moment to calm down, the other Gods were talking among themselves about Hera’s moment of defiance and the big reveal. Zeus, meanwhile, couldn’t form words to this offense committed by his own wife. Instead, he remained silent, and angrily went over to his throne to reflect. The Queen of the Gods took a deep breath and turned her attention to the Asgardian. “Unlike my husband, I do understand why our warriors are no longer needed. But, our services to Asgard and Gaia are not done just yet.”

Loki didn’t so much as flinch despite the power that Zeus had on show. He knew he could survive more than a single lightning bolt. He was about ready to speak when Queen Hera spoke up. He had to hide the smirk. Such strife among the Gods, no matter what Pantheon they were from. “I assure you M’lady-” He bowed his head out of respect. “-I mean not to insult the King of the Olympians. I merely corrected him on the notion of me being a mere boy. When I am no more than a century younger than his excellency. May I ask, to which services you refer?”

“Well, you mentioned a great threat against your nine realms hidden in Man’s World. It means indirect harm to our domain and creation. Why don’t we offer assistance to Asgard-one last time?”[color=#e69138] [/color]Hera smiled after answering the trickster’s question.

Loki nodded and bowed. “Need I remind you, your graces, that while your Lord Zeus and the other members here had a hand for how Midgard was formed and shaped, that you can not take sole credit? King Bor had influence, as did Odin in both Midgards creation and the worlds in this universe as did many others. Thus it is not solely your creation, or your domain. Midgard is at the centre of Yggdrasil, the tree that binds the nine realms together. The threat to Yggdrasil is one you do not understand, we shall deal with it ourselves.” He turned directly to Hera and bowed. “Though I am grateful for the offer.”

Hera couldn’t help but laugh at the response. “You may be right, but everybody knows the truth. But we don’t have the time to debate. And I wasn’t talking about aiding you, Loki.”

“Athena.” Hera turned towards the Goddess of Wisdom and guided the guest towards her. “Please give your wisdom to the trickster.”

“Yes, Queen.” Athena got up from her throne and allowed her owl to land on Loki. “Your brother, God of Thunder, will cooperate with influential mortals. And those earthlings will call upon our creation known as Wonder Woman to them. Both of them will have their introductions and quarrels, but they will eventually work to defend Gaia and Yggdrasil from the threat. That’s my insight and our aid.”

Loki turned to Athena and then back to Hera. “So by aid you meant to say you would give prophecy? If this is the extent of your aid in that your champion may or may not help the Odinson, then I accept and humbly ask for your patience in this time of transition from our former agreement. It is safe to say, the Asgardians have returned to Midgard.” This was all going to work fantastically.

---

The Ship of Beta-Ray Bill / Nidavellir

Lady Sif walked through the halls of the ship, there was cool air in the ship as he passed through the halls. The pods on the side of the wall seemed to spit forth cold air. She took a second to lean in closer to one of the bodies, they were similar in appearance to Bill though there were differences. Bill was more pronounced, more muscle and sinew whereas these mortals almost appeared malnourished. Tortured and beaten before they wound up dead. The beast had seemed intent that someone had killed his people, and it was someone who appeared to be similar to Thor. She knew Thor had rage, and a warriors heart but nothing could compel him to such savagery. She was broken free from her wandering thoughts as she came across a door unlike any other she had seen so far.

Strange runes engrained on it. Lifting her hand to it the door opened, within there were windows that went nowhere and showed more strange runes and shapes on them. On some of the windows she could somehow see the exterior of the ship. As she walked into the room a red light pierced from a tablet covered in runes, starting at the top of her head it worked its way down. She drew her blade and moved into a ready stance waiting for an attack that never came. “ErrOR: Protector is not detected.” The voice was distorted, and broken up. As if something was wrong.

“Hail! Who goes there?” Sif walked cautiously into the room, looking all around her trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. It seemed to come from the very walls themselves.

“Designation: Skuttlebutt. A.I Operator of the Korbin evacuation fleet.”

“Fleet?” This didn’t sound right, unless the All-Speak had failed this vessel, if it truly had a voice, was expecting there to be a fleet of vessels when there was only one.

“Correct, one hundred vessels carrying evacuees from Korbin. The last of its people-”

“Nay Skuttlebutt. You are the only ship left.”