_{Ural Pass, Vlatava - 4 Years Ago}

Issue 1.01.03: The Claim

---

_{Interaction(s): None}

Previously: Issue 1.01.02: Stagecoach

"Jesus I'm bored. There's nothing out here."

Roy was resting inside of a small sniper's nest in the stark white landscape. He moved away from the sniper that had been set up. Sitting up in the booth with him was a slightly older man, who simply shook his head in response.

"You're a good sharpshooter, Roy, but you're a shit sniper."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "What do you know about being a sniper, Slade? You don't even have any fucking depth perception." With that, Roy motioned towards the eyepatch covering one of his comrade's eyes.

A small smile grew on Slade's face. "I don't need depth perception to kick your ass, Roy."

The two men chuckled for a moment, but within an instant things grew tense. Slade's challenges had become rather notorious in Team 7. Usually there was some sort of wager. And yet, every now and then, the challenges would go unnamed and unspoken. A bet of skill against skill. And as the two men chuckled, their eyes locked and the challenge was made.

Roy, with great speed, reached for the sidearm on his hip. He was only able to unholster the gun when he heard the sound of something impaling the plywood next to his head. Roy's eyes locked with Slade's before he turned his gaze to the knife that impaled the simple plywood wall of the sniper's nest. Terrifyingly close to his head and embedded in the wall was a simple throwing dagger. As Roy went to catch his breath, Slade simply leaned forward in his own seat. "You'll never be able to take me on, Speedy. Not alone."

---

"Slade... meet me in the war room."

Slade Wilson almost looked ridiculous in a suit. His silver buzzed hair and eyepatch made him look far too much like a military tough guy. So, needless to say, Slade jumped at the opportunity to get away from his desk. After all, he always hated being stateside. James Bronson, one of the younger recruits in Team 7, was carrying a stack of folders and a USB as he briskly walked towards the room on the other side of the pit of Team 7 intelligence officers, towards a conference room with floor to ceiling windows.

As soon as James entered the room, he tapped a single button on the light switch, and the conference lights turned on while the windows went from perfectly clear to having a white opaque frost to them. Slade closed the door behind him and leaned against the window, watching his coworker set the files down and slide a USB into a small device in the center of the conference table. He grabbed a small clicker to turn the projector on, and the lights in the room dimmed significantly. The projector always took a moment to boot up, so James started anyways. "Ok... now, I need you to stick with me here, Slade. But you know how we always have someone tailing our discharged operators?"

"Of course."

"Well, the Sparrow lost his tail."

Slade's body immediately became stiff. His eye widened for a moment, before he was able to regain his composure. "You're telling me we don't know where Jason is... shit."

James shook his head. "We don't know exactly... but I've got some leads. Jason was last seen in Tulsa about twenty four hours ago. Coincidentally enough, a blue Toyota Camry was reported stolen yesterday a few blocks away from his last known location. It was found in Ada this morning." As if on cue, the projector finally booted up and showed three images: a map of Oklahoma with a highway route from Tulsa to Ada highlighted, and the image of a blue Toyota Camry.

"So he's heading South... Heading for Texas?"

"I think so... but you're probably wondering why he'd shake a tail to head towards Texas. I might have the answer to that."

James pressed the clicker, and the image on the projector changed. There were several images now: the driver's license photos of five men, an image of an organization's symbol, and a crime scene photo of an arrow. "A few men with connections to the Aryan Nation reported being assaulted by two men a couple hours north of Dallas. One seemed to be a skilled martial artist, while the other was using a bow and arrow. I've had one of our FBI contacts get in touch with the local PD about getting some sketches drawn up... but I've got a good idea of who the second guy is. I mean, who do you know that can knock two arrows and cripple two men's promising flag football careers with a precision shot to the shoulder?"

Slade stood there silent for a moment before he briskly walked to the door. "Grab your shit, let's go."

James tilted his head as he quickly turned off the projector and ripped the USB from the conference table's console. "Where are we going?"

"We're reporting this to Lynch now, before they start causing a scene. We don't want people finding out who they are."

---

11:00 PM | 'The Chapel' - Uknown, somewhere in the Santa Marta Metro Area

Issue #1.00: Have a Little Faith

A young woman entered the chapel, her cheeks freshly stained with tears. She stumbled into the dark sanctuary, nearly tripping over her own feet with every step. It felt like concrete blocks were tied around her ankles. Exhaustion seeped into every inch of her body, threatening to drag her to the ground at any moment. It'd been the same the whole walk here. Jordanna Spence couldn't remember the last time she slept, or ate, or did anything much at all except wallow in the pain.

Unspeakable, unrivaled pain.

There were other people in the room, yet she was only dimly aware of them. Like silent shadows dancing at the edges of her vision. All were pilgrims like herself, seeking answers in the dark. And it was quite dark here. A handful of tall windows lined the sanctuary but the shutters were locked down tight enough that the light of a full moon could scantly pass through them. The only light source, dim as it was, was a single candle placed atop an 'altar.' In reality, it was little more than an upturned milk crate draped in an old bed sheet. The chapel's original altar, along with the rest of its furniture, had either been smashed to bits by intrepid explorers or withered away by time.

The pilgrims did not mind sitting on the floor, dust and bugs and broken boards be damned. Nothing about the physical space they occupied appeared to bother them. New people shuffling in would bump against them and those seated wouldn't even flinch. Someone would give a sudden scream or babble incoherently in a loud voice and no one would so much as shush them. It was as if their minds were all somewhere else entirely.

Only after reaching their destination did Jordanna's legs buckle. Her knees slammed against the hardwood at a harsh angle; it hurt tremendously, yet she could nary muster the energy to yelp. Tilting her head up let her see that she'd fallen at the step of the altar. She threw her hands back and fell on her rear to escape the candle's light, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. One was not supposed to enter the light while sin still lingered in one's heart.

She wasn't sure how she knew that.

'What am I meant to do now?' She wondered to herself, glancing at the nearest gaggle of people. She couldn't make out many details in the darkness but they looked as ordinary as she did. Their shoes were well-worn and their clothing unremarkable. A few- like her- had a layer of grim stuck to their skin and hair, as if they hadn't showered in days or weeks. She even recognized a few of her neighbors. People she never would've guessed would end up all the way out here in a place like this. Hopelessness could conquer anyone, she supposed.

"You are meant to open yourself up to the possibility, child..." Someone said to her. She snapped back to reality and traced her eyes up their body to a face she couldn't have expected. He was a tall man with a hefty build and a shaggy beard, wrapped up in a decades-old Army jacket. His voice, though, was most striking: he sounded like a woman- like the most beautiful woman Jordanna had never seen.

Jordanna's jaw trembled. Her voice was caught in her throat. All she could do was sit and stare at the man as he answered her thoughts aloud. She had heard the rumors...She wouldn't have come all this way if there wasn't a chance it was true, but...

"Its real." She finally managed to breathe. "God, its all real." She felt a pressure building up in her chest. She was seconds from breaking out in sobs again.

The old man knelt down in front of her, placing a hand on her shoulder. His hand was warm- so much so that his warmth began to spill over her, soothing that terrible, aching pain that filled her down to her very bones. Jordanna couldn't hold back the tears any longer.

"Tell me your pain, child. Tell me what brings you to my church." They said.

Shaking, Jordanna reached out to him and he took her hand in his. She looked up into his eyes and poured out her soul to him. "My dad- my dad was sick. So sick. He fought so hard to stay with us-" her voice trembled, and she sounded distraught, but she didn't feel it at all. Jordanna just felt his warmth rushing over her. Trying to fight against it was like trying to swim in a hurricane. Maybe it'd all be better if she just let it take her.

"And you wanted him to come see me." They whispered in reply.

Jordanna nodded emphatically. "I was willing to try anything. Anything at all; no matter how- how crazy it sounded. But my dad, he just..." Tears fell down her cheeks in long, hot streaks, yet still she felt no pain. "He said God would protect him until the cure came to our part of town. He said the doctors were coming- we just had to be patient. He told me not to give up-"

"-Hope." They finished, and Jordanna nodded again. "Your father was a wise man. Hope is our strongest tool against despair. I am sorry I had not gotten to your father in time, child. You were right to point him to me. My touch heals any who wills it to do so. But that is not why you came."

Blinking the tears from her eyes, Jordanna looked up again. The old man looked different now. His eyes were the most brilliant green she'd ever seen. And his face was softer, somehow. She couldn't explain what had changed yet some part of her knew it had.

"His passing took hope from you, and you have lived in despair ever since." Their mouth twisted in a small frown, as if sharing the pain she could not herself feel. "The misery that consumes you is as dangerous as any sickness, child, and if you had not come to me in time it could have taken you as well."

"I just want it to stop hurting so much." The words tumbled out of her mouth like vomit. There was so much pain in her voice, and yet...Jordanna was numb to it. It frightened her.

"I can take it away from you. What you feel now is but a fraction of the healing I can offer." A hand grabbed at Jordanna's chin and tilted her eyes up. It felt like a cloud was holding onto her, even as its grip tightened. "My help costs you nothing, child. All you must do is be willing. Truly willing."

There was a pause. The room was pitch black and silent as the grave- Jordanna couldn't even hear her own breathing. She closed her eyes and tried to empty her mind, yet it raced at a million miles a minute. She had heard the stories, both awe inspiring and terrible. She knew there were risks. She knew if her mother ever found out she was practicing witchcraft that her life was over. But Jordanna had tried living with it. She had tried moving on.

It wasn't working.

This was the only ending where she saw herself live on to fight another day.

'I'm sorry, mom. Dad.'

"Okay."

Jordanna opened her eyes and the old man was gone.



"Welcome to the Church of Many Faces, little sister." The Enchantress smiled down at her. "We have work to do."

Morning comes, and I slowly feel myself fading from the world of dreams to the world of the waking. It's a gradual thing, for once. No night terrors, no starting awake with a sharp cry and a cold sweat. After hours of blissful tranquility, I'm actually ready to welcome the day.

Slowly, my senses drift from the joyful peace of my dream, to sensations of warmth and softness. "Mmmmmmm," I let out a gentle sigh, as I still feel safe and content in the embrace of.....

.....the embrace? What the hell is embracing me?!

"WHAT?!?!" I launch myself out of bed, black tendrils of arcane energy swirling around me as I jolt awake. Lying in bed next to where I was sleeping is the orange-skinned space-girl, the one I could have sworn was all in my imagination.

She wakes with a gasp and darts into the air, her hands glowing with green plasma.

"What has happened?" she asks as she flits about the room. "Are we under attack? Have the 'ass-holes' returned?"

I stare at her, incredulous at the sheer absurdity of it all.

"What," I demand, "were you doing in my bed?!"

Princess Kory looks at me with confusion, then lets the green fire leave her hands. "My apologies if I have startled you. It was not my intention. After you had begun to use the sleep, I saw that you were having a bad dream, so I thought it best to soothe you with an application of the snuggles."

She floats down and finally lets her feet touch the floor. "I again apologize if I have troubled you."

"No, I just," I trail off, taking a few deep breaths to take everything in. "Okay. So. Last night, I was pretty convinced that this whole thing was just some kind of stupid hallucination. This morning, you're still here. So either A) you're real, or B) I've gone completely insane. Either way, I guess you're sticking around, and I just....need to get my head around....around the HIVE guys, around you, around all of it."

"....but your head does not appear to be large enough or malleable enough to envelop me, let alone--"

"It's a figure of speech," I wave it off. "I just mean we need to figure out what we're going to do."

I thought when I'd escaped from Sebastian Blood and his cultists in LA, that they would be the only people I would ever have to run from. Now, though, there are these HIVE goons, who somehow found out about my 'gifts' and want to make me disappear. Maybe they want to brainwash me into some super-soldier for them, maybe they want to cut me open and find out what makes me tick. Whatever they want, I'm sure a flying alien is only going to bring more attention.

Part of me wants to tell this 'Princess Starfire' girl that she's on her own-- I don't need the extra danger that having her around brings. I could just pack up, hit the road again, go off the grid for a while, and start over in another city, preferably somewhere a little less likely to have spaceships crash in front of me.

But HIVE would still be out there. Sebastian Blood would still be out there. And this girl clearly has no idea how to get by on this planet. She wouldn't make it to the end of the week before they had her locked up or laid out on a dissection table.

A more cynical person might say "better her than me." And maybe I am too cynical myself. But I can't leave someone to the same fate that those people have in mind for me.

I let out another sigh, this one of exasperation and resignation. I feel like I'm going to be doing that a lot.

"Okay," I say, "until further notice, we're in this together. So first I'm going to make some breakfast. Then we're going to start looking into these HIVE people, and see if there's any way we can take them down, or at the very least get them to leave us alone."

"Oh, thank you, friend Rachel!" Starfire exclaims, lifting off the air to scoop me up into a flying hug. "With the bonds of our friendship sealed, we will surely triumph over any 'ass-holes' who--"

"And then" I say, struggling to pry myself free, "we are going to have a talk about respecting people's personal space."

---

"Let's start from the top, shall we? Starting with your name."

".....uhhh.....Alex. Alex Rol Polinsky...."

"And how old are you, Mister Polinsky?"

"......s-s-sixteen. L-look, there's p-people who are gonna be l-looking for me, okay? Y-you c-c-c-can't just--"

"I'm afraid we can, Mister Polinsky. But thankfully, that won't be necessary if you continue to cooperate. Now, explain to me what you saw at the concert last night."

"Just....y'know, just s-s-s-stuff....then all the l-lights went out, a-and--"

"Before the blackout. You spoke to someone, yes?"

"Y-yeah? It was a...a girl. I t-think she was m-my age. Dressed all g-goth like. I t-tried to talk to her, and she y-yelled at me and--"

"Did you manage to get the young woman's name, Alex?"

"It w-was....oh man, what was it? Reagan? Raelyn? It s-s-started with an R, I know that--"

"Hmm, disappointing that you can't recall it off the top of your head, but no worries. I have ways of jogging your memory."

"W-wait, no, p-p-please, I'm just-"

"Later, Alex. For now, what happened when you spoke to the young woman?"

"I j-j-just started t-talking to her about s-stuff. I got n-nervous, so I t-talked about stuff I know about. G-g-games and stuff. And she just, like.....freaked out, like she was h-hearing voices or something."

"Interesting. What happened next?"

"She r-ran into the bathroom, then all the l-l-lights went out. It was, like, I dunno.....like....m-m-magic or something."

"Oooooooh, did you say magic?"



"Because I loooove magic...."

The Ambassador Hotel
Gotham City, NJ
8:21 PM Local Time

“Lee, I get that you're trying, but I have to admit I don't really see the strategy here,” Amos Vangilder grumbled. The older man reached up and smoothed the already glassy surface of his silk tie for the hundredth or so time- a tic Lee had come to recognize as a sign of impatience.

“Amos, fidus Achates, you may understand the numbers but Dad taught me a lot about the social side of business,” Lee lied glibly. The elder Travis had hardly acknowledged his son when still alive, much less passed on any nuggets of wisdom. But Amos didn't know that. Nor did he know that tonight he would be a useful distraction, a Trojan horse. “Slim Chance may have left Hollywood for literal greener pastures, but no doubt he has many contacts that could prove useful to us. Not to mention the name recognition factor.”

“He's a successful businessman now, Lee, what makes you think he'll be interested in writing a column or being a commentator?”

“Don't B-list actors love becoming pundits?” Lee chuckled. “It's simple, we wine and dine the man, appeal to his ego. Just a little bit of flattery and suddenly Mr. Chance has visions of imperium sine fine dancing before his eyes.”

Amos nodded, accepting the lie without question. He was a capable, stolid businessman. But he lacked the imagination to see Lee as anything more than a well-intentioned but spoiled playboy, the boss' kid playing at work. Lee was counting on that. “Well, I'm glad he agreed to meet us for dinner,” Amos said. He looked around the hotel lobby with fondness. “The food here is pretty good, you know. I remember once I went to a conference here back in '03. Ferris Boyle and Simon Stagg were the keynote speakers-”
“Well, Amos, you're a big part of this plan,” Lee interrupted before the CEO went into another long story. “Think of it as a Fabian strategy. When Slim comes down from his hotel room to meet us, only you're there. You apologize for me, make some excuse, take him to dinner and talk about demographics and market research and everything for 30 or 40 minutes. Then I show up, fashionably late of course, and turn on the charm before he has a chance to recover. You're the substance, I'm the style. Munit haec et altera vincit, eh?” Lee said with a hearty clap to the shoulder.

The simple appeal to Amos' vanity did the trick. He beamed, pleased to be in on the plan. “I like the way you think, Lee,” he said cheerily. “Why don't you just duck into the bar, let me handle the first end. I'm sure there's a pretty blonde in there who could help you pass the time,” he said with an overly jocular, condescending, I-was-young-once wink.

Lee took the opportunity to grab his briefcase and slip away. He stepped into the bar, but peered out from behind the glass doors to see Slim Chance step out of the elevator and greet Amos Vangilder with a firm cowboy handshake. After some pleasantries, rendered silent by distance and the thick glass, the two men ambled towards the doors of the Ambassador's Michelin-starred restaurant.

Amos would easily buy him an hour, maybe longer given the way the old man liked to ramble on. Plenty of time for the Crimson Avenger to have a look around Chance's hotel room.

Unnoticed, Lee slipped into an elevator. Over the phone, Chance had been kind enough to provide his room number to Vangilder's secretary in order to facilitate the meeting. At this time of the evening, the hotel was dead quiet. The staff had finished their rounds and the guests had stepped out to enjoy the fabled Gotham nightlife. Once on the 22nd floor, it was nothing for Lee Travis to step inside an unlocked, unused conference room.

The Crimson Avenger emerged a moment later, red hat pulled down low and mask obscuring his features. The electronic lock to Chance's suite was easily defeated- a few trips to less savory corners of the internet had enabled an anonymous purchase of the proper lockpicking gadget. With one last glance over his shoulder, the Crimson Avenger let himself into the suite.

He closed the door behind him, not bothering to turn on any lights- better to touch as little as possible, less chance of his presence being discovered. Pulling a small flashlight, he began to methodically sweep the room.

Old-fashioned suits and Western wear in the closet- including a leather belt with two pearl-handled revolvers dangling from the doorknob. Not something one wore to dinner. A stack of 8x10 glossy photos, just waiting to be autographed. And here was something a little more interesting on the writing desk- a sheaf of legal paper wearing notary stamps.

The Crimson Avenger held the small flashlight in his mouth as he leafed through the paperwork with both hands. It looked like a bill of sale, property deeds, appraisals, land surveys. All for a patch of rather worthless farmland a good thirty miles outside the city limits. He leafed through, committing as much as he could to memory. The purchaser seemed to be a company, Napoli SRL, on whose behlaf Slim had signed. Only a Gotham PO box listed as an address. Possibly a shell corporation. Lee knew Napoli was the Italian name for Naples, and SRL the Italian equivalent of LLC.

It all made sense. That useless land must have been where they intended to dump the Ace chemical waste. Slim Chance was not only providing cheap labor but also acting as an American face for the Camorra, a bridge between Ace Chemicals and Italian organized crime.

A sharp click behind him snapped him out of his reverie, and the Crimson Avenger whirled, the light from the flashlight clamped in his teeth glinting off the switchblade coming at him out the darkness. He instinctively leaned back, feeling the breeze of the knife singing through the air a mere inch from his face. The man holding it was dressed expensively, a style and cut of suit that struck him as European. A glance downwards showed the man had removed his shoes in order to sneak up on him in his socks.

The camorrista quickly stepped back out of striking distance, knife held low in front of him and arm out wide to intercept any attempt to run past him. The Crimson Avenger knew this was no purse snatcher, this was a man who had made a living out of violence. He was alert, fit, and experienced. This was not going to be an easy fight.

Before the Italian could press the attack, the Crimson Avenger jerked his head sideways and opened his mouth, sending the lit flashlight sailing across the empty air in the darkened sitting room. The comorrista's split-second reflexive glance at the moving light source was the only opening the Crimson Avenger needed to barrel into the man like a linebacker for the Gotham Rogues. The flashlight hit the wall and shattered, plunging the hotel sitting room into pitch blackness. The knife flew out of the man's hand, immediately lost in the darkness. They crashed heavily to the floor, grappling savagely and blindly with one another. Without the benefit of light, they fought like cats in a sack, grabbing at one another's throats and rolling over one another on the floor. They punched blindly at one another, the Crimson Avenger's clublike blows met with the same. They bit, they elbowed, they scratched, they headbutted, they kneed. It was impossible to fight scientifically. A calm detached part of the Crimson Avenger's brain registered that he would have to learn better ways of fighting without sight, especially if he planned to be a nocturnal adventurer.

Somewhere in their clumsy, vicious wrestling, the camorrista's groping hands grazed against one of the Colt .45s in their shoulder holsters under the Crimson Avenger's red coat. Suddenly, the Italian had a viable strategy. Pressing a calloused palm against the Crimson Avenger's masked face, with his free hand he searched under the coat, his fingers brushing against the butt of the pistol.

A sudden calm and focus overtook the Crimson Avenger. The mortal danger seemed to clear his mind, slow his pounding heart. He visualized his opponent's position atop him, took stock of the other man's weight. It was all so simple. A foot into the Italian's stomach. Wrists enclosed his arms. A sharp rock back on his shoulders couple with a lift of the leg and release. A perfect tomoe nage, just as Wing had taught him.

The unplanned part came with the crashing sound of breaking plate glass, the sudden rush of cool air into the room, the panicked scream from the camorrista as he began the agonizing descent from the 22nd floor. The Crimson Avenger stood, rushed to the broken window, but there was nothing he could do. “Oh God, oh shit, shit, shit,” he cursed, rushing out the door in a near panic.

He had just killed a man. Sure, it was an accident, sure the man was a professional criminal trying to kill him. But that wasn't what he had become the Crimson Avenger for. The headlines would read “Italian National Murdered By Mystery Man”. His head swam. He lurched into the conference room, sweat pouring from his face as he stripped off the costume and stuffed it into his briefcase.

Lee Travis was fighting the urge to throw up.

"...may I help you, ma'am?"

"Hello, please yes, I would like to request a formal audience with your ruling May-Or."

"....uh-huh......name?"

"Princess Koriand'r, scion of the Royal House of Tamaran, Watcher of the Seals of Xhaal, Commander of the Grand Armada of Tamarus, and bearer of the title Starfire."

"....and your reason for wanting to see the Mayor?"

"I wish to begin diplomatic parlay between our worlds, and to gain valuable allies in the fight against the ass-holes."

"............"

"If you please?"

".......is this some kinda anime thing? Because the convention's not til this weekend."

My new friend, the native witch-girl Rachel, has spent much of her mornings performing research on our assailants, the Homeland Intervention Vulrenability Explication Corporation, which goes by the abbreviation HIVE. According to her research, they are mercenary warriors, a "private security firm" that operates in many of this planet's various nation-states. From what she has been able to determine, every city in which they operate happens to also see an increase in citizens disappearing-- something Rachel believes to be no coincidence. While I do not come close to understanding the intricacies of this world's politics yet, I cannot see how such an organization is allowed to continue its practices.

So I have come to enlist the aid of the local ruler, the May-Or of Jump City, in the hopes that he will rally the planet's warriors to defeat HIVE and their squads of mercenary ass-holes.

Unfortunately, the May-Or's defender, the Receptionist, is proving to be most unhelpful.

"Forgive me," I say, "But I am unfamiliar in the ways of the Ani-May. Perhaps if I learn and study, I will be worthy of speaking to the May-Or then?"

The Receptionist gives me a flat, dead-eyed look-- the type that Friend Rachel often gives me-- as if I had floobernok lizards crawling out of my g'norzz.

"This weekend," she explains, "over at the civic center. They rented it out for the whole weekend, specifically to do all the animes and the role-playing and the dungeons and the dragons and whatnot. You'll find a whole bunch of people like you. You know. Dorks."

"Ah! Splendid!" I exclaim, finally hearing some good news. "Perhaps I will find allies and friends among the Dorks! Especially if they know the secrets of taming dragons! This is most excellent!"

"....uh-huh. Now is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Oh! Perhaps, if you know where the Dorks congregate, I could--"

"NEXT!"

The Receptionist, guardian and attendant of the powerful May-Or, has closed off my chances of securing a formal alliance with the government of Jump City, at least for the time being. But I will not despair, for the flames of Starfire must burn ever-bright with hope.

And to find aid in the battles to come, I will first find my allies among the Dorks....

---

"I don't get it."

"Of course you don't get it, big guy. That's why I do all the getting for us."

"Why did Doctor Jones just let the fat kid go? Does he really think he's going to find them out there?"

"Oh, he knows the fat kid is going to find them. He can't help it."

"But the city's huge! And that kid was dumb as a bag of rocks!"

"Doesn't matter. All our greasy chubby little friend needs to find them is a little luck."

"Pffffft, he'd need the kind of luck that could........oh. Right. Now I get it."

"Again, Mammoth. That's why I do all the getting for us."

---

"That's twice this month, Polinsky. If you're late again, you're fired."

"Y-y-yes sir, Mister Wolfman! I-i-it won't happen again!" Alex Polinski sputtered as he cowered behind the cash register at the Unnatural Twenty Comics and Hobby Shop.

His mom had convinced the store owner to give him a part-time job since he spent so much time at the store anyway, and for a while it seemed like a dream job. But that dream was quickly becoming a nightmare. Having to punch in and out of a time-clock every shift, having to keep a 'positive attitude' when dealing with jerk-ass loser customers with their stupid questions about normie games, not being allowed to play his favorite post-industrial-thrash-core tunes over the store's sound system, having to put up with whiny kids and their lame parents on Pokémon Tournament Nights.....even getting a store discount on merchandise wasn't worth having to deal with all of this work.

Still, it was this or going back to Big Boy Burgers, and he wasn't sure they would take him back after they caught him sleeping in the meat cooler. Two write-ups for lateness in one month, such BS. If only he could remember what happened last night.....why he slept in so late this morning......and why every time he tried to think back about it, he suddenly wanted to scream.

Alex let out a groan, his day already going badly, before clocking in for his shift. Time to head to the back room and start sorting out the new issues of--

"Excuse me," came a voice as the front door opened. "Would you happen to be a Dork?"

Alex Polinski dropped his bag of Funyuns, as the most beautiful girl he had ever seen walked into the shop.

"Uhhhh, I'm a--.....I mean, hi, my name's-.....whu-....hold on...."

"I am looking for someone to teach me in the ways of the Ani-May....."

---

After returning from dinner and placing his precious, precious leftovers in the fridge, Ted once again made his way towards his private lab. It was nice today felt normal after his escapades the night before. Going into this, he worried he would be consumed with his adventuring. So far, so good on that front at least.

The pain in his jaw had finally died down, and the swelling seemed to have gone away as well. It was honestly a miracle it wasn't broken, probably thanks to the stabilizing protection of his cowl. Still, if he was going to continue doing this, he was going to need a way to take on multiple goons at one time. He was a good fighter, and had trained with many senseis across the globe during his travels with Dan, but he wasn't good enough to take half a dozen on without some assistance.

"Welcome home, sir," Kha said as Ted took a seat at the computer. "The renders you asked for are complete."

"Great, put them up on the display," Ted responded to the AI, letting out a belch to make some more room in his stomach around all that beautiful beef. He was going to need to do a serious workout tomorrow to make up for all that he ate. Couldn't be fighting crime with a protruding gut now, could he?

Instantly, on the screen in front of him, Kha's renders of the plans he had started working on this morning appeared. Wanting to get a more comprehensive view, had instructed, "Give me these in the holograms."

"Understood, sir."

He spun his chair around, and the air directly around the computer came alive with blue light. Now around him floated a light construct of his plan. The image was something like a gun. It almost looked like a ray gun from an old sci fi movie, like Flash Gordon would be using it to defeat Ming the Merciless. Instead of the normal, sleek firing area there was a bulbous top with a sort of antenna sticking out of it.

With a swipe of his hand, he exploded the build, sending the components of the gun out in a snowflake like pattering. He could see the self defense mechanisms he had baked into the weapon. A flash LED that could temporarily disorient attackers was pretty standard. Police had used flashbangs for years, and at least this one wouldn't come with an explosion. The other device that he had built into it was a powerful compressed air canon. Using version of the antigrav generators, he had managed to create a blast of air strong enough to send a man flying. By his calculations it could take an elephant off its feet...not that he'd ever try that.

Outside of the crowd control measures he implemented, he also added some Swiss Army Knife-like features, including a cutting laser and a grappling hook using a fine, strong wire, not unlike that used in the bug.

It was a solid start overall, but something still bugged him about it. The gun would only work when he had the jump on his enemies. If he got in a situation like the other night, he might be disarmed rather easily. He could program the gun to only work if he had it in his possession, sure. But even if his enemies couldn't use it against him, it would do Ted no good if it got knocked from his hands.

"Kha," a thought came to him, "display the Beetle suit. Exploded view of the gauntlets."

Without a word of acknowledgement, a hologram of the suit appeared next to the gun. The suit was mostly made up of a light weight, metal alloy weave fabric. It was lightweight, durable, and protective. But he had put thicker armored plates on strategic places. Elbows, knees, wrists, those sorts of things. The gauntlets that protected his wrists wrapped around half of his forearm. While they were just made up of kevlar and the same ballistic fiber that made up the suit, he saw the opportunity to make them more.

Moving like a man possessed, Ted's hands flew through the air, combining the components of the gauntlets with the components of the handheld gun. The resulting apparatus was bulkier than the old pieces of armor, but not to the point of being cumbersome. The tech learned from the Scarab allowed a phenomenal amount of micro sizing components. It could have been the next microchip if Ted could perfect it.

"Okay, Kha, run some diagnostics. I'll check on them in the morning."

Making his way back up to the mansion, Kord stopped off in the large drawing room off the main foyer on the first floor. This was once his father's cigar smoking room and lounge where he entertained business associates and friends. The dark wood and old furniture gave it the appearance of the salons of old, but Ted had given it some modern updates, including a large TV and a pool table. He wasn't a smoker, but there was nothing like watching a game with friends in your own personal sports bar.

Ted poured himself a small glass of bourbon and took a seat, flipping on the TV as he did so. On came the local news, and what he saw on the screen made him sit up in the plush chair he had started to relax in. The chyron that ran along the bottom of the screen read "Technicolor Thieves in New York?"

The reporter on the screen was standing outside STAR Labs in Harlem, "What started out as a normal breaking and entering took a turn for the weird when police arrived on the scene and found something they didn't expect."

With a screen cut to earlier in the day, a police officer appeared on the screen, "Yea, well, when we arrived on the scene we found multiple suspects either unconscious or restrained. Some of which were, as we initially believed, painted in weird, hippy-like patterns. We later discovered that their skin was permanently like this. The reason for this is unknown."

Cutting back to the reporter, "And the strangeness doesn't end there. The men who are currently in custody who weren't oddly colored claim they have no recollection of being at STAR labs or how they got there, while the so-called 'Madniks', the term the police are using for the multi-colored criminals hearkening to their 60s-esque appearance, have told police that they were accosted by a man dressed in all blue. Whatever the case may be, the suspects are being held at a local precinct until their preliminary hearings. Strange times out here in Harlem. This is Melody Case, reporting from STAR Labs."

"Madniks? Come on people," Ted shook his head. Ridiculous bad guy names aside, the report was fascinating. The men who had the color drain from them after he had knocked them out claimed to have no clue why they were involved in the heist. How that was possible he had no idea, but then again they went from looking like cartoon characters to normal people. So weird was going around these days.

One thing was certain, however. Ted needed to speak to these men. Even if they had no idea why they were involved in a break in, at the very least they had been chosen by the mastermind of the crime for a reason. If he could figure out that reason, maybe he'd be able to figure out what was really going on.

Thunder echoed in the distance as the dark of night swept over Gotham City like a violent hand cascading into the inhabitants' chests. It was almost loud enough to drown out the sirens in the distance, the crying of infant children in the background, the verbal altercations of motorists in the foreground, and every other potential assault on the senses. And yet as the rush of wind picked up and brought with it a sudden current and the weather seemed to weigh like a heavy ton of bricks hovering above the streets far below, a shadowy figure touched down onto a rooftop that seemed well removed from anyone's line of sight. For a moment, he remained standing, like a sprawled inkblot against a page that only wanted to soak into the fibers to become a permanent fixture. But he quickly found himself a reason to move. Each step forward was deliberate, slowly bringing the oddly shaped individual forward. Like a child experiencing his first steps. There was a hesitation evident, but a curiosity that seemed to prevail above all else. The figure stopped at the rooftop's edge and took in the view infront of him. The lights of the city's skyline seemed so distant from up here. From his position, it was as if he were inhabiting a sinister outer-world that were divorced from it. A realm of shadows, where the light couldn't touch. It felt cold and isolating, yet so vividly familiar. Like a horrible memory or a faded dream.

Then the rain began to sprinkle from the heavens. The figure reached out with a hand and allowed the droplets to smack against the black leather covering his palms. He allowed himself to forget, one last time, and simply experience it. The rain was inviting, even as it poured down harder with every passing moment. It seemed to beckon him forward, even though he remained firmly planted where he was. Telling him that this was the path he was meant to choose, guiding him towards a destination he hadn't even chosen. His exposed skin, what little of it was there, grew hotter with the humidity. All he had to do was close his eyes, breathe deep, and focus on what he'd been taught. More than half a world away, a voice rang through the back of his mind. Shihan Matsuda, an often cruel and unwavering master of the eight disciplines, had been the one to expand his knowledge of how to control his body. It took less than seventeen seconds for his core temperature to adapt.

This can't be how it ends.

The thought was less of a mortified rejection of the admittedly unusual tactics that he'd spent so many of the previous weeks developing and more of a defiant, angered bellow that acted as a call-to-arms to bring himself out of his childlike wonderment. The moment that his mind snapped into the present, his stature changed. He felt himself tense up, his palm clutching against the wet rooftop as he leaned against the edge. Hyper-focused, with a laser-like scan of the miles of concrete and suffering ahead of him. The truth of the matter is, he didn't have the slightest idea of what he was doing. He'd convinced himself otherwise not too recently, and that had ended in unmitigated disaster. A miscalculation had cost him weeks that had compromised an advantage that he had mistaken for being his. So he resolved himself to give into instinct instead of planning. Patience and fortitude would give him the weapons that he needed to enter battle in place of reliance and expectation. After all, this was war. And wars weren't won with time on the enemy soldier's side. They were won with a turning of the tide. Everything leading into that was designed to be fleeting and irrelevant.

Still, failure wasn't an option. He'd spent too many years and made too many mistakes for these endeavors to continually be halted by trial-and-error. He wasn't going to get anywhere by continuing to linger on the misfires, the moments where his overconfidence nearly got him killed before he could even begin. Otherwise, this would all amount to little else than insanity manifesting itself as a desperate last-ditch effort to justify fifteen years of globetrotting and honing everything he thought he knew into something definite. And any misgivings that he had about tonight aside, the one possibility that he couldn't begin to face was that it was insane. He'd sooner die than tell himself that. What he could tell himself with certainty was that one way or another, tomorrow morning would answer the question of whether or not any of it was ever worth it. Either he'd be in the headlines as an obituary or he'd have accomplished something beyond his wildest imagination. Either way, Alfred would likely be there to say 'Per the usual, I was right all along.'

No more questioning, he told himself. This was the time to focus on the task at hand. To look at the forest, ignore the trees, and hope that he didn't trip on his way in. Bringing up the back of his wrist, he touched a hidden screen running vertically down his forearm. The glow of the device illuminated the dark for a moment, giving him text alerts that had been automatically rerouted to his GPS from the Gotham City Police Department's radio dispatch, translating the feed through a text-to-speech writing algorithm that yielded higher accuracy than the most advanced search engine. Waiting for some sign of where to go and what to do first, he carefully scrolled through every minor alert that the GCPD were expected to respond to and often didn't. An electrical outage in a neighborhood south from his position. Some kids strolling late at night on the streets somewhere on Miagani Island. An amber alert that had already been solved by the time it reached the channels. As his brow furrowed and he started to grow frustrated, he saw a code flash across his screen that commanded his attention.

Code 211S. Silent alarm triggered in a robbery. He glanced out at Gotham upon memorizing the coordinates. Immediately, he surmised that the patrol car wouldn't make it in time. The neighborhood had been assigned to two men under the employ of Rupert Thorne, and Thorne had been busy as of late having all uniforms on his payroll ignore the areas between Robinson Park and 77th Avenue. A fifteen block radius that was going to remain unmonitored just because one of Gotham's most prominent fixers had it reserved for some unsavory activity that he'd yet to discern. But it meant that no matter what happens, even if active gunfire sprayed the into the walls of every building in the area, no cop would go near it if they valued their badge. Some even had to fear for the safety of their families.

But not him. Clenching his fist, he felt a surge of determination guide his movements as he pushed the cloak wrapped around his body far enough away to give him the space to move. The raindrops were now sliding in thick trails around his boots, and the concrete below the soles was getting slippery. But he ignored it all and broke out into a sprint across the roof, stopping himself only when he reached the other side. Turning to take one final look, he paced himself for a moment's preparation. Then ran forward even faster, reaching into the back of the belt around his waist for a device that would guide him over the next few blocks. As the edge of the rooftop came closer into view, he felt his heart pound against his chest and leaped over it, into the open air.

The device in hand, he reached out and fired it infront of the space ahead. A thick cable shot out into the night's sky and a multi-pronged titanium hook wrapped around a nearby railing. The line went taut and he went from free-fall into an ascent above the dark alleyways below him. Trying not to allow himself to be overwhelmed by the moment, there was nevertheless a feeling that had felt foreign beginning to manifest itself at his very core. It was wild, untamed and equally unnatural to the disciplines that he'd spent half a lifetime mending into second nature. But it was a feeling that definitely had a name, a name that shot across his mind like a massive surge of lightning.

Freedom.

---

"Guard's tied up. Fidgety old fucker's not going anywhere."

Lowering the walkie-talkie from his lips, a ski-mask clad hoodlum raised a semi-automatic uzi to mid-chest level as he and another stood watch for a larger group of thugs. They were in the midst of raiding a large truck full of wares infront of a shipping dock connected to a pharmaceutical company. The night watchman had seen them park onto the lot and managed to hit the silent alarm, but he wasn't much of a fighter when it came to defending himself from the brunt end of a gun. With an open gash across his forehead, the guard hopelessly watched as the masked men began to wheel crates off of the ramp and hoard them into the back of an unmarked van that had been sitting for hours across the street. Clearly, this heist had been planned in advance. But the thieves had been sloppy, casing the outside of the warehouse without even bothering to check for security measures. They simply wanted to get in and out with as much as they could carry and figured anything else would be wasted effort. The shipment had been broken into select palates, but the ones that they had clearly been eyeing were chemical components for the creation of a prescription antibiotic called Tromosierm, a fast-tracked but FDA-scrutinized answer to the epidemic of side-effects inflicted on patients that had been unfortunate enough to be exposed to airborne particles that had been sweeping Gotham's long-impoverished Bowery neighborhoods following the shutdown of several factories connected to the manufacturing of Janus Cosmetics.

The drug had also been rumored to make up one hell of an easy recipe to concoct military-grade heroin. The black market had been looking for a boom in sales of trade narcotics after Gotham's streets had opened back up following the worldwide epidemic, so now was the time to get in on the ground level of the seller's market. The problem with that being, in alot of supplier's minds, that anyone able to fake a diagnosis was being handed the keys to becoming a direct competitor. That's where these men had come in, being instructed to pick up the shipment before it could reach the streets by an industrious third party. For the sake of convenience, they had all chosen to remain anonymous to eachother - jobbers vying for a chance at an easy payday, most of whom had already been out of work for months. But the minute that they'd been supplied with the shipment of guns to help pull this off, there hadn't been any hesitation among the group. They were in it for the long haul, and the guaranteed prize was a couple of grand per crate. Harder tasks had been performed on these streets in recent months.

The ringleader had been a volunteer ex-marine with a chip on his shoulder. He was imposing enough, towering above every other member of the group by at least a good two feet with pounds of muscle that made him look built like a freight car.

"Take it nice and slow. Remember, the cops aren't coming."

"Yeah, that's what the boss said, too. I'm not taking any chances. They won't slap the cuffs on us for this, but that doesn't mean they're not gonna muscle us out of pocket and take this shit for themselves."

"Jesus, are we doing this or do you two wanna talk semantics for the rest of the night? The point is, there's no bust happening. That means we can parcel this out between at least a couple of cars. Larger the payload is, the bigger the payout."

The ringleader rolled his eyes. "There won't be a payout if any of you assholes mess up and damage the freight for being jumpy. Just make it as relaxed as you can, alright? We're on the clock."

"Hey, wait a minute. You hear something?"

"Hear what?"

"It sounded like..."

Everyone paused. They all looked to the gunmen watching the lot for any unwanted attention, who turned to them as soon as it became apparent that the theft had stopped in its tracks. At first, they both looked confused, looking at eachother as if something was amiss. But when they looked back at the truck, both of their eyes widened and their jaws collectively dropped. Raising their semi-automatics, both men were unexpectedly, swiftly taken down by something that had whisked by them in the torrential rain and flew up into the air. One fell forward onto the pavement, hard, while the other fell backward. The rest of the group had let go of their stack trucks in the immediate confusion and began to scan the area. They weren't hearing anything, mostly because of the storm. But something had definitely taken down their lookouts. Shining a flashlight across the lot, the ringleader stepped forward, armed with a large crowbar and a 47. magnum.

"Huh. What the hell's that thing on the ground?"

By the time the light focused on it, the group immediately recognized the small object embedded into the pavement as a piece of metal. But not any ordinary kind of artillery or bullet fragment, like they'd vaguely suspected. No sign of sniper rifle fire amongst the fallen bodies, which were still twitching with life. Instead, what they found was a single projectile, visibly sharp and shaped like an unusual form. It was almost as if it resembled a spread-out animal, with widened wings like sharpened razors and horns atop a flat head.

"Any of you ever seen shit like that?"

Before any member of the group could answer, a loud thumping noise bounced off of the top of the truck and caused each gunman to jerk in the opposite direction, flashing their lights towards whatever could have caused such a commotion. For a split second, none of them knew what to make of what they saw staring back at them. But it was enough of a glimpse to cause one of them to bellow in a shrill, immediate scream of fright. The figure looked down towards him first and raised it's arm. Suddenly, pockets of smoke erupted from the ground, catching each member of the thieves off entirely off guard as they ran for a safe distance. But their lungs were full in an instant, causing them to wheeze and cough while stumbling around, unable to see anything as their eyes were overpowered with irritation. None of them could speak, as their throats fought against them for air.

But they could all hear what happened next. Another muffled scream, before the same punk who had first reacted to whatever the hell had landed ontop of the truck could be heard grunting in pain, following a series of hard smacks against flesh. A crushing noise followed, similar to the sound of bones being smashed before the screams started again and were silenced. The ringleader pressed himself against a wall and aggressively wiped his eyes of stinging tears, unable to comprehend whatever had just happened. Was it the cops after all? This easily could have been tear gas, but the more the brutish thug thought about it, the less it made sense. Police would generally announce themselves, and nothing about whatever they had seen on the truck was explainable through police interference.

With a couple more coughs, he coarsely called out to the rest. "Hold the line! For fuck's sake, hold the line! This is an ambush! It's gotta be! It's gotta---"

Another projectile flew out of the cloud of smoke and embedded itself into the concrete next to him. He looked visibly confused as he got a closer look at the weapon. It looked like a...

"Wait a minute. Wait a fucking a minute."

He squinted, barely whispering his next utterance.

"Is that a... is that a bat?"

As if answering him, a dark, suddenly widened wingspan rose from the top of the smoke cloud and rushed forward. Black-clad hands reached out, grabbing the ringleader by the collar of his shirt and forcing him, with considerable strength, back into the disorienting smoke cloud as it began to dissipate. As the punk face-planted directly into gravel, hitting his jaw so hard that he saw one of his teeth violently dislodge and slide onto the lot with a thick trail of his own blood, he gazed up at the scene infront of him. Black boots landed directly into his field of vision, standing over several of the guys that he'd been watching load the crates into the van just seconds prior. They were knocked clean unconscious, with another few attempting to fire their weapons at whatever was coming at them. Either the guns were entirely jammed, somehow rendered unable to fire with only a clicking noise to offer, or the men wielding them were too scared out of their minds to try and blow away the thing. A wide swath of black leather-wrapped itself around two of the men at once and brought them colliding into the street, hard. Unwrapping itself, it only revealed two more of their ranks downed and out.

What the fuck is going on?!, the ringleader screamed inside of his own head. But there were no logical answers as the group became completely overwhelmed. Nine men had entered the lot with the intent to steal the chemical supplies that were only half-loaded. Six of them were now on their backs, their stomachs, slumped against the massive tires of the truck or otherwise incapacitated. The remaining three tried to fight, with one even pulling a knife against the rapidly-moving shadow that seemed to move from target-to-target. That unfortunate individual found his swing countered with an unseen motion, with the knife being driven directly into his own leg. As he cried out in pain and fell to the ground, clutching his fresh wound and attempting to foolishly pull out the handle plunged into his flesh, the massive form cracked like a whip against the remaining two thugs, sending them and their guns flying into one of the nearby crates.

The ringleader attempted to move, but his jaw felt numb and immobile. It caused him to wince hard, signaling either a fracture or a complete break. By the time he opened his eyes again, the guard was being untied, though the old man's eyes were as widened with shock as the group that had been taken down in less than a minute. One of the black-clad hands reached out to help the watchmen to his feet, while the boots turned - apparently, the figure had noticed that one of the men was still conscious, though his state was far from prime. Despite being a Marine, all that the massive man could do was try and crawl away. A futile gesture, as he was brought up from the ground by an iron grip and slammed, spine-first, against the nearby wall.

"Who hired you?"

The voice was impossibly deep, almost inhuman. Like the pit of hell itself had formed a throat to speak through. With a single step forward, the figure seemed to go from being massive, almost formless to being the shape of a tall, horned creature. While the ringleader tried to speak, mostly to utter a series of bewildered curses, blood only trickled out of his mouth and another tooth fell. This seemingly angered the shadow, who grabbed the ringleader by the throat and pressed the side of his head against the wall. The ski-mask was ripped from his head, revealing an ugly patch of blonde hair in a ponytail adorning a half-broken face, as the powerless soul shrieked in pain as his jaw's injury was exploited.

"ANSWER ME! WHO HIRED YOU?"

"Nuh... nuh nahm. Nuh nahm! Ah swear, ah..."

With another violent pull, the ringleader found himself staring down the most horrifying sight of his life. A visible stain formed in the front of his pants, despite the rain soaking everything, and his panicked breaths turned sharp as he looked upon the unfathomable thing that he and his fellow opportunists had apparently unleashed. He could see the guard slowly back away as the face only grew closer, encapsulating all that he could see.

"You swear?"

He shook his head repeatedly as if to say "it wasn't real" over and over, trying to wake himself from a dream that he couldn't shake if his life depended on it.

"Look me in the eyes."



"Say it again."

But it was very real.

And it was only getting started.

---

---

Dodds and Tyler sit in Rex’s boxy brown Chevy. A pudgy middle-aged Rex behind the wheel, as Wesley sat quietly in the passenger seat. The elderly man seemingly shrunken in the bucket seating.

“So how’ve you been anyway, Wes?”

“You know me, Rex. Running out the clock.”

A fleeting look of horror crossed Rex’s face, before his eyes returned to the road for a few minutes. Wes could see the cogs ticking in his former partner’s head as he tried to formulate a response.

“Well, you know, we all feel real bad about what happened. And yes, you seem to have been--”

“Rex.”

“--I mean, Terry’s a little older too, sure not where you are but--”

“Rex. It’s fine. It was a joke.”

“A joke? Yeah. Well, it’s a pretty shitty joke if you ask me...” His focus went completely back to the road.

“Rex. I had all of my years with Dian. As far as I’m concerned, everything else from here is just gravy.”

“Well… Alright. I guess you’ve made your peace with it.”

The pair drove the rest of the way to the funeral in silence.

---

---

Wesley stood by the grave alone, but with him. Company for a man who couldn’t even see if he was there. Whilst the other six all acted as pallbearers.

Because the job would be too much for a blind man or for sensitive Wesley.

Maybe it was fitting though, he thought. Since if it was him in the box instead of young Johnny Thunder, who’d be the odd one out standing with the good doctor? Probably Johnny, he suspected.

Ted Grant and Al Pratt carried from the front, the smaller man never wanting to seem backward in doing the heavy lifting. But with the Champ carrying the casket on his shoulder it looked almost comical watching Pratt lifting the box at a level above his head. Or would under different circumstances.

Terry Sloane and Jay carrying from the middle. Seems appropriate. The pair maintaining an even keel and lending support to what was always an odd blend of guys.

And Rex and Ted Knight bringing up the rear.

Wesley turned to the good doctor. “So… How’d the autopsy look?”

“I don’t know. Was found by NYPD. The state coroner's handling the autopsy.”

McNider didn’t play dumb. Both men knew exactly who he was talking to, and had too much respect to give an “Is that you, Wesley?” like he might in order to preserve his cover for another man.

“Even this one?” Wesley asked, looking for anything to read on the stoic man’s face. “You’re not going to find a way in for this one?”

He could see the question had been plaguing McNider’s mind as well. “It’s not as easy as that, Wesley.”

“It’s been years, Charles.”

The doctor turned to face the older man square on, making him feel uncomfortable as he gazed into faded sightless eyes. “It has been years.” McNider confirmed, with an emphasis on the 'firm'. “But the years haven’t treated all of us the same, have they? Some of us they might still press into service, if we were found. No matter how long we've been living with looking over our shoulders.”

Wesley dropped his head and mumbled into his shoes. “Sorry, Chas.”

A few seconds passed and they moved back to standing side by side as they waited for the coffin to be brought to the grave. The older, but more vibrant looking doctor donned dark glasses which looked out of place on this unseasonably overcast day and sighed deeply, before turning to Wesley.

“I can’t PERFORM the cut, Wesley. But I have a line to a man on the inside. I’ll be getting a full copy of the report and filings a few days after the fact.”

“I get it. I’m curious and I care too, Wes. But I still can’t afford to take any stupid risks.”

“Thanks.” The pair quickly reconciled.

Looking to break the ice, the conversation was quickly changed. “Rex looks… like he’s filling out.” McNider looked for the right words, but with none coming to mind settling for selecting blunt ones.

“Yes. It’s the stuff. It’s wreaked havoc on his metabolism. I suppose we’ve all paid our prices in one way or another.”

The blind man mumbled in agreement as the casket was brought forward.

Issue # 1.02: The Crimson Room

---

The body has many visceral reactions to extreme stimuli. It’s specific response to seeing a demonic goat man missing half its arm and having its flayed face take form from your lunch happens to be barfing the rest of said lunch.

“Oh God!” Buddy exclaimed as he felt this urge, trying to fight this primal compulsion for expulsion. Much to his horror and dismay, the bits of his host still stuck inside him had started to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth along with bile it had taken along with it from his digestive tract. This left him heaving and teary-eyed, completely grossed out by this experience. However, instead of lying on the ground, the chunks of vomited meat started to gravitate towards their main host and began to reform the goat man’s form to completion. No sign of it being partially digested inside Buddy’s stomach could be seen at all.

“Welcome once again to The Red, avatar Baker. I see your guardian has found a way for you to bypass The Dreaming and reach us.” the goat man would state with a slight nod to acknowledge Socks.“I am of the Parliament but, in this form as your overseer, you may address me as Silenos.”

“Alright... Silenos…” Buddy took a momentary pause, still reeling from the clear violation of his personal space. “I don’t even know where to begin because this shit is insane!”

“Recall our first contact. We had reclaimed your body from death’s door and you had agreed to be our avatar – an agent that will channel The Red’s powers in the mortal plane to fulfill our interests. As for this location, it is your psyche’s sanctuary within our vast domain.”

This did nothing to clear Buddy’s confusion and frustration. Sensing this, Silenos had began to reshape the vast, hellish landscape to something more sensible yet equally outlandish. Red curtains appeared from seemingly nowhere and began to veil the endless vista and the reddish soil had now been covered by zebra-striped carpeting with an accompanying zebra head at the center of it all. The scent of blood and meat still lingered in the air.

“Perhaps this change of scenery is more calming. I recall one of our other avatars being partial to this setup for his sanctuary.” Silenos stated, now dressed in a three-piece red suit instead of his judge robes from earlier. Smooth jazz could be heard in the background.

“Wait, how did you do that?” Buddy inquired, curious as to how this magical force actually operated.

“It is simple. We are in The Red. As long as it is made of flesh, bone, or skin then we are able to manipulate it as we see fit and give form according to our desires.” As Silenos spoke, Buddy soon noticed that the drapes surrounding him were, in fact, thin slices of unspoiled beef which probably explained the smell. Knowing that he would be able to do what his host had just done, Buddy began to visualize something composed of any of those three components described earlier. His imagination raced at all the possibilities he would be able to shape. This was the power of creation! And yet, he could not think of what he could possibly…

“Chair!” Buddy exclaimed. Soon, bone as bright as polished ivory had risen beneath the zebra rugs and formed an exact replica of his studio apartment’s kitchen seat. Gazing upon it, he soon noticed his own reflection against the fixture. The injuries he sustained from earlier were still there but if Silenos could reshape half its missing body then, surely, he could fix a small laceration. Touching his face, Buddy could feel his own flesh bending to his will as if he was an artist shaping clay to the vision of his image.

“Quite impressive. Now, as for why specifically we choes ouy ot emoceb ruo ratava.” It was occurring once more. Silenos had began to speak in the same gibberish language he had been using the first time around. Before he could make sense of it all, Socks had placed his paw against Buddy’s leg.

“Your mortal form is in danger, Baker.” Socks would state before Buddy would suddenly awaken still in the middle of the butcher shop floor. However, an immense, putrid rot had taken over the room and a loud banging against the entrance amplified the headache Buddy was suffering from his collapse. A quick glance at the store’s stock soon revealed that all of the meat on display had suddenly decayed as if it had been doing so for months. The butcher was braced against the door, struggling to keep something from getting in. Multiple figures could be seen crowding against the entrance from the display windows next to it.

“Baker, they have found us. We must leave.”

“What, who?!”

The door swung wildly, knocking back the butcher but he was quick to get back up on his feet. Unsheathing a kitchen knife from his back, the store proprietor had stabbed the first figure to walk in right in the throat. This would only prove futile as the figure nonchalantly pulled the knife from his body.

“Agents of our rival – The Rot.”

---

Blue Beetle stared at the small drone that floated silently in front of him. It wasn't any bigger than a small Frisbee, though it was shaped much like the scarab whose tech led to its design. It was silent, ran on solar power, and could, theoretically, change its color to suit its environment. Ted had designed it to be able to infiltrate places that were too dangerous for him, and it was going to get its first try out tonight.

"Okay, little buddy," he talked to the thing, even though he knew it couldn't hear him. "Don't get caught. I'd hate to have to self destruct you on your first spy mission."

The drone didn't respond, obviously, and Ted made his way back to the pilot chair. With a flip of a switch, the hatch in the floor of the Bug opened, and the drone dropped out of the craft. In front of Ted, the viewport of the Bug turned into a 360 degree view of the area around the Beetle drone. He took the controls, and flew the little drone down towards the precinct.

Using the anitgrav generators, the mini Bug was silent and stealthy as it approached its destination. The windows of the detention cells were squat and thin, but by the Bug's calculations the drone would be able to slip through and get in communication with the prisoners inside.

Now he just had to find them.

It was easy enough to track the heat signatures inside the building, but Ted needed to make sure he got a cell with one of the men who had lost the crazy coloring he had found them wearing in the first place. He didn't need one of the other, crazier inmates sounding the alarm. He didn't need to get in a chase with a police helicopter tonight.

The drone drifted silently past the first window and peered in. Ted could see one of the men still swirled with what seemed like every neon color of the rainbow. He seemed to be murmuring to himself as he ran his hands through his snow-white hair, tugging at it as he did. A guard passed by the cell and he yelled something about how they couldn't stop the revolution. How no one could.

"Maybe 'Madniks' aren't that bad of a name after all," Ted mused to himself as he pushed the drone's controls towards the next cell.

Inside that one sat a man with a much more haggard appearance. His white, button up shirt was stained with sweat, the bags under his eyes were the size of suit cases, and it looked as if he had been crying. It took Ted a moment to realize that this man was the one he had knocked out on the roof of STAR Labs before he had entered. On the roof he had seemed to be as lithe and dangerous as the others in his gang, but now he came off as nothing more than a pitiable creature in a cage.

With a sigh, Ted pushed the drone into the cell. It was clear the man had no idea that the small device had joined him, so Ted turned on the drone's holographic projector, and an image of himself appeared in front of the man, who jumped back in fear, "No! You can't make me do anything again!"

"Shhh! Shut up!" Ted put his hands up. "I'm here to help you."

"I don't believe you," the prisoner's eyes were wide with fear, darting back and forth. "Technology like this is the only explanation. Did you implant something in my brain? In all our brains?"

"I didn't implant anything into you brain," Ted shook his head. "I'm the guy that tried to stop you and your friends the other night. And after I knocked you out I watched as you went from something out of a Tex Avery cartoon to what you are now. That doesn't make any sense, and I gotta figure out what the hell is going on."

"Wait...," the imprisoned man looked down at his hands before looking back at Ted, "you're telling me I looked like one of them? One of the others?"

The Blue Beetle nodded his head, "You did indeed. Jumping around like a madman. Talking about anarchy. The whole deal. You really don't remember any of it?"

"Not a second," he shook his head despondently. "The last thing I remembered before waking up in a cell was leaving work. It was late, and I felt someone behind me. I turned, and...that was it."

Feigned amnesia wasn't new in the world of criminal defenses. It was as old as laws themselves, and never had held up beyond a moment's consideration. But Ted felt deep down inside that there was something stranger about all of this. He had watched this very man go from looking like a paint store explosion to what was sitting in front of him. If that was possible, it was damn well possible that the man could have no recollection of his activities while he was in that state.

"Listen, I believe you, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you are set free," Blue Beetle assured the man. "But I'm going to need all the information I can possibly get. You said you were attacked at work. Where was that?"

The man chuckled, "That's the funny thing. I worked at STAR Labs. All of us who don't remember anything do. We all worked in the biotech lab that was robbed."

Kord's mind swam at this admission. This was worse than he had imagined beforehand. Whoever had broken in needed these men's knowledge about their work, which included the vaccine for the recent pandemic. If whoever was behind all this was looking to do some serious biological damage, there wasn't a better place to start. With the technology they had stolen, they could design a vaccine-resistant form of the virus if they really wanted to. Such a thing would be catastrophic to the world.

Before Ted could ask any more questions, however, a huge spotlight from below drew his attention away from the interview with the man. Blue Beetle cursed under his breath, realizing that the police had somehow been alerted to his presence. Could have been a lucky glance from a cop smoking on the roof, he didn't know. All he did know was that he couldn't hang around any longer.

"I have to go," he quickly said to the innocent man. "But I'm not going to leave you to rot in this cell. I promise."

The small drone was recalled, and almost immediately the Bug shot into the dark sky, disappearing out of the view of a police in a blink.

---

The multi-colored man stood impatiently in the dimly lit warehouse he was instructed to meet his employer for payment. Under his arm was a small, but powerful, piece of bio-engineering equipment that had been his mission. He didn't care what it did or what his employer wanted with it. All he knew was that he was going to make more money than he could imagine for handing it over. With that money he could really paint the town red...or every color under the sun.

"You're late," a robotic voice, one that seemed to emanate from a computer announced itself from the darkness.

Farley Fleeter had never met his benefactor. All the madman knew was that he had more money than God and was probably smarter than the big guy too. He promised Farley free reign and all the money he could ever want as long as the anarchist did a job for him now and again. Word on the street was the guy was called "The Brain", but Fleeter would never say that to his boss's face...if he ever saw his face of course.

"Traffic is just hell in this city," Fleeter chuckled. "But I have the gene splicer like you asked."

"You had trouble," the passionless, monotone voice responded.

Farley cursed under his breath. Of course The Brain had heard about the weirdo in the blue suit. The men that had been captured almost certainly had blabbed. Why wouldn't they have? No one expected a weirdo in a suit showing up to try and stop them from accomplishing their goal.

"Yes," Fleeter sneered. "Some joker in blue. Was fast. Trained fighter. I thought my men could take care of him. Clearly I was wrong."

A long moment of silence hung in the air between them. The hair stood on the neck of Fleeter. He didn't know why. He was fast and he was agile. Even moreso now than before. But something about the presence of the man that made him what he was unnerved him.

"Unforeseen circumstances must be anticipated," the electronic voice chided him. "Months ago the world did not seem as odd as you now know it to be. Did you truly think you were now invincible?"

"Well, no, but I mean, what are the chanc-"

"Much greater than you can calculate," The Brain cut him off. "While you use your abilities for crime, there are others that certainly will use them for the law. Especially when the 'law' of the city are not to be counted on."

Fleeter's eyes narrowed, "You saying this guy is like me?"

"Unknown without more known observation," was the reply. "But he is a variable that must be understood. Please place the splicer where you stand."

Fleeter looked down before trying to take a step forward. Before he did so however, a deep, angry growl came from somewhere else in the darkness. It wasn't from the same direction that The Brain had been talking to him from. No, this was from behind him. He quickly dropped the device, and was rewarded with a duffle bag of money tossed through the air towards him.

"Thank you, Mr. Fleeter," the robotic voice was gracious. "Now, I would like you to use that money as you see fit. That will draw out our new friend and allow me to analyze him a bit more."

Azarath.

"A calling by name. By speaking the name of the plane of the Azar, one opens the mind and soul to the possibility of worlds beyond our current perception of reality. Older studies of the occult, particularly in the areas of demonology, believe that to know the name of an angel or demon is to have power over it, and in a sense this is true, but not the entire truth. Speaking the true name of an outside entity can bind it, but this is a two-way connection: you may bind a demon to you, but you also bind yourself to it. Thus, it is important to practice the utmost caution when speaking the names of things beyond our world. The Azar are generally benevolent, but naming one is to invite their own wrath upon you. Therefore, it is best to name their plane, Azarath. By binding Azarath to you and yourself to Azarath, you connect to both their world and our own, expanding your perception, your empathy, and your potency as a practitioner of applied metaphysics."

"Uh-huh," I say with skepticism as I read through my mom's old copy of The Great Door, the Dianetics-like text that the Children of Azarath use as the basis of their cult. "Applied metaphysics" is the preferred name they have for magic; ironically, by slapping science-sounding nomenclature onto what is ultimately a bunch of spells and rites and nonsense, they pretend to understand it and have power over it. I grew up around this stuff, and always thought it was nonsense. Now, I'm not so sure.

Metreon.

"An Awakening. Not to be confused with Metatron, the greatest of the Angels in Hebrew lore; or Metron, an entity of an entirely different pantheon best left alone by mortals, Metreon is the Azar name for the levels of existence within ourselves that extend past the body. The closest term we have for this is the 'Soul,' our conscious psyche, our memories, our awareness and willpower and empathy. To understand Metreon is to understand that we ourselves are infinite, and to speak the true name Metreon is to connect to that infinity. If speaking Azarath connects you to the infinity of their realm, speaking Metreon connects you to the infinity of the realm that is your Soul Self."

I've been having recurring dreams about Mom, about the last time I saw her. She keeps telling me to find "the three words that unlock the soul." So far, this mantra is the only thing I've found that sound even close to what she means.

Calling it a "mantra" is generous, given that's a term for an actual religious practice. I ought to call them what they are: magic words.

Zinthos.

"An opening. Zinthos is the name of the Great Door, the barrier between all worlds. For those who do not understand the principles of applied metaphysics, Zinthos is closed; the physical world is the only one they can see and interact with. If Zinthos is open for you, the physical world, the world of the Azar, and the world of your Soul Self all become one. Through the Azar, all things are possible. Through your Soul Self, all possibilities are focused through your willpower and your thought. Through the physical world, those possibilities become reality.

In your meditations, in your explorations into dreams, and in your practice with applied metaphysics, the mantra will awaken and empower your Soul Self, and allow you to project the power and wisdom of the Azar into the physical world.

Connect to the higher realm.

Awaken your true self.

Open the Great Door.

Azarath.

Metreon.

Zin--"

"Friend Rachel, I have the most joyous news!" Kory bursts into the loft above the book store, startling me to the point where I almost fall out of my chair. "I have acquired an ally in our battles, who will teach me the ways of the Ani-May!"

"Wha--" I start, scrambling to cover my books. "Kory, you can't just bring people in here! What if they're with--"

"Oh, ummmmmm, hi, should I....should I go?"

The boy she's brought into our apartment is overweight, with greasy pockmarked skin, a patchy neck beard and mutton chops, stringy red hair done up in a top knot, and a T-shirt with a logo for something called Pretty Pretty Pegasus on it. I feel like I've seen him somewhere before....

"Friend Rachel, this is the Friend Alex," Kory introduces us. "He is a merchant among the Dorks, and commands the Space Marines of the Imperium of Man in the world of the Forty-Kay. Friend Alex, this is Friend Rachel, who--"

"Uhh, we've actually kinda met," Alex says sheepishly. "At the, uh, at the Control Freaks concert the other day?"

"....oh, right, that was you," I remember. "Sorry I yelled at you. I had.....a migraine."

Really, I had a voice that sounded like the universe falling apart shouting in my head. But he doesn't need to know that.

"It's, uh, it's okay," he says, shifting uncomfortably on pigeon-toed feet. "So, Kory says you're playing a spellcaster, right? And she's your Fighter. So I was thinking, maybe I could be, like, a rogue or something?"

"......what?"

"The LARP you're doing this weekend at the con," he explains. "She said you were going to attack a hive of some kind, so I thought you'd need, like, a sneaky ninja guy to help infiltrate? I mean, I don't know what kind of rule system you're using, but like, I've read all of Ashida Kim's ninjitsu books, so I know how to--"

"Okay, one second," I cut him off as I start to realize what he's saying. "Kory, can I talk to you?"

"I was not aware that you were unable to talk to me now," she says.

"In private," I specify. "Sorry, um, Alex, can you wait downstairs for a minute? I need to discuss some things with my, um....team mate."

"Okay, sure, yeah," he nods, "Just whatever you decide, I'm not playing Paladin. Paladins are for babies."

The greasy nerd waddles his way downstairs, and once the door is closed, I round on Kory.

"What were you thinking?!" I burst. "We don't know anything about this guy. What if he's working for the HIVE? And you just led him right to us!"

Kory's eyes widen with realization.

"My apologies," she says, dropping to her knees and bowing in penance. "I only intended to find allies to aide us, not bring potential enemies to us. It did not occur to me that this Dork could be capable of deception."

"...well, to be fair, he's probably not," I admit. "He looks like the only damage he could do is leave a nasty comment on a Youtube video. But that's the other thing-- he thinks this is a game, Kory, that it's all pretend! If he gets wrapped up in all this, it's going to get him killed!"

"But surely his army of rare and shiny Pokémon will--"

"That's a video game, Kory!" I shout in exasperation. "Everything he was telling you about Space Marines and ninjas and whatever, it's all just entertainment. It's not real. He thinks that we're playing a game, and so he was telling you about all the other games he plays."

".....so I have not made a powerful ally, then?"

"No, Kory, you haven't," I say, relieved that she gets it.

"...I see," she says, before her smile returns. "But I have still succeeded in making a new friend! Rather than use his companionship for our strategic ends, we may simply enjoy his company for its own sake!"

"Heyyy, are you, um, you still talking up there?" Alex shouts from downstairs. "Because I was thinking, I don't wanna be a rogue. I wanna be a Goblin Slayer! You know, like the anime?"

".....oh yeah. I can't wait to have this guy around all the time."

"Splendid! He has promised to show us the Ani-May so we may understand the way of the Dork! A fellow Dork at the comic shop also says Alex draws his own Hen-tai, though I am unsure what that is. _{....the boy said it involves tentacles, so I assume it is some sort of aquatic art? Will I need to acquire swimming gear? Perhaps if I conduct research on the Inter-net....}"

This is just what I need. More distractions. More loose ends. More things to barge into my life and break my concentration. More nonsense.

"Why not," I say to myself, rolling my eyes as Kory rushes down the stairs to speak with our sweaty new friend. "Everything's been nonsense since I came to Jump City. Why not a little more? At least it's not more new-age occult garbage, more hocus-pocus and abracadabra and Azarath Metreon Zinthos--"

And then the entire world turns to shadow.

The Travis Residence
Gotham City, NJ
5:34 PM

“Leave it on the doorstep, please.”

“The pandemic is over, Lee. You don't need contact free delivery,” Wing yelled through the door. “You're not answering the phone so I came over in person. How about you let me in instead of us shouting through the door?”

A moment later, the door swung cautiously open. Lee peered out at Wing, hunting through the just-delivered box from the liquor store. “Dutch schnapps? Raspberry wine? Lee, can you seriously not even go on a drinking binge like the rest of us?”

“What do you want, Wing?”

“A few things, actually,” Wing said, pushing past him and into the brownstone. He wrinkled his nose at the empty bottles and takeout cartons littering surfaces. “You to have a shave, drink some black coffee, and get on that red coat of yours. Because we're going to go rescue some laborers.”

Lee grumbled, squinted at Wing. “What are you talking about?”

“Let's just say I've been busy. For starters, I've been having Speed check out that parcel of land you told me about before you went to pieces. By the way, I paid him out of my own savings and he's not cheap. I expect to be reimbursed, but we'll talk about that later. He wasn't able to get close because they have armed guards, but he's spotted a large sleeping quarters and trucks coming and going. He's identified some of the drivers as teamsters for Ace Chemicals.”

“So it's a good bet they're burying the waste out there and using the migrants for it,” Lee said, interested despite himself.

“Exactly,” Wing said with an approving jab into the air. “Not much for hard evidence, though. We need witnesses to testify.”

“Who would be willing? The traffickers, the Camorra, the Ace Chemicals guys, they're all going to be pretty tough to crack.”

“That's just it. We have to bust out the laborers, as many as possible. I've made some quiet overtures to Jill, and she's pretty sure she can cut a deal with a US Attorney. We might be able to keep them from being deported in exchange for testifying. I mean, what's going to be a bigger feather in the court's cap, sending a few dozen poor people overseas or taking down a massive pollution conspiracy?”

“You did all this?” Lee asked, genuinely impressed.

“You could've done it too if you hadn't locked yourself in here to drink- ugh, organic blueberry cider? Are you serious?” Wing said, wincing as he rooted through the liquor store delivery. “Look, Lee, I'm gonna be straight with you. I get that you feel bad about what happened to that guy. I do. But what you're doing, this is a privilege. Those laborers are getting beaten and exposed to chemical waste every day while you're in here feeling sorry for yourself. Bigotry, corruption, crime- they're not stopping because you accidentally knocked a guy out a window and decided to get drunk. Not everyone can just stop and pretend these things don't exist.”

“Look, Wing, a man is dead because of me. I need some time-”

“Lee, right now time is a luxury. People are in danger and you have to act. I'm sorry. I know it's a lot to think about. But it has to wait. This is what this is all about. You've got to rise above yourself and act. Then, when it's over, then you can weigh and contemplate and process. But right now they're using people to poison the earth and cover their misdeeds.” Wing spotted the red trilby hat atop the sofa, gently picked it up and handed it to Lee. “An avenger will come, right?”

Lee slowly, gingerly, reached out and took the hat. He considered it for a moment, then nodded once, briskly to himself.

“Qui vindecet ibit.”

The Farm
Salem County, NJ
12:11 AM

“Go! Go! Go!” the Crimson Avenger roared as he delivered the last knockout punch to the guard's face. The laborers, their faces thin and pale, rushed up the ramp and crowded into the back of the truck. Wing, waiting in the cab, yelled instructions and encouragement in good Mandarin and mediocre Spanish. They looked weak, but supported those who had trouble walking, stayed orderly.

Another guard rushed at the Crimson Avenger, his nose still bloodied from the roundhouse kick Wing had used on him a scant moment ago. He had recovered his senses enough to draw a knife. The masked man had no time for him. One of the twin .45s was snapped out of its holster. He sighted quickly and fired. The guard roared in pain, dropped the knife and grabbed at his bleeding wrist. He fell to the ground, rolling in pain over the unconscious bodies of his companions.

The Crimson Avenger looked around the barn, converted to something like a barracks hall with bunk bed and chemical toilets. Satisfied everyone was accounted for, he rushed forwards and jumped into the open back of the box truck. A dozen hands grabbed at his arms and helped him in. He pounded on the metal side of the compartment, and the truck roared to life and lurched forwards.

Wing tore for the gate of the rural property at increasing speed, bumping along the gravel road. The Crimson Avenger heard the blare of an alarm, saw figures running from the rural farmhouse to vehicles in an attempt to give chase. He wasn't concerned- Wing had taken care to slash every tire but those on the truck they had just stolen.

There came a crash of the wooden gate splintering, and the road beneath them turned from gravel driveway to paved highway. The light of the compound faded into the distance as the newly freed laborers cheered. They were on their way to Gotham and freedom, a fresh way to challenge the Ace Chemicals conspirators. The Crimson Avenger sighed in relief. “Fiat justitia ruat caelum,” he whispered to himself.

The people were safe. Next would come justice, vengeance would be visited upon Slim Chance, the Camorra, Ace Chemicals. A hard, difficult fight lay ahead.

But for now, the Crimson Avenger allowed himself the luxury of a smile as the truck roared into the cool New Jersey night.

---

'The Brown House' - East Warrens, Santa Marta

Issue #1.02: Have a Little Faith

'Hi, my name's Stephanie Brown. This is my bedroom.'

The clock strikes 6:00 AM and an alarm goes off on her smartphone. Its Michael Buble's cover of Feeling Good blaring out at max volume, demanding she rise to meet the morning. Steph gargled out a groan and rolled over until she was close enough to the nightstand to smack the screen, silencing it. A machine wasn't about to tell her how to live her life.

'And that's...me! I've never been very good at waking up.'

It was 6:30 AM, announced the alarm, and it was time to get up! The soothing yet energetic sound of jazz drifted through the bedroom, joined by the first rays of sunlight to peak through the window. It was a brand new day for Santa Marta, California, and the first day back to school since the pandemic came to an end. It was a day full of possibilities, hopes, aspirations...and Stephanie wanted none of it. She scrambled to mute her alarm for a second time before she was too awake to regret it.

'Never been very good at anything normal, really.'

7:00 AM rolled around and Michael Buble started singing right on schedule-

...Aaannnd Stephanie promptly shut him up before he could get two words out. She was quite on top of the whole 'not waking up' thing.

'But- given the whole cluster that was my childhood- can you really blame me?'

A knock on the door came at 7:45 AM. "Steph, honey, are you almost ready?" Crystal Brown called. "I spotted the bus stopped down the road while I was making us breakfast and came to check up on you." She paused for a beat, listening for a reply that didn't come. "Its waffles, bacon and eggs, by the way, just how you like them! I figured it would be a good way to celebrate going back to school after such a long hiatus. I know this pandemic's made things difficult, especially after the move, but I think..."

'That's my mom: my last, great anchor to reality. She rescued me from Bludhaven almost two years ago, now, no questions asked. I'd do anything for her- except eat her cooking.'

Stephanie blinked the crust off of her eyes and sat up, her head pounding. The sun was shining right in her face, she could hear her mother's muffled speech from other side of the door, and what was rapidly becoming her least favorite song in the world was playing in the background. Sliding out of bed, Steph stumbled over to the nightstand and plucked up her phone to shut it up. Then she saw the time.

"Shit!" She could've sworn it was six-something the last time she checked! How long had she dozed off for?

"Hey!" Mom yelled, her voice muffled by the door between them, "Language!"

Blankets went flying as she leapt outta bed, making a mad dash for her wardrobe. The bus would be gone in five minutes, tops. No time to get ready. Had to throw on the first pair of clothes she found. Deodorant was basically a shower in a can, right? That'd do. Hairbrush for the road. Grab the backpack outta the corner she'd tossed it in all those months ago. Try to tie her shoes and walk at the same time. Fail, fall over. Ouch. Finish tying before getting up. Was that everything?

She looked to the chest at the foot of her bed and her gaze lingered. Its body was all black save for the gold on its hinges, trimmings and lock. The colors were desaturated, the surface scratched and worn down by time. That chest's contents were all she'd brought with her when she left home.

'I already know what you're going to say. "Steph, you're paranoid! You should be packing rulers, notebooks and, like, calculators, not a grappling hook!" And I know, I know- you're right. You're right! The chances something goes wrong? Super low. But, on the off-chance something DID happen-'

Another knock on her door shook her out of it. "Sweetie, are you okay? You're going to be late!" Her mom called.

'No. No, not this time.' Stephanie sprung to her feet and made for the door, quick as could be.

Crystal started to turn the doorknob and step inside. "-You can't be late on your first day of senior year, Steph. After all, you're-"

Stephanie bolted right past her mom, nearly knocking her over in the process. "Sorry! In a hurry!" She called over her shoulder as she jumped onto the stairway handrail and started sliding down it. "Oh, and-"

---

The eight men stood around the grave. What procession there had been was long gone. The Preacher moved on to the next funeral, marriage or baptism and the small group stood around occasionally breaking the silence with a memory or two.

Ted Grant had produced a flask from the inside of his suit; a rare sight, since the former heavyweight contender was still generally in the habit of treating his body like a temple. That said, it was being passed around with little regard for the recent sickness, moreso than carrying Grant through. Seems he had brought it more for the community of the occasion, than to drown in its contents himself.

Which Wesley was pleased to see. Johnny Thunder had been “Wildcat” Grant’s partner, after all, and Wes had no small concern as to how he would take the news.

As the flask was passed around, Wes took a small swig, even though he was usually tee-total and passed it on to Terry Sloane.

Al was telling some old story, reminiscing about his own swashbuckling days. A yarn they’d all heard many times before. Where Al had stormed in over his head and fists a blur, and even his partner Terry would not be enough – a truly rare occasion, when numbers were so great that even Hoover’s pet, the one they all playfully called Mister Terrific, was seen to not be enough – and further backup had been called.

Sloane took a drink from the flask and clapped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. Offering him a smile, and the flask. Ted took another belt and passed it on to Al, who was by now already drunk on nostalgia.

“And they called you, and this little kid in to bail us out.” Al said, far too obnoxiously for the cemetery environment.

“And I thought to myself, sure… send in the guy who was gonna fight Cassius Clay back in the day…”

“Ali.” Wes gently corrected, albeit too quiet for Al Pratt to hear now that he was in full swing.

“…but this pre-pubescent kid is going in with him? Ha ha ha!” The flask found its way to Rex Tyler as Pratt laughed.

“But you did it! You never did tell us how, exactly, but you did it!”

Grant had gone quiet. He reached out to Tyler to retrieve the flask before his turn. Sloane’s sharp eye watched as Grant took a heavy slug of its contents.

“I think that’s enough Al.” Sloane said.

“Enough? ‘s fine. We’re all just talkin’.” Al kept smiling and laughing.

“Al.” With a word, he quelled the smaller man. Without conflict, without condescension. His tone and inflection were perfect for getting his message across and understood.

And when it all came down to it, that’s what Terry did best. Sure, he had degrees in more scientific fields of endeavour than you could imagine, and yes, he was an athletic marvel who could do the unthinkable and make it look simple, but above all else he could connect with people.

He was an agent, just like any other in the taskforce, with no apparent leverage and yet he was able to talk Hoover and government handlers into giving them a considerable amount of latitude. Not enough to grant those who didn’t want ‘in’ their freedom, but he convinced them to make things far more comfortable than they had to.

At the time he’d wondered if perhaps there were something more there with Hoover, considering how enamoured he seemed to be with the man. But as time went on, Wes saw that most people seemingly wanted to please him and he was just naturally convincing – people want the popular guy to like them. Mister Terrific. And Terry Sloane also did pretty much embody the traits that Hoover had originally claimed he most wanted for his FBI, and therefore his JSA members. It was well worth the Director’s efforts to keep that man happy, on side and comfortable.

“Ted. It’s alright. We miss the kid too…”

---

---

The eight were dispersing to their cars. Rex had the smart idea to continue the “party” at a local bar he knew to be very discreet, Al was more than happy to second the notion and the rest merely fell in behind to prevent the two from getting into too much trouble.

Nothing ever changes really.

Wes hobbled along, whilst Rex tried to race Al back to their cars in the parking lot. Al never backing down from any challenge, and Rex desperate to turn back the clock to glory days of yore.

“You riding with me?” The aging scientist asked of the much older man.

“Looks like it.” Wesley replied.

“Noticed you were talking to Chas earlier.” Ted mentioned. “Everything all OK there?”

Dodds considered. He probably saw the irritation on his partner’s face, so Wesley decided to come all the way clean.

“I asked him about the autopsy. Given who died, I was a little too insistent. Insensitive. Stupidly so.”

Ted nodded his head, which told Wesley that he was right. It was unsurprising. Knight and McNider were probably the most solid unit back in the old JSA days too. Both were balanced and careful in their consideration. Charles with his surgical background, and Ted coldly logical with his own engineering roots. Both had each other’s backs at every turn.

Wesley got on well with both of them, but it was sometimes frustrating as they seemed surprised that other partnerships didn’t always find it so easy to be on the same page.

“He told me he has a line on the autopsy report, once it’s completed but couldn’t safely be involved with the cut. Which, all things considered, makes sense I suppose.”

Ted kept nodding his head, seemingly confirming things he’d already gleaned and following the explanation of facts.

“So…” Wes broke the silence.

“So, what?” The taller man asked.

Wesley stopped and levelled a weary older glare at the younger man, his eyes looking over the rim of his glasses. A glare that said wasting time was for the young.

The two understood each other well and had their own ways and actions.

Ted Knight saw himself as the family man, settled down and got married after the disbandment of the Justices for the Society of America. From what Wesley had heard, he’d had a few kids with his old sweetheart, before their marriage soured – whilst Ted continued in the adventuring business, using tips from a network of sources both in the FBI and local law enforcement. Wesley knew for a fact that anything that ever crossed the crime desk of any officer who went by the name “O’Dare” in the PD, chances were Ted already knew about it.

Wesley meanwhile, took full advantage of the breakup of the group. Dove headlong into his whirlwind romance with the lovely Dian Belmont, and whose leads on adventuring mostly came from his own prophetic dark dreams.

They both knew exactly what Wes was asking. Ted was just trying to make him come out and say it.

“The FBI’s not handling it, to the best of my knowledge. They’ve been informed, since the body’s flagged, but to my knowledge their attitude is pretty much ‘the less the public knows about the JSA these days, the better’. Unless it gets messy and needs to be cleaned up, it looks like it’ll be kept local.”