Industrial Bank Of Gotham - IBG Tower
Rooftop Level, 27th Floor
3:26 AM

Like a gentle fluttering against the night's sky, seven figures descend from the clouds above Gotham City without making so much as a single sound. Each man is outfitted in a state-of-the-art military flight suit, heavily modified with the latest in special-ops stealth capabilities. Draped in black and gray camo lining an all-black uniform, complete with featureless balaclavas and smoke-lined goggles, the group quietly encircle their target below as a means of gaining precision. They've scoped the place out for weeks, monitoring the building's security protocols and its operative fluctuations day in, day out. The guard station is located on the thirteenth floor, requiring a keycode and a retina scan just to be able to gain entry to a massive terminal of live feeds covering the whole of the tower. By the time that they would make touchdown on the roof, at least three separate cameras would easily spot them and send out a priority one red alert, triggering an extensive lockdown and sending out at least five silent alarms to five different GCPD precincts.

This paradoxically doesn't happen, as each paraglider elegantly makes a safe landing upon the vacant helipad that stands roughly a yard away from the rooftop entrance. The leader of the group, nicknamed "Piece" in their bid for anonymity, rises from uncoupling the wings of his flight suit and produces a handheld device with a green light blinking. A gift from their employer, designed specifically to trigger a dormant system virus that will automatically reprogram the rooftop cameras to display a loop of the last few minutes. The others quickly shed their parachute and wings in unison, revealing large duffel bags, each filled to the brim with equipment.

Piece raises his right arm and makes a fist, indicating that the two to his left - "Marker" and "Dial" - should run ahead and begin their work on the security lock on the entrance. As they rush forward, Piece reaches into a large pouch affixed to the back of his suit and pulls out two pieces, a large barrel and a trigger, before snapping them together to form a modified HK416 assault rifle. The other four - following Piece's lead - reach into their own and produce a variety of similar rifles, from an M16 to an M26 shotgun.

"Alright. Let's give our boys some air. Sixty-second rotation across the roof, in a straight line and turn."

Piece signals two of them to the right. "Alpha, you're the pointmen. Anyone is spying on us from any of the adjacent buildings, we'll know through the infrared readout. Priority is to keep things low profile, but if you have to take 'em out..."

"Won't be a tragedy?"

Beneath the mask, Piece's brow furrows.

"Like I said. Priority is to be scarce. Keeper? You got that?"

One of them nods.

"Good man. Just make sure your partner doesn't wander off the reservation."

"You got it. C'mon, 'Tock'..."

As Tock mutters under his breath, the two nevertheless comply, keeping their guns trained on the immediate area beyond the roof. Bravo team waits for the go-ahead, which Piece gives by pointing in the opposite direction.

"What about you, ace?"

Piece loads a fresh clip into his rifle. "I'm lookout. Any security, cop, or otherwise gives us any shit, my job is to blow them away with everything I got."

"Thought you said we had to be low profile..."

"Anything can happen, 'Watch'. Especially in this town. Not gonna pull any triggers unless we gotta."

'Tick', Watch's partner, bumps into the nervous thug's shoulder.

"You heard him. Get your ass in gear."

As everyone moves to position, Piece turns around and keeps his eyes north as Marker and Dial begin to pierce the steel casing that surrounds the security module. They're using industrial strength drilling equipment, the same make and model tested against the bars at Fort Knox every year to indicate whether the materials need to be updated with stronger stuff. And needless to say, The Industrial Bank Of Gotham was hardly Fort Knox. Top-of-the-line in electronic security? Sure, thanks to a sizable grant from Wayne Industries. But they didn't need a tank to break in. Just some careful planning, a sequence of breaches, and a hell of alot of luck.

"Status."

"Just about through..."

Piece takes a look at the analog timer beneath his wrist. When they had made the drop out of the awaiting plane that was still hovering over a thousand feet above them, the group had seven minutes to get in, procure the package, and get out before any suspicion could reasonably be raised. Thanks to these idiots asking too many questions, they were down to four. While this wouldn't ordinarily be a problem, they all knew exactly who they were working for. Failure to adhere to punctuality was punishable by death, as many who had come and gone from the outfit had learned the hard way.

After watching a barrage of sparks go flying at them for what seemed like a small eternity, Marker finally turns to Piece and gives him the okay. Piece nods, turning just as Dial begins to go to work at the wiring for the alarm systems with a laser-cutter. They had to be severed in a specific sequence in order to bypass the electronic locks without incident, otherwise they'd all might aswell be going in guns-blazing. But it didn't take a genius to figure out that the very last thing you ever did as a thief in Gotham was go in guns-blazing. That was more of a Two-Face gang's style, or a bunch of Joker clowns. Someone looking to throw a little mayhem in with their take and stir things up.

This wasn't about that. All they wanted was the municipal codes for the operating branches within the city. Snatching those would essentially give them a one-way keycard access to every major vault in Gotham, not to mention a couple of the neighboring counties. The boss had worked out a plan that would make them all rich, if that creepy-ass timekeeper was feeling generous enough to pay the others their cut. Which, Piece thought, he would... if he knew what was good for his health.

"The rest of you, report. Anything out of sorts?"

"Nobody in any of the parking garages. Not a trace of anyone on the rooftops."

"Same on this end. Looks like we're in the clear."

A smile creeps upon Piece's lips beneath the mask.

"Guess the usual suspects have lost their touch."

At that moment, Dial managed to cut through the last of the wires controlling the locking mechanism. With a simple flick of the maintenance switch, hidden just behind the module, the group watches as the massive tumblers sealing the door in begins to rotate, before sliding back completely. All of them collectively breathed a sigh of relief, as this was always going to be the hard part of the job. But it had been carried out with no muss or fuss, all-but-guaranteeing a swift extraction.

Which made the appearance of the figure that was hiding behind the door, eerily patient and clearly having waited from the beginning, all the more shocking. Each of the seven men raised their weapons, too terrified to move as the all-too-familiar silhouette steps out from behind a thick smoke generated by the destroyed electronics. The figure's stark white eyes peered out from the shadows, glowing in a sneer. Despite being a Gotham native for over half of his life, Piece could hardly believe what he was seeing - that after all these years of hearing nothing but rumors and second-hand accounts, he'd finally been placed into the unfortunate position of standing face-to-face with him.

"Five robberies. All prestigious banks. Each committed in the last month on a rotating schedule..."



"You knew this was coming."

Over the next few seconds, Piece watched with abject horror as the robbery that he'd help plan for months fell completely apart. The Batman lunged forward from out from the shadows and subdued Marker with a chokehold, simultaneously taking the back of Dial's head and slamming his face directly into the console that he had just breached. Tick and Tock, swarming in from opposite sides, opened fire with an immediate hail of bullets pinning the concrete infront of and around their attacker.

The Dark Knight quickly utilized Marker's bulletproof vest to protect himself from the oncoming fire, shifting the horrified thug's body over his shoulder and charged, effectively using him as a living battering ram. Catapulting Marker directly into Tick and Tock, knocking all three men to the ground, Batman spun before the others could fire and lashed out with a single batarang throw. The spinning projectile swung out in a perfect circle, forcing the guns out of the hands of three different combatants, before landing back into the leather grip of its wielder.

Piece was the only one that had yet to be attacked. And despite the weapon in his hands, he couldn't feel his finger reach for the trigger despite every instinct telling him to do it. The possibility of The Batman interfering with the job had always been discussed, always a topic at the forefront of any sane criminal's mind when discussing a pulling a heist in Gotham. But the simple fact is, Piece had never fully put it together that it was possible for a job he was on - he'd always been lucky enough to stay directly out of the vigilante's ever-looming path. But now? His knees were buckling as quickly as his heart was racing. He'd been reduced to a mess of anxiety as he could only watch his men crumple to the ground.

The Batman, on the other hand, had quickly discerned the pattern of these heists and passed the information along to Commissioner Gordon before he'd even arrived. It didn't take a genius to realize that Temple Fugate, known more locally as The Clock King, had faked his rehabilitation at Arkham Asylum in an effort to get himself back onto the streets during Gotham's most prosperous fiscal season. Fugate's compulsive need to organize his crimes had been the signature mark of the previous five robberies: the first had been committed at Gotham National Savings & Loan at precisely 10:10 PM on a Sunday, while the second had hit the Herron & Ellias Trust at 11:11 PM on the following week's Monday. The pattern had held for the next three, and each was within blocks of eachother in the Financial District - like hands on a clock pointing outward. Going by the clockwise motion, IGB Tower was always certain to be the next target.

While it would be easy to assume that with the police on his trail, The Clock King would abandon this methodology, Batman knew better than to leave it to chance. Not only would Fugate feel the need to keep each robbery on track to the letter, but the idea of abandoning his plans in favor of something far less predictable would have been a logistical nightmare to an obsessive like him. Time was precious to Fugate, as if he considered the concept no different than a child that had to be nursed. And to stray from its linear pathway would be akin to self-annihilation. It was partly why Fugate had never been considered a very serious threat when compared to his contemporaries. Even The Riddler, after the first few years of failed schemes, had learned when to change the rules of the "game" to keep himself ahead...

"Code Gray! I repeat, Code Gray! He-He was waiting in the entrance!"

Amidst the fight with the others, Batman's eyes narrowed as he turned his gaze toward a terrified Piece, who had his weapon trained directly on the vigilante. But he was stepping backward, still far too afraid to fire. Either this piece of scum was looking to avoid potentially hitting his men, or in the more likely scenario, he had just found himself way too in over his head. The Caped Crusader made a note of that as he ducked an oncoming kick, grabbed the thug's leg, and then thrust his knee into the attacker's groin.

Stomping the last conscious thief's face directly into the concrete roof, Batman advanced on Piece with a quick sprint. It was enough to terrify the thug into a backward trip, but he managed to spring back up and maintain his composure, nervously looking toward the skies. After realizing that his cowl's micro-transceiver had picked up a northbound noise, The Dark Knight stopped in his tracks and watched as seven more thieves from the outfit - presumably instructed to wait, in the event that things had gone south - descended from the clouds and quickly landed between Batman and their defacto leader, guns trained.

"You're gonna pay for this, Bat! We're already behind schedule!"

Batman remained motionless for a moment, sizing up the situation.

"Still, we can always curry favor with the boss by telling him that we finally punched your cl---"

Seizing the opportunity, The Dark Knight slammed a palm-full of gas grenades on the ground infront of him, disappearing into the billowing cloud as it enveloped the startled gunmen, momentarily blinding their vision while irritating their lungs. As they shot wildly into the air, each trying in vain to calibrate their goggles to see through the smoke through infrared, all they caught were glimpses of Batman's silhouette as he worked through the crowd. A nerve-pinch here, a shattered femur there, some pained screams, and the sound of broken bones followed the group as they were powerlessly, one by one, brought to the ground.

Piece, still choking on the irritant vapor, looked up as the cloud dissipated. Batman was still in the midst of disarming the last standing member of his back-up, snatching the gun away from his grasp and lifting him off of the ground.

"Your boss would know better..."

With a hard swing, Batman tossed the thug into the air and leaped himself, landing a precise spin-kick into the thug's spine and sending him crashing into the heap of unconscious or otherwise immobile bodies. His cape draping around him, The Dark Knight could hardly hide his disgust as he turned away.

"Than to use a clock pun with me."

BRAKABRAKABRAKABRAKABRAKA!

With no time to react properly, The Batman felt his body reel back as three high-caliber bullets struck him directly in the chest. They had hit the most heavily armored part of his body, lined with an experimental kevlar-lined shock-absorbent filament that had been injection molded into the suit, but no amount of armor could change the fact that he had still taken three bullets to the chest. Landing hard onto his back, Batman recovered his breath just in time to see Piece walking towards him, nervously keeping his gun trained.

"N-Now don't... don't you do anything else. I'm gonna leave this place right now, a-and you're not gonna follow..."

The Dark Knight responded by swooping his right leg under Piece's body, sending him crashing to the ground. The machine gun went flying, before being caught mid-air by Batman's apparent steel grip. Piece moaned in pain and grabbed at the back of his stricken head as The Caped Crusader instantaneously dismantled the weapon, tossing the useless cascade of parts aside. Standing over the injured thug, Batman violently reached in and grabbed him by the front of his vest, causing him to visibly and immediately panic.

"Here's a counter offer."

Stepping ever closer to the edge of the rooftop, Batman positioned Piece over the railing with a single arm, leaving him to dangle over three hundred feet above the streets below. Piece was understandably concerned, while little to no emotion remained in The Dark Knight's glare. Truth be told, he had done this thousands of times. It could be surprising to most how easily even the toughest individuals break once gravity entered the equation.

"You're going to tell me everything you know about Tempus Fugate. His location, where he's been keeping the earnings off these heists. And you're going to do that before I lose my..."

But suddenly, without warning, Batman felt his grip on the thug weaken.

"...patience..."

The steeled gaze turned into one of confusion, as the strength in his body was beginning to gradually fade. The Dark Knight merely assumed that the criminal in his grasp was struggling too hard and making things difficult. He was about to accost him further in order to scare him into submission, but that was when Batman noticed something particularly odd: the man wasn't moving. Reaching in to rip off his balaclava, the vigilante revealed a young man - no older than twenty-two or twenty-three - who had long since passed out from fright.

Realizing that he might have overdone it, Batman went to pull him back over the ledge and drag him over to the others - but he wasn't able to do it. His back locked up, the muscles in his triceps went numb, and he started to feel as though his own hands were shaking. Overcome with his inability to control the situation, Batman reached out with his other arm in a desperate attempt to pull the unconscious body back to the roof - only to realize that he was the one tipping over.

Hit with pure exhaustion, Batman became horrified to witness the last thing that he'd ever want to see: the thief slipping entirely out of his grasp.

"Mother of God..."

Without thought, The Dark Knight threw himself off of the roof aswell and hurriedly reached into the back of his utility belt. He could see the falling thug's body a few meters below him, hurtling towards the pavement on a collision course that was destined to be fatal. Using that knowledge to push himself even more, Batman produced a newer iteration of his grapple gun - larger than the handheld version that he would regularly utilize in the field - and shot it directly at his target.

The grapple shot out without a line, instead employing three separate hooks attached to a large sensor. With the sensor hitting the thief directly in the chest, the three hooks automatically sprang to life and shot off three separate grapple lines out to the surrounding buildings. Even if one didn't hold, the other two would be more than sufficient in preventing the man's fall - and with the safety monitor installed in the sensor, would gradually slow the man's descent to prevent injury.

Breathing a heavy sigh of relief as he himself sailed past the now air-suspended criminal, The Dark Knight pressed a button on the buckle of his belt and produced one of the other grapple guns. Spinning and firing a line into the air, Batman pulled down in order to arch himself for an ascension - only to find that it hadn't worked and that his pull was too weak. Flung through the air without a taut line, the vigilante cursed under his breath as he felt one of his shoulders pop from the velocity. Managing to propel himself into a weak swing, The Caped Crusader spotted a nearby window washer's carriage, unmanned just below the tenth floor of the building.

Feeling himself picking up an unwanted amount of speed, Batman braced himself as he collided directly with the steel pole of the carriage, causing him an even greater amount of pain than the three bullets embedded into his armor. With a weak thrust of his leg, however, The Dark Knight slowly made his way onto the carriage's platform, finally able to let go of the grapple.

Breathing hard, with his heart feeling as though it were pumping out of his chest, Batman rolled onto his back and laid there for several minutes, trying to recover from a near-death experience that should never have theoretically happened. Despite his analytical mind, he simply didn't understand it. What had he just experienced? Some sort of delayed reaction to the impact of the bullets? Perhaps a bullet caliber he hadn't encountered in the field?

Not likely, he thought to himself, beginning to cough in between gasps. He knew the make and model of the gun that the punk had used to attack him. It had been the same type fired by many of his enemies, often hitting him at a point in his career where he'd utilize considerably less protective equipment. This was something else. Something psiological that had made him too weak to carry out something that wasn't, in his mind, very complicated at all.

There was one thought. A single possibility that terrified him. But he immediately dismissed it to even himself, on the suspicion that he'd already spent too long ignoring this particular problem. To admit it even subconsciously, now of all times, would be admitting that he'd let this get out of hand. That were he a man of a more common sense, he would have prepared for this eventuality long before now.

He was getting old.

---

Helicarrier 'Lady Liberty' // Turtle Bay NY

Steve walked the halls of the helicarrier, tablet in hand. Agent Jimmy Woo following him through the halls, every time Steve finished reading or signing the tablet in his hand he handed it back to Jimmy. Who had a second tablet already loaded up with the next item of the itinerary. It was a constant cycle of paperless work. Expenditure reports, requests for funding, post-action reports. He missed the days when he was only in charge S.H.I.E.L.Ds strategic response unit. Back in those days he read a fraction of the reports and got to complain about a lack of funding.

Now he was the one who had to deny the funding that led to those complaints. A deckhand handed him a pair of safety glasses and a headset as they reached the door to the flight deck. He put them on without complaint, reaching up he turned the microphone of the headset on as he signalled for Jimmy to do the same. "I won't be gone long. Make sure to have Spider-man report in once he reaches Gamma Base, and have Agent Romanoff report to Alpha. Shoshtakov will meet her there, he's been chasing down reports of the Winter Soldier operating out of Sokovia. She won't be happy about it, but I need one of my best on it. Fury was taking a personal interest in those reports before he went missing, I want to know what had him so interested."

Jimmy nodded as Steve turned and opened the hatch, walking out onto the deck. The sudden chill caught him slightly, they weren't that high up but the altitude coupled with the fact there was nothing to break the wind meant that there was always a certain amount of chill. The flight deck was always busy, organised chaos as the craft landed and took off all in perfect harmony orchestrated by the control tower. Supplies and personnel came and went. Teams of operatives and agents moved from one deployment to the next, scientific personnel came to run tests or give results. Some craft were even specially designated for those flying down to the city to go on leave.

Steve walked over to the craft that had been nicknamed S.H.I.E.L.D - One. His personal quinjet, a deckhand at some point had painted a miniature shield underneath the cockpit. It was the little things that kept a place like this together, good morale was key to a successful unit after all. Climbing aboard he secured himself in his seat with the straps, greeting the pilot as he boarded before allowing himself to close his eyes.

"...two minutes out."

Steve shook himself awake, back during the War he had been able to fall asleep on the old C-47s. A quinjet that flew softly through the air and was no louder than a car? With little sleep below his belt, he hadn't stood a chance. He stood up, chastising himself slightly as he walked to the cockpit. Leaning in over the pilot's shoulder. It was early morning, only the briefest hints of navy against the black sky hinted at the change from night to day. Checking his watch he nodded, the best time to catch the Bat was at night anyway. Tapping the pilot on the shoulder, he clicked his microphone on.

"Bring us low over the roof Davis. Then circle the city, I'll call you when I need you." Davis gave him a thumbs up, pulling up on the control yoke while simultaneously pulling back on the throttle slowing down the craft and swinging it around. Steve grabbed onto the chairs in instinct, though the inertia dampeners in the craft barely made the entire manoeuvre any more uncomfortable than turbulence on a passenger liner. Taking off his flight headset he moved towards the back of the craft, securing his earpiece inside his left ear, walking down the ramp as it opened and hopping effortlessly onto the opposing roof. It looked like all the others of the dark and gothic city, except for the inclusion of a very particular floodlight. As the quinjet retreated up into the ear Steve walked over to it and flicked the breaker. The light flashed to life, sending a signal up into the air.

Steve just hoped that the Batman would see it.

IN DREAMS
CHAPTER 2

New York City
October, 1940

Men gathered on the New York waterfront near a ship’s gangplank. The cargo ship anchored in the bay carried the Swastika of the German Reich. Groups of men worked quickly offload large crates from the ship and carry them down the gangplank. The stevedores removed the tops of the crates to inspect the items inside. Guns and explosives were carefully packed in the crates. One of the men pulled an MP-34 from the crate and showed it off to his friends. The group broke out in an excited gaggle of laughter mixed with German. Perched atop a nearby building overlooking the scene were two figures. The older and taller of the two wore a suit and fedora. A gasmask obscured his face. Beside him was a teenaged boy in a yellow shirt, yellow leggings, and red boots and gloves.

“Looks like our source was right, Uncle Wes,” the boy said excitedly. “Dirty kraut spies right here in New York. What’s the plan?”

“We go quiet, Sandy,” The Sandman said through his gasmask. “If I can get close enough, I’ll gas them right to dreamland. While our traitorous friends are being introduced to their own dark dreams, our contact with the FBI will roll out the dragnet and round the Fifth Columnists up. By that time we’ll be well gone into the night.”

Sandy punched his open palm.

“Heck of a plan, Uncle Wes!”

The Sandman put his finger to the gasmask.

“We must be quiet, Sandy.”

Sandy’s eyes expanded when he saw Uncle Wes pull the gas gun from the hip holster underneath his jacket. The Sandman walked to the edge of the building and looked down as the men continued unloading their cargo from the ship.

“Let’s make haste,” he said before diving off the ledge. “The sands of time run swift..."

---

New York City
Now

The sands of time run swift....

Wesley Dodds stood in front of his nightstand. The closed flip phone rested in one hand and threaten to fall out of his loose grip. He looked down at the collection of pill bottles on the nightstand. Blood pressure meds, cholesterol meds, and of course a collection of daily vitamins. Nothing out of the ordinary for an old man. But nestled among the regular medications were sleep meds. For forty years Wesley Dodds had taken the same cocktail of sleep medication and muscle relaxers to keep the dreams at bay. It gave Wesley the perfect combination of a sleep that was sound and dreamless without being so deep he might not wake up. And it had worked for forty years. Those dreams… the dreams that had haunted his nights since he was a teenager… were gone.

Until tonight, that was.

He’d dreamt that he was being strangled to death. Something had cut off his air supply. Something thick and leathery, something held firmly in place by strong hands. This dream had cut through the haze of the medicine and came to Wesley. And with the dream came tragedy. Wesley cleared his throat and looked across the small bedroom at the pictures on the wall. Dian put them there when they first moved into the apartment fifty years ago. There was one of the two of them, one of her father Larry, and of course plenty of photos of Sandy. First as a boy, then a young man, and then one with Sandy and Frankie as Vegas newlyweds, and one with a middle aged Sandy with now elderly Wesley and Dian. The entire course of a man’s life from start to finish.

The sands of time run swift....

Wesley closed his eyes and sighed. He opened his eyes and fought back the tears. He suddenly realized he was still clad in his pajamas. Frankie had asked for him to come to the police station. Wesley took a deep breath and shuffled towards his closet for a change of clothes.

---

NYPD 19th Precinct

It was a little past 5 AM by the time Wesley found himself in the lobby of the 19th precinct. The place had the usual retinue of arrested prostitutes, victims of assault, and drunken disorderlies you’d find at any police station’s lobby on the night shift. The same tired, burned out desk sergeant that seemed to haunt every graveyard shift, a fixture Wesley remembered when he haunted this same precinct back in the 30’s. Just now the sergeant had a smartphone to look at to pass the time.

Wesley paused as he saw the woman waiting at the far end of the lobby. Thirty years had passed since they last saw each other. And those thirty years had not been as kind to Francesca Hawkins as they had been to Wesley Dodds. Frankie had always been younger than Sandy, so Wesley guessed she was almost eighty. The bright blonde hair atop her head was either dyed or a wig. The heavy makeup highlighted Frankie’s age rather than conceal it. The entire get up made Wesley remember Frankie’s Vegas showgirl roots. That wasn’t fair to her, thought Wesley. His Dian had been quite the party girl before they got together, and Frankie had done nothing but love Wesley and Dian and Sandy… as best as anyone could love Sandy.

“Uncle Wes,” she said, her voice raspy from a life of smoking.

They hugged. She felt so thin. Paper thin, almost. Almost as if a stiff wind could easily blow her away. Even in Wesley’s advanced age he was sturdier than Frankie felt right now.

The sands of time run swift....

“They called me up in the middle of the night,” Frankie said without preamble. “Been divorced twenty years but I was still Sandy’s emergency contact and next of kin. His body is down in the morgue getting cleaned up… they’re waiting to call me back to make sure it’s him, but they found his wallet on the body.”

“Do you know…,” Wesley said softly, almost afraid to finish the question. “Do… you know how he died?”

“They’re…” Frankie closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Wesley saw tears beginning to run down her cheeks, smudging the heavy foundation. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief for her. She waved him off and put her ring-covered hands to her face. When she finally spoke, it came out as a hoarse whisper. “They say… he hanged himself.”

The words made Wesley’s blood run cold.

“With his own goddamn belt,” Frankie said, breaking out into sobs. “And some goddamn flophouse… Why…. why?!”

He thought back to his dream. Thick leather and strong hands squeezing the air out of his body.

“Frankie,” Wesley said softly. “Frankie...I have to go.”

Frankie looked at him curiously. The makeup was now running in streams down her face and dripping from her chin. “Why?”

Wesley ran a comforting hand across her shoulder. “Just trust me. I’ll see you later. Just… stay here and talk to the police… and identify Sandy’s body. Call me when you’re done.”

He left Frankie standing there, confused and tear-streaked, as he headed back out into the early New York morning.

---

Upper East Side

When the door to the apartment wouldn’t open on its own, Wesley opened it with a little… coercion. He’d made a quick stop back home for his lockpick kit, something he hadn’t touched in over fifty years. There was rust in his skills for sure. But after about two minutes he got the door open. Picking locks, like riding a bike, was a skill you never completely forgot.

He quickly shut the door behind him and flicked on a flashlight. Wesley gingerly walked through the two-bedroom apartment and observed. Sandy’s place still looked mostly like it had the last time Wesley had been here. The home served as a shrine to his -- and Sandy’s -- exploits. Covers of old pulp novels and comics featuring The Sandman had been blown up as artwork and hung on the walls. Bookshelves were crammed with material dedicated to The Sandman and the old JSA. Wesley knew somewhere in a sealed box Sandy had old black and white serials of some schlubb actor playing The Sandman in a series of Republic Films pictures. There was the newer stuff too, some cheesy action movie from the 70's where Sandy played himself, the second Sandman, in "Perchance to Dream" some movie they shot for cheap and paid the actors the bare minimum.

Although Wesley noticed the place was a touch different then it had been before all those years ago. There were gaps in Sandy's collection. Books and memorabilia and posters were missing here and there, the places where they had once been were glaring obvious holes. The collection wasn’t as full as it had been decades ago. But…

Wesley paused when he saw it. The key piece in Sandy’s collection. In the corner of the living room in a glass display was Wesley’s original Sandman costume. The gasmask his father had worn during the Battle of Belleau Wood, the gas gun Wesley had created, even the same suit right down to the frayed threads on the trenchcoat’s left breast. Wesley placed his hands on the glass and stared at his old costume.

“I don’t know who killed you, Sandy...but I will find them. And I’ll introduce them to their own dark dreams.”

_{Location: Midtown Savings Bank - New York City}

Something Sinister #1.01: Spider's aren't insects

---

"Come on, Fred, this is just sad."

Spider-Man flicked out his wrists, firing off two weblines and yanking on them to launch himself halfway across the bank towards a partitioned meeting room. Trailing behind him and keeping pace was a large, sharpened boomerang. While soaring through the air, he tucked his arms into his chest and lifted his feet so that he was perfectly horizontal. Spider-Man could feel the air pass over his masked face as the weapon narrowly arced a mere inch above his nose before banking for a return flight to its owner. Once out of that immediate danger, Spider-Man twisted his body and lowered his feet to slide along the floor in a three point landing. He lifted his head to face the costume wielding villain, who sported a tacky purple and blue costume. "I mean, you've got to be infringing copyright or something. Could have sworn there was another one of you in Central City, and they seemed better dressed."

The Boomerang raised his right hand to catch his weapon as he turned his gaze back towards the bank vault, where men in similar purple ski masks were emerging with bags of money and handguns. The four criminals, upon seeing Spider-Man, seemed to freeze in place for a moment. Boomerang threw his weapon once again towards the Spider-Man, arcing the weapon to swing between the criminals and the Avenger. "Oh for the love of... Out the back, morons! I'll deal with the insect."

Spider-Man took no moment to spare as he began dashing towards the other criminals, ignoring Boomerang. He jumped up into the air to vault over the projectile and cashier's counter with a single leap, and shot two strands at the criminals leading the charge towards the back exit. Once the weblines connected to their targets, Spider-Man pulled back ever so slightly. The small shift in momentum slowed the two in front, causing the two bringing up the rear to crash and knock over their comrades. Spider-Man's own momentum had launched him up towards a support beam in the rafters, which he used to springboard himself back over the pile of criminals. He held out his arms with his wrists extended towards the bank robbers and flicked his middle and ring fingers slightly over the trigger of his webshooters, firing out an interconnected net over his targets to secure them to the ground. They struggled against their restraints, forcing Spider-Man to his restraints nonchalantly with more webs as he paced his way back towards the bank lobby. "Like, seriously... did you run out of gimmicks or something? Or were you just hoping I wouldn't notice? The lack of originality is insulting."

The villain caught his weapon on the arc back in his right hand, and reached his left towards his belt to fetch another. "You could not possibly understand the finesse and art required to wield such a weapon, Spider-Man."

Spider-Man stopped his pace as the right lens on his mask grew larger to match his raised eyebrow underneath. "Look, I'm already ten minutes late to a lunch date that I was specifically told not to be late for. Can we just hurry up to the part where you surrender?" The two stared at each other for a brief moment as Spider-Man folded his arms, standing fifteen yards from his opponent.

Boomerang's gaze turned towards where his gang were, then back at his adversary. His grip seemed to loosen as he lowered his arms to his sides. Spider-Man began to slightly relax his posture, until he felt a familiar tingling along his spine. Reacting with superhuman speed, Spider-Man turned his right palm upward and twisted his hips to line up a shot. His fingers slid back against the trigger of his webshooter. A webline twirled through the air and impacted directly into Boomerang's chest just as he was lifting his arm back to launch another throw. The Spider-Man was much faster. A full-force tug at the web launched the villain ten yards closer, while Spider-Man jumped and spun his body around to deliver a spinning roundhouse right into Boomerang's exposed abdomen. Two metal boomerangs clattered to the ground as the masked bank-robber was launched back right where he started, sputtering and coughing as the wind was knocked out of his lungs. The Spider-Man sauntered over, unceremoniously restraining his legs with a thwip from his signature gadget. "Shoulda tried your luck at Baseball, Fred."

Fred struggled against his restraints for a moment, his eyes locking on Spider-Man in disbelief almost. "Why did you come here, of all places."

"I told you, lunch date. You were on the way."

Fred relented against the webbing, having reached towards his belt instinctively and finding no further boomerangs or knives to free himself with. "They said you would too busy to worry about people like us."

Peter's expression dropped from his usual smirk to a serious stare beneath his mask as he took a few steps closer. "What are you talking about, Fred?"

An echoing boom seemed to answer in that very moment. Peter turned his head slightly south, following the noise of a distant explosion. He tapped his ear through the mask, activating the police radio feed in his earpiece.

"We have a 10-999 on Wall and Broad. All available officers please respond. There is a confirmed 10-998 in the area."

Peter sighed, walking back over to Boomerang to remove the criminal's mask with a quick tug. He knelt down next to his adversary, looking him directly in the eyes. "Alright, Fred, I'm really going to need you to figure your life out. I've got much bigger fish to fry, and you really don't want to end up on someone else's bad side. They don't play as nice as I do. But above all else, Fred... I need you to remember something for me."

Fred Myers, restrained and helpless, stared back at Peter with only the purest malice and outrage. "What?"

"Spiders are arachnids, not insects."

GAMMA BASE // NEVADA

Bruce chuckled as Jen opened the door. He was surprised that she was currently Jennifer and not She-Hulk. Jen could get away with it, while Bruce's relationship with Hulk wasn't ideal. He could exert some influence, but he wasn't in control and he couldn't remember what happened. Jen and She-Hulk seemed to be one and the same, beyond a little bit of extra confidence when she was big and green.

"Yes it's still the morning, but some of us have work to do and can't just lounge around all day-" He rolled his eyes at her, bringing up the tablet with the Gamma Energy readings before an alarm started sounding throughout the base. His contacts flared slightly as the sudden light shift and increased noise caused a slight spike in adrenaline. Closing his eyes he swallowed and paused for a second, he wasn't at risk of changing. Though it was always best to wait until his adrenaline levels came back down.

"Attention all personnel. We have unidentified craft inbound. I repeat, unidentified craft inbound. All personnel report to your duty stations." The message continued to repeat four more times until it stopped with only the alarm sounding. S.H.I.E.L.D agents ran through the corridor behind him, many of them slowed when they saw Bruce. Deciding to walk past him slowly rather than risk running into him.

Bruce grumbled under his breath. "If it's not one thing then it's another..." Turning the tablet back to face himself he flicked through several windows until he had tapped into the sensor suite. Running it through a spectrum analysis Bruce sighed as he noticed there was a distinct Gamma signature, one he was already familiar with. Pushing the tablet towards Jennifer. "I'll let you deal with this one Jen. Looks like Amadeus Cho has tracked us down and I-" He moved his hands as he tried to find the right words, his frustration evident "-I can't deal with this right now. I have no idea if Bruce or Hulk would be the one to greet him and I honestly don't know what would be worse. Find out what he wants, then meet me in the lab we've got a situation developing."

Turning around he stalked down the corridor. "Used to just have to worry about one Gamma-Monster running around, now I swear there's a new one every other Thursday. Can't get anything done.

New York City
1989

The energy swirled around the strange machine as if the Milky Way itself had been pulled from the heavens in a great spiral around them. Colors Leonardo had never seen flashed before his eyes in a maelstrom of light and energy. At its center was the strange, spherical contraption that Oroku Saki, the Shredder, had used his vast resources with the Foot to create. It looked like a set of magician’s rings that spun around one another at incredible speeds. Donatello said it was some sort of matter transporter. Leo didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he knew it couldn’t be good. Nothing Shredder did was good news, and this was his obsession, which meant it had to be worse than the rest.

Standing in front of the machine, with blade-adorned arms raised to the sky in a show of victory was the Shredder himself. Oroku Saki’s armor was gleaming as brightly as the air around him, the sharp angles of the blades shining like deadly moon beams. He looked at his creation without breaking line of sight. He was close. He didn’t think the Turtles and Splinter could stop him now.

But he would be wrong. Leo would make sure of that fact. If there was one thing the eldest turtle could never do, it was give up.

They had tracked the Foot’s secret project to this warehouse, and the four turtles and their father Splinter had launched a well planned assault, and had taken down countless of Shredder’s goons. But the machine had already been started when they reached the roof, and Saki had fought the five of them to a draw while it powered up. Now it was seemingly operational, as a great beam of light began to reach up from it to the sky.

Leonardo looked to his brother, Raphael, and made a twirl sign with his hand. Raph smiled, knowing exactly what Leo was calling for. The turtle in blue then made his way over to Donatello, and called out over the deafening sound of the machine, “Whatta think’ll happen if I jam that thing up!?”

“It’s hard to say!” Donnie looked worried. “Could result in a release of energy that could cause every atom in our body to explode at a subatomic level!”

“And the good outcome!?” Leo winced.

“That is the good outcome!” Don replied with a shrug. “But I don’t know if we have a choice!”

“My son!” Splinter placed his hand on Leo’s shoulder, “We must stop Saki! Whatever he has planned, it will mean the end of New York!”

Leo placed his hand on his father’s and nodded. It was time. It didn’t matter whether they lived or died, as long as they stopped Shredder for good.

He motioned for Raphael to execute the maneuver, and the largest and strongest of the turtles picked up the smallest, Michelangelo, who was standing next to him. The brash turtle yelled out, “Here comes the heat!”

Mikey ducked into his shell and Raphael spun and threw him at Shredder like the biggest frisbee in the world. The turtle flew through the air with surprising velocity, crashing into the Shredder and sending the ninja master sprawling to the ground, one of his gauntlets clanging to the rooftop in the process. Donnie, Raph, and Splinter ran to assist Mikey with their enemy, while Leo ran to the machine.

He drew his swords, ready to jam them into the mechanisms of the spinning contraption, but was amazed when he felt them being repelled by some unknown force. He tried his hardest to swing them down into the rings, but found himself unable to. He pressed against the force, but all he accomplished was having his swords ripped from his hands and flung back into the roof.

“Leo! Look out!” he heard Raph cry over the din of machinery.

He turned in time to dodge out of the way of Shredder’s blades, but still received a dizzying kick to his temple. The shot send stars cascading over his vision, and he fell back to the roof.

“Do you not see?” Saki motioned above, where the beam of light was becoming bigger. Leo could see odd shapes on the other side, like that of spaceships from Star Trek or Star Wars, stories he had come to love. “I have waited so long. But finally I can leave this world...but not before I make it suffer.”

The Shredder laughed as he loomed menacingly over Leo. This was the end, Leo knew. He would die here, a failure, at the hands of his greatest enemy. But that was when he noticed the metal gauntlet of the Shredder lying motionless near the machine, much closer than his swords had gotten. It was a curious thing, but he didn’t have time to consider why it was. It was an opportunity, and the only one they had.

He back away on his hands, feigning fear of the Shredder, “Please, Saki. Spare me. Clearly you’ve won. You’re the better ninja.”

“Of course I am,” Shredder gloated with a laugh as Leo snuck closer and closer to the gauntlet. “I am the most superior being on this world. None can compare to me, especially not freaks like you.”

Leo was close now. Only a few more feet, “That’s right. We’re nothing but mutants. Scum.”

“You are by products of our greatness,” Shredder laughed, raising his bladed fist for a killing blow. “And I should have never allowed for the accident that created you.”

That almost froze Leonardo in his tracks, but he felt himself bump into the gauntlet. With a quick twist, he rolled out of the way of Shredder’s blow and flicked the gauntlet into the base of the machine.

Everything that happened next felt like an eternity and an instant all in one. He heard the pained scream of the Shredder. He heard the calls of his family. The world in front of him exploded in a blinding white light. His limbs felt like they were being both stretched and compressed to their limits simultaneously. His body, though he was sure he was not moving, felt as if it was being thrown at a speed unknown to man.

And then, all faded to black.



“Leo! Leo wake up!” he felt a strong hand shaking his shoulder. His eyes opened to Raphael standing over him, looking worried. “Phew, thought we had lost you there for a second.”

His eyes were adjusting to the light, probably still slightly damaged from the energy released by Shredder’s machine moments ago. He groggily asked, “What...what happened? Is New York okay? Did we stop the machine?”

A pregnant moment of silence hung in the air before Raphael sighed, “Well, do you want the good news, or the bad news?”

“Ugh,” Leo grunted. “The good news.”

“Well the good news is we definitely collapsed the Einstein-Rosen bridge that Shredder had...somehow created,” Donatello added in nervously. “How New York is doing? Well...that’s the bad news.”

“Oh no, what happened?” Leo asked as his vision began to rematerialize.

“Well that’s the thing, bro,” Mikey said as Leo’s vision returned completely and he gasped in amazement. The vista in front of him was completely alien. Orange sand dunes rolled out as far as he could see, like some sort of candy coated desert. Odd, white and maroon shrubs dotted the landscape, while dark blue grasses clung to some dunes. The sky was a hazy shade of pink, and the only thing that seemed normal was the singular sun in the sky and the wisps of white clouds. “Like, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

_{"The ancient Egyptians postulated seven souls. The top soul, and first to leave at the moment of death is Ren, the secret name.
This corresponds to my director. He directs the film of your life, from conception to death.
The secret name is the title of your film. When you die, that's where Ren came in."
William S. Burroughs, The Western Lands}

#01 The Secret Name (Part 1)

---

Earth, Somewhere...

Deep within the bowels of the Earth, far from any prying eyes and hidden away from the sun's cleansing light, a madman worked furiously. Unholy incantations were uttered, and inscriptions of dark sigils and unspeakable names were scrimshawed into flesh and bone. A dark numen grew in this fetid lair, swelling like an engorged eggsac, ripe to burst with its foul offspring. The time of reckoning was growing close; this was the most crucial, most dangerous, and most exciting part of any ritual.

Cyrus Black simply could not contain his anticipation. "The moon wanes away to darkness, and soon so shall the Earth." He muttered, his insanity bubbling up through his mouth as he continued to labor over his ritual. "A new age of despair shall sweep over this tormented world, and all those fools that once dared spurn me shall bow down and worship at the feet of 𝕮𝖞𝖗𝖚𝖘 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐!"

Just as he was taking a breath to continue his pointless ranting, a star was born in Black's subterranean crypt. A blossom of golden flame erupted out of nothing, and unfurled like a lotus, its every petal a tongue of purifying fire. Runes and sigils were scoured from existence by the intensity of the light and heat, and Black was left to shield his eyes and swear impotently as months of effort were made fruitless in an instant. The trigonometric fireball finished unfurling after only a moment, what seemed like an eternity to Cyrus Black, and what lingered in its wake was the form of a man hovering a foot off the ground, still bathed in ethereal light. Tall, strongly built, and adorned in shimmering gold and cerulean, Black did not wonder who had foiled his depraved schemes for long.

"𝔽𝔸𝕋𝔼 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕕, 𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕥𝕤 𝕕𝕦𝕖 𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕕 𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕣." The golden apparition proclaimed, his voice ringing off the walls like they were inside of a church bell. "ℂ𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕕𝕖𝕧𝕚𝕝𝕣𝕪, 𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜. 𝔼𝕝𝕤𝕖, 𝕤𝕦𝕗𝕗𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝔽𝕒𝕥𝕖."

"Fool! Charlatan! Puppet of Order!" Cyrus Black was inconsolable, gesticulating wildly and spittle flying from his lips with every madness-drenched word. "You cannot conceive of what your ignorance and idolatry have cost me! You cannot stave off the future, Fate! Cyrus Black shall rule this blighted world as its rightful master!"

Doctor Fate continued to hang in the air before the ranting warlock, unmoved. His arms crossed in front of his chest, just under where the yellow Eye of Anubis hung, its pitiless gaze burning into Black's soul. "𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕥 𝕠𝕡𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣. ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕗𝕖𝕖𝕝 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕗𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕒 𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕞."

Black spat at Fate, cursing him with all of the energy and effort left in his body, "Suffer the pain of a thousand deaths, Fate! Your baseless threats don't frighten me! I am a master of the dark-"

Cyrus Black was not afforded the time to finish his monologue, as a dimensional rift opened under his feet. Baleful green light poured out of the maw of the portal, and before Black realized what was happening, a hundred grasping spectral hands dragged him screaming into the waiting pit below. The rift sealed, leaving only the echo of Black's terrified cries as the last remnant of him on this plane of reality. Doctor Fate sighed heavily, the sound reverberating in his helmet. He lingered alone in the dark for a few moments, tapping his fingers against his arms as though he was waiting in line at the bank. Then, after checking his wristwatch, Fate cast the spell to reopen the portal, and Black was spat out of it like a lump of human phlegm.

The warlock laid prostrate on the floor, shivering and gasping, before eventually managing to climb onto his hands and knees. His clothes were soaked through with ectoplasm and other unsanitary fluids, and a vicious tremor ran through his entire body, leaving him almost unable to speak. "P-please, n-no more." He was barely able to form words. "Every m-moment like an eternity of-"

Fate cut him off. "𝕎𝕙𝕒𝕥? 𝕄𝕠𝕣𝕖? 𝕍𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝." With another motion, Black was seized back into the Nightmare Realm. Fate once again sat in the darkened chamber alone, humming a small tune, before deciding it was time to return the warlock once again.

When Black returned the second time, he was still soaked with various indescribable fluids, but this time he had no clothes, and seemingly all of his hair had been ripped out of his skin. The man looked twenty years older, and did not have the energy to move, nor speak. He merely gazed up with haggard, bloodshot eyes at the luminous golden figure looming above him.

Doctor Fate spoke now, not bothering to wait for the shell of a man on the floor to acknowledge him. "ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕒 𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝-𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕕. ℕ𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕤𝕖𝕖𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕠𝕗 𝕨𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕕𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟, 𝕠𝕣 𝕀 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕣𝕖𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕞𝕪 𝕦𝕤𝕦𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕪." With that, Doctor Fate disappeared from the warlock's lair in another blinding flash of light.

---

Earth, The Tower of Fate

A wink of light in the highest chamber of the Tower of Fate signaled its master's return. Doctor Fate's personal chambers occupied the tower's apex, and were spacious and well-accommodated, if somewhat spartan in design. The Tower itself was like a beam of sunlight frozen on Earth; a featureless sliver of golden metal suspended amongst the highest peaks of the Himalayan mountains. Accessing it was impossible without the power of magical teleportation, but those privileged enough to be granted access by Fate himself found that the Tower's interior was far larger than the space the Tower seemed to occupy from the outside.

His latest errand completed without issue, Fate began to divest himself of his magical raiment. He pulled off the golden Helmet of Fate first, revealing the aged, bearded visage beneath. The Helmet of Fate was enchanted to be weightless and breathable for its master, sparing the supercentenarian Kent Nelson from the effects of trapping his head in a metal tube for hours at a time. If someone other than Kent attempted to put the helmet on... The effects were best left undisclosed. The helmet flew from Kent's hands under its own power, before settling gently on a mannequin in a crystal display cabinet. The rest of Doctor Fate's costume followed suit, each piece taking to the air to put itself away as soon as it left his body. Only one piece remained, the Eye of Anubis, the amber gemstone within the amulet pulsating rhythmically. Kent Nelson showered and redressed without removing the amulet, and tucked it beneath his undershirt once he was dressed again.

Kent sat down at his desk, a huge, regal thing of richly-colored wood, inlaid with gold filigree. Kent didn't know what kind of wood it was; it didn't come out of a tree, he materialized it himself, along with just about everything in the Tower, as well as the Tower itself. Scattered across the desk's surface were books, tomes, scrolls, grimoires, many loose papers serving various purposes, and an assortment of gems, coins, and other enchanted nick-knacks. Kent did the best he could to clear a space for himself to work. One of the difficulties of working alone was having to do all of the organization and housekeeping yourself. Kent eventually found the book he had been looking for, a decently clean quill and an inkwell that hadn't dried up yet, and went about logging his daily activities into the heavy, leather-bound tome. Records were an essential part of the life of any serious magician, particularly those who fancied themselves diviners or seers. One could never be sure if a quirk of fate was merely that, or a portent of a grander destiny, unless one had something to reference it against. Writing and reading these massive tomes was an arduous task, but Kent adamantly refused to use a computer or other electronic device for his work. He had already gone to the trouble of making his home all but impenetrable to intruders, creating a virtual backdoor where there was none felt like shooting himself in the foot.

That was not the only matter recorded in Doctor Fate's personal archives. There were at that time exactly two-hundred-thirty-seven practicing magic-users on Earth, and Fate had the name and home address of every single one of them written down. Every witch, wizard, or warlock, every village wisewoman whose singing voice could heal, every Vegas hack that used prestidigitation to cheat at craps, every hero, heroine, villain, or villainess was under Doctor Fate's careful observation. The little people, magicians that frequently did not even know that they had accidentally tapped into the true magic, were left blissfully ignorant of Fate's panopticon. Others, particularly those with troubled pasts (or futures), were deliberately made aware that he was watching them. That was the only reason he had left that cretin, Black, alive. A dead warlock couldn't warn his friends not to come crawling out of their holes.

Finishing his notes, Kent set down his quill and cracked his knuckles, leaning back in his desk chair. He closed his eyes, resting them, but resisting the urge to fall asleep. As long as it had been already, Kent's day was far from over. It was dusk in the Himalayas, and Kent cracked an eye open to watch the sun set behind Everest. It was morning in New York already, and in a few hours Kent had an appointment with an old friend. Fate was not one to miss appointments.

Fogwell's Gym
Hell's Kitchen, New York

I went to the back of the place like I always do. I don't need to echolocate. I've walked in and out a million times before.



I taste the tang of greatness punch into the air as my fist hits the bag. Is this what Tony The Tiger smells like? Wet leather and darkness. The phalanges in my hand smoosh together as my palm cruises into the weight like mud down a mountain.

_{dont be like me son dont solve your problems with your fists youre a smart kid you can do better than i ever could stay in school be a lawyer you can make the world a better place i know you can mattie you can do whatever you set your mind to i believe in you kid youve got the murdock blood in you as strong as any of us ever had it}

My father said a lot of things. I can see that now. The older I get, it's harder and harder to parce what he actually meant. He told me not to fight with my fists. It's not that he didn't want me to fight. He didn't want me to fight with my fists. He wanted me to fight with the system, so I could always have the freedom to take a knife to a gun fight. Deconstructing his arguments never really gets me anywhere, though. He made rent, or at least he tried, by fixing his fights and shaking down debtors until the cost to his pride outweighed the cost to his bank account. He was a lost man, an alcoholic, a washed up boxer by the time he was my age. Actually, scratch that. He died before he was my age. I'm now officially older than my father was when he died. Guess I'll have to break out the champagne.

_{mattie im so sorry you were never supposed to see that i know what we talked about and im trying my best son but i dont know how to do better thats why i need you to stay away from this life if anyone can do it its you my only son my beautiful boy i cant wait to see who you become when you grow up}

I remember the first time one of the kids pushed me down at school. All of the boys wanted to have a stick fighting war, myself included, but I couldn't stop looking over my shoulder, afraid I'd see Battlin' Jack Murdock there to set me straight. I was so busy worrying about upsetting my father that I stood stock still when a dry branch tore across the bare goosebumps on my arm. To this day, it's the darkest shade of red I've ever seen.

_{hey what happened to you tell me which one of those punks at school did this and ill straighten this out faster than you can say i love you dad its that one kid with the sweatervest isnt it his dads a real prick ill show him whats what have you disinfected yet let me get you a towel kiddo thats nasty}

I begged them to stop. I'd pleaded with them, pointing out how pissed my dad was gonna be. But they just kept poking me and smacking me until I was too afraid to open my eyes. Every time it'd stop, one of them would pitch in with "Come on, Daredevil," and then someone else would join in and so on and so forth until the entire class was smacking me like a Hungry, Hungry Hippo, all until their parents came to pick them up.

_{youre just too smart for them you listen to me young man when you see them tomorrow you ball up your fists puff up your chest look them in the eyes and let them know that you mean business and that they are going to stop}

But that's what he didn't understand. Violence isn't the result of a lack of communication. Violence is the language of the willfully catatonic. No matter how long you go to school, no matter how many books you read, how great you are at speaking dead languages in front of public officials, no matter how much you beg them to stop, some people will only understand violence. That's why when he used his words to tell The Fixer that he was done throwing fights so he could split the proceeds from gambling, he ended up bleeding to death in his own dojo. Not ten feet from where I'm standing. This bag I'm punching, that's his bag. I can still smell his sweat on it. That odious miasma, that's what the human spirit smells like after after twenty years. That's what blood sweat and tears amount to when they were all you had.

---

Frank nodded in silent but polite approval as the diner waitress paused beside him with a fresh pot of coffee. The smell of burnt beans hit Frank's nose immediately as the liquid tar splashed into his stained mug, and no sooner than she had stopped pouring had he already brought the chipped rim to his lips and practically inhaled half the contents of the mug. The waitress, by now well-cognizant of the man's coffee habits, waiting patiently as Frank set his mug back down on the table, and then topped it up once again before sauntering away. 'Pete Castiglione' was a well-known coffee fiend, and often drank his way through two pots alone whenever he breakfasted at Sally's Spoon; luckily for Sally, his tips more than covered the cost of beans and water, even if the other patrons thought he was taking advantage of the Free Refills rule.

Frank shovelled more eggs into his mouth with a fork while his other hand thumbed through both the Daily Bugle and another, more reputable paper, catching up on the latest happenings in the country. Half of it - particularly Jameson's rag - often just pissed him off, but hell if the anger didn't work better than the caffeine at keeping him fuelled up after a long night shift. The Daily Bugle's front page was a double-splash: Spider-Man stopping a bank robbery by another nutjob throwing boomerangs, and Superboy being plastered all over social media wooing some Cape groupie - with his own foiling of armed assault in the city reduced to a mere contextual footnote. Both Frank found equal parts disappointing and frustrating. The 'rang freak was a repeat offender, as were so many of the scum Spider-Man ever claimed to 'stop', and Superboy's stunt of heroism was treated more like inane celebrity gossip than an ineffectual, profit-motivated remedy to deep systemic issues.

Frank never had any repeat offenders. Of that, you could be damn sure.

His other paper had a front page full-spread of Lex Luthor's trialling expedition to the edge of space, which had had far more trouble coming back to Earth that it had encountered leaving it. Were it not for the timely-as-always intervention of Superman, Luthor would now be a charred red smear, scraped across some field or seabed or forgotten piece of tarmac, and the world might be rid of one more despicable leech. Instead, a billionaire was once again bailed out, and Superman once again had his praises sung, and the President once again managed to spin the alien's 'heroics' into a 'symbolic representation of the strength of America'.

A black man forced to bail out a soulless billionaire to the greater detriment of the common people. Yeah, symbolic of America sounds just goddamn right.

Frank flicked through the rest of the paper with disgust bubbling below the surface as he finished his breakfast, using torn scraps from the Bugle's pages to wipe his fingers and mop up spilled ketchup. There was the usual fodder - fluff pieces, non-events reported on by writers the editor didn't like, today's Marmaduke (to which Frank spared a single chuckle that sounded more like a cough than an expression of amusement) - and scattered throughout were other, smaller pieces on the activities of more so-called 'heroes'. Star City faced its usual line-up of gimmicky rejects, and Flash played his usual games, no doubt quipping all the while in order to cover up his sheer lack of guts to stop the same domestic terrorism occurring a mere fortnight later. The Bat in Gotham stopped a crew organised by a recent release from Arkham - a crew that had never needed to be there if the Knight had done what was needed - and in another part of that disgusting city, a good man had been murdered. The police probably wouldn't find the culprit, even if they weren't being paid off to avoid solving the crime. But one of the Batman's many failures probably would, and even then they had been taught half-measure methods.

A part of Frank wondered if the cowardice of capes was simply a means to keep themselves relevant. If there were more men like Frank out in the world, he thought, there would be far less need for men like Batman or Superman. When Frank had waged his war, back when war needed to be waged, all he had seen in those that had come to stop him - all he continued to see in them now - was wasted potential and fear.

He stabbed his last rasher of bacon with his fork and ate it whole, pushing the paper aside as he mopped up egg yolk from his place with a slice of bread and then drained the last of his coffee. He took a breath as the last of his breakfast-slash-dinner sunk into his belly, and then stood, fishing his wallet from his back pocket and rifling through to leave a few crumpled ten-dollar notes wedged beneath his empty mug. On his hip, the company-issued flashlight - large, metal, one of those old-school torches that took a couple hefty batteries to power a weak bulb - swung on its clip as he turned and left, pausing as he pulled the diner door open to wave cordially to Sally on his way out. In his jacket pocket, his hand clenched reflexively around his company-forbidden brass knuckles as a cop car cruised by; the officer in the passenger seat caught Frank's eye, and his face slowly contorted to match Frank's disdainful scowl as the vehicle drifted around the corner, driver unaware.

Frank uncurled his fingers and ducked down the side of the diner, hustling down the alleyway taking a shortcut back home -'home', such that it was. A studio apartment, four stories up. No wider than Frank's height if he stretched his arms above his head; behind a shoddy drywall and cheap door there was a toilet and sink, but no shower, and the kitchenette was a mini-fridge and two cupboards beneath a counter, atop which rested a microwave and a hotplate. Frank didn't need much else. He ate his biggest meals at Sally's, and the hotplate made a pot of coffee just as well as any fancy Breville contraption. He kicked his boots off as he closed and locked the door behind him, trudging to the 'bathroom' to shit and take a whore's shower; then he was laying on his bed, still fully clothed, a book in his hand and eyes skimming the words, Frank trying to convince himself he was reading and relaxing rather than slowly drifting off to sleep.

Three paragraphs in, Frank stopped pretending, and slept. He dreamed the only dream he ever dreamt; one of his first bloodbath, and greatest failure.

Red Robin #2 - Welcome to the Belfry
Location - The Belfry, Gotham City, New Jersey.

---

Admired and beloved by her peers and teachers alike, Janice Lincoln was the perfect student. Born and raised in upstate New York, from the outside it seemed that Janice Lincoln had a fairly normal childhood. Admired and beloved by her peers and teachers alike, she excelled in her studies and constantly found herself the centre of attention. You’d almost think she was perfect, if not for the whispers and secrets of her home life. The most people knew was that her father was absent most of the time, only dropping by the house once every blue moon. The truth of the matter was much worse. Her father, Lonnie Lincoln, was actually the infamous crime lord and foe of Spider-Man, Tombstone.

You’d think such a fact would lead Janice to steer away from the brute of a man, however, strangely his occupation had the opposite effect. Janice idolized him. He spent his visits sharing tales of his exploits – his battles -, and Janice hung on to every word. While her school friends spent their free time hanging out and gossiping, Janice found herself mapping out her own heists and planning for her future. Of course when they found, Janice’s parents forbade her in following in Lonnie’s footsteps, but that didn’t stop her determination. She kept at her classes, and in some time went to college, where soon she became another force for evil; a lawyer.

She soon found herself defending another of New York’s deadliest; the Fixer. It would seem that part of her payment was a helping hand into the world of villainy, with the Fixer providing her a costume of his own design. She became the Beetle, an assassin for hire, and the predator of any person whose enemies were rich enough to pay her bills.

And as Tim Drake had just discovered after watching CCTV footage of her passing through airport security, she was now in Gotham City.

Everything about her fit the bill for Ramon Bach’s killer. She was the right height, and her MO fit the experimental round found. What more, that suit of her’s came with its own set of wings, meaning she would’ve been able to easily enter from that balcony. Now all he had to do was find her.

Running his fingers across the keyboard, the screens before him sprung into life, displaying a map of the city. A smaller screen flashed with colour to his right, as it sped through various CCTV cameras that Tim had hacked into, scanning the faces of all it showed. It wouldn’t be long until he located his target.

Red Robin sat back in his armchair, stretching his arms out over his head triumphantly, before spinning to face the rest of the Belfry. He had converted the pinnacle of Old Wayne Tower into his base of operations well over a year ago now, equipping it with all the technology he needed in order to create his very own Bat-cave, right in the heart of the city. From the screens that filled one of the walls of this place, Tim could be his family’s eyes and ears, providing them with all the support they could ever need while fighting the good fight.

He was proud of what he had accomplished here. Bruce liked it too, even if he did rather stick to that cave of his. He couldn’t blame him for that though. Even for Tim, that mansion would always be his home. Even with the ghosts of their fallen friend, that roamed those halls to this day.

The Belfry felt like a new start. A breath of fresh air, that Tim didn’t know he needed until he took that leap. A new home for the future.

Speaking of one potential future, it was at that point that Tim heard the buzz of his phone from his desk. It was a message from Tam Fox, youngest daughter of Wayne International’s board member Lucius Fox. The two of them had been working together recently for the Wayne Foundation, the company’s more charitable projects. The two of them had also been dating, although given the message he had just read detailing the dinner plans he had accidentally missed that night, that may not be the case for much longer.

Tim sighed, a pang of guilty hitting him hard. It’s not that he didn’t like Tam. It was genuinely nice to have someone in his life that he cared for outside of those who regularly found themselves donning capes and cowl every night. But as Bruce had told him ever since he first put on a mask, the job came first. He turned over the phone, hiding the message away.

Thankfully a distraction quickly came in the form of another of his screens lighting up, as an all too familiar face appeared before him.

“Takeshi!” He exclaimed, a smile forming across his face. “How’s it going, man? Settling in alright?”

“Double R, I told you...” The teenager before him gave a smirk before relaxing back in his chair. “Call me Wiz-Kid.”

Tim couldn’t help but let out a smile. The kid was confident. And who could blame him? He was one of a lucky few to receive a full scholarship to MIT.

“It’s been amazing though. Like, check this out!” Wiz-Kid moved away from the camera excitedly, revealing his newest creation. Takeshi’s wheelchair no longer found itself confined to the ground on a set of wheels, but now moved effortlessly through the air, gliding peacefully. Clearly pleased with his work, he gave the controls on his armrest a quick tug, causing the brilliant red craft to spin beautifully before the camera.

“Oh, nice!” Tim was now right up to the screen, taking it all in. “You got the thrusters all working in synch then?”

“Yeah, took a good couple of days though. Was a nightmare!”

“What about the power usage?” His eyes had moved away from the gleam of the red and was now analyzing the blueprints that Wiz-Kid had just transferred over to him.

Takeshi drifted back over to the camera, running his hand through his hair. “That’s my next problem.”

Spotting something within the blueprints, Tim raised an eyebrow.

“Have you considered flowing some of the kinetic power from the engines right back into the battery?” He asked, glancing back towards his friend.

Wiz-Kid’s eyes lit up immediately.

“Bird Boy, you are a genius!” He cheered, his hands now running over the very same designs. After a few seconds of scanning over them, he glanced back up towards the camera. “You given any more thought on whether you’ll be joining me here? They don’t just give out those scholarships to anyone?”

Another wave of guilt. Tim’s eyes moved away from the screen and towards the side of his desk, where a folded-up piece of paper sat, now doing little more than collecting dusk. He’d received the letter weeks ago now yet had come no closer to making a decision. Usually, Tim had no issue solving whatever problem he came across. One of the Riddler’s riddle? Piece of cake. What to do with his future? No clue.

And with everything that had happened in the last year, this wasn’t exactly something he wanted to spring on Bruce. He didn’t want him to lose another family member. Not after Alfred.

“I... I’m still working it out.” Tim finally managed, his fingers now drumming his desk.

Wiz-Kid simply nodded. “I know what you’re doing there in Gotham is important. But here, you could help make a real difference to the world.”

Before Tim could offer a rebuttal, an alert pinged across his monitor. He expected it to be the completion of his search for the Beetle, but it was much worse.

Mr. Freeze was back.

Finding Fury - Black Widow Tie In #1
Location - Shield Helicarries 'Lady Liberty'/Alpha Base

---

The quarters of a S.H.I.E.L.D agent was one that was utilitarian and uniform in nature. However, for most agents it would have been strange if in there rooms they did not have various personal items and keepsakes, or little decorations that they held close to themselves or simply appreciated. Adjustments that would make their room feel a little unique and like it was their own. Now it was by no means the homeliest of places regardless and it was nothing like a college undergrad putting up some poster of their latest favourite rock band in their dorm, but the little things gave each room almost a feeling for the presence for each individual agent. Now, in the case of Agent Romanoff? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Aside from the bare essentials to a sleeping quarters, it was practically empty. A cold void of personality, for Natasha nothing was more suitable. It was the simplest of simple. A well kept single bed, a desk, a chair, a wardrobe, drawers, a bathroom, some shelves. That was all. No photos, no little trinkets or bits and pieces of things.

Natasha was seated at her desk with a book open in front of her. It was a non-fiction book focused on different artic animals. A rather random choice of reading but it really was just to pass the time, and there was not really anything else that Natasha was particularly interested in to choose over it so when she saw it she just picked it up for herself. Also on the desk was a laptop that had been provided to her by S.H.I.E.L.D. There was filed and information on it that the higher ups deemed suitable to pass on down to her, which could vary from a fair amount to almost none at all. There was also various databases of information that could be accessed online, as well as a plethora of news sources to keep up to date on current events. But there was something about the focus of a book that appealed more to Natasha. It had a specific purpose that it set out to complete. There wasn't much extra noise to get distracted by, rabbit holes to fall down and waste time on trying to chase the truth of a matter.

Of course not everything you read in a book is accurate and true, there are the occasion that one needs to chase up sources and technology was much more equipped to deal with that than sifting through a pile of books. Everything had its strengths and weaknesses after all...

There was a knock on her door. Which meant that either; 1. The Avengers needed her, or 2. S.H.I.E.L.D needed her. Sometimes it was both, sometimes it was neither as far as it was concerned in an official capacity. In a prompt and calm manner Natasha closed her book and pushed it back across her desk to touch with the wall. Rising from her seat she places her chair in its place underneath the desk and walks across the room to open the door. Better late than never. Opening the door she was greeted by Agent Jimmy Woo. She nodded her head in a silent response. "Agent Romanoff... Orders from Director Rogers, he has requested that you make your way to Alpha base. He wants you to follow up on some leads regarding the Winter Soldier alongside Agent Shostakov, something to do with Sokovia. Agent Shostakov will be able to fill you in more on the details when you meet with him at Alpha."

Natasha looked back over he shoulder, into her room. "Understood, I will get what I need packed and I will be on my way." Agent Woo gave a thumbs up in affirmation "Great, there will be a quinjet prepared for you in the hangar."

"Appreciated."

"No problem, take care Romanoff."

Once Agent Woo left she closed her door. There was not much to pack other than the laptop, a few burner phones, a couple pairs of casual clothing in case they were needed, and her equipment for field operations. Anything else was items of little to no consequence that could either be left in the room or thrown out. All the more mundane items she was taking were packed into a sizeable but practical rucksack. Whereas items like her field suits, belts, gauntlets, and gadgets were kept in secure metal casings. She wasted no time in making her way towards the hanger where the quinjet and its crew was waiting for her. Curtly she greeted the pilots before taking her seat and retreating within herself. For a moment there was a troubled look on her face, before it was snuffed out and replaced by the stoic mask that she usually wore.

"We are all set." She heard from the pilot.

"Ready when you are..."

I, now Brawn looked up from my Taco for little more than a second, only to check if I was still on course. The GPS still showed the mysterious 'Gamma Base' as the final destination, just as it had a few minutes ago, but I felt as though something was off. I finished off the Taco then wandered around the cabin checking my various instruments, nothing but one was off, the cloaking device. I muttered a curse knowing I was probably in detection range. I quickly took manual control of the plane, turning it far away from the base, and quickly turning the cloaking mechanism on.

About half an hour later I swung by again. To satellites, electronics, and any other way to find me, it would look like a gamma mutant had fallen from the sky, which was the exact plan. Someone would come to investigate, they'd take me to the base, and I'd have my opportunity. In the very very low chance I could actually collet a sample from either Banner or Walters... Anyways, I could see someone coming in the distance, so I quickly transformed back into Amadeus Cho, regular, small, seventh smartest person in the world Amadeus Cho... Perhaps first impressions would be best if I didn't bring that up.

The Inner Harbor area of Baltimore stood as a testament of the city’s long ongoing revival. Everyone knew of the city as “Bodymore”, the murder capital of America. Pictures of drug dealers and bodies from The Wire were permanently branded in people’s minds as the prevailing image of Baltimore. But years of development and tax dollars had revitalized the scenic Inner Harbor until it was Baltimore’s top tourist destination. Yeah, sure, the corner boys still owned the streets in West Baltimore, and America’s ongoing “opioid crisis” had revitalized the open air drug markets in Pimlico, but here in the Inner Harbor you could see what Baltimore could really become.



“SUCK MY DICK!”

People ran for dear life across the harbor pavilions while the Atomic Skull’s powerful blasts tore through the newly constructed Chipotle. Atomic Skull let out a cackle and blasted the building again.

“This is what you get for charging two whole dollars for some guac! Now where the fuck is the Trader Joe's?”

Flames of atomic energy licked at the Skull’s hands. He set his empty sockets towards a group of students who were fleeing from the scene. He laughed and aimed a hand towards them. Green energy began to charge from the closed fist.

“I would say sorry for this… but you chose to come to this shithole willingly.”

Before he could get the blast off a powerful fist blindsided the Atomic Skull and drove him headfirst into the ground. The impact of the Skull's head on the ground shattered windows in buildings across the Inner Harbor.



“That’s enough sightseeing for the day, Martin.”

“That’s not fair,” The Skull mumbled as he stood on shaky legs. “What kind of hero just suckerpunches someone? The fu--”

His statement was cut off by Superman. He jumped into the air, driving his knee into Martin’s jaw. The force at which the jaw snapped shut cracked both top and bottom front two teeth in the Skull’s mouth. The knee drove the Skull a hundred feet in the air. At the apex of his ascent, Superman met him and drove him back into the ground with a punch to the sternum.

The force of the Atomic Skull’s fall cracked the cement sidewalk. The fissures from the concrete shot across the Harbor and ran up several buildings, causing structural damage to the walls. Superman chided himself and remembered to make a note of the damage he’d done. The crater the Skull had caused was nearly ten feet deep, a broken and bruised Atomic Skull at the bottom of it. Superman landed above him and looked down. His emerald green flames were down to embers and some sort of green liquid that passed for blood stained the Skull’s clothes.

Superman stepped into the crater and stood over the Skull. Joseph Martin had been the monstrosity known as The Atomic Skull for almost ten years now. Something like this was out of character for him. He was an idiot, yes, but he was never destructive for the sake of it. He never did anything without some kind of angle.

“Ewww mudda fudda,” Martin said through cracked teeth.

“What was the point?” Superman asked. “All this damage--”

“Eww did moah dan me,” The Skull shot back.

“You just wanted to terrorize, Martin?”

“Got paid.”

Superman raised an eyebrow at that.

“Who?” he asked.

“Heahahahe,” Martin laughed. “I haf noaw idea! Dey jus sed get Supaman’s attention.”

Choppers flew overhead. Superman looked up from the broken Skull. Two helicopters with the SHIELD logo on them were hovering above the Inner Harbor and watching. Superman knew agents and containment units wouldn’t be far behind.

“Enjoy prison, Martin. Hopefully they can fix your teeth.”

“Fuff eww,” Martin shouted as Superman leapt into the sky.

---

“What’s next on the agenda?”

Calvin Ellis stepped out of the bathroom and adjusted the knot in his tie before slipping his glasses on. Pete Ross leaned against the wall of the corridor with his arms crossed.

“Meeting with Senator Siegel,” said Pete. “He and a few friendly senators are going to discuss supreme court nominees.”

The two men started down the hallway towards the Oval Office.

“Everything okay?” Pete whispered.

“Yes,” replied Calvin. “Just… umm, make sure our fiscal budget this summer has some funds set aside for rebuilding Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.”

“You know, Cal, you’re gonna revitalize this nation’s crumbling infrastructure,” said Pete.

Calvin paused at the door leading into the Oval Office and looked at his friend..

“One supervillain battle at a time.”

Calvin shook his head as Pete opened the door. He stepped inside the Oval Office with Pete right behind him.

When Mr. Freeze wanted to scavenge every piece of information Wayne Biotech had on his wife Nora, he was starting to notice he may have stolen too much. It was taking days for him to scrutinize every file report, summary, and medical data to search for any anomalies or, Lord have mercy, subtle abuses against his wife. Instead of his fears being verified, Mr. Freeze felt a bizarre ritual of emotions flowing through his mind. Peace, feeling honored, and dare he did not say out loud, gratitude to Bruce Wayne. Wayne Biotech had an unofficial boast that there was no disease they could not cure and the "temporary" custody of Nora's wellbeing had done nothing to dampen that drive. Given the expenses and the list of names of all the doctors and nurses that worked on and monitored his wife during his confinement at Arkham Asylum, not a single cent was wasted. It seemed that Mr. Freeze has worried over nothing but when he looked at his wife floating like an angel descending among the snow, that joy turned into sorrow.

Although his base was cold enough for him to shed his cryo suit, the supervillain still felt imprisoned. He approached his wife once again as if his presence would miraculously purge the disease confined in her body like a damnable parasite.

I'm failing you, my dear Nora... Mr. Freeze thought bitterly, feeling contempt for himself. While he was isolated in a repurposed meat locker, Mr. Wayne over here had an entire army of engineers, doctors, and scientists backed up with near-infinite pools of cash to throw at endless amounts of experiments to find a cure. A turtle to a racecar. Would you...still love me? A wretched thought that he quickly banished from his mind but the doubt still lingered. What if I can't find the cure?

Mr. Freeze clenched his fist as he mentally roared at his mind to cease these self-doubting.

What if Wayne Enterprise discovered the cure first?

Then the 2nd Ice Age will engulf the world when Nora falls into the arms of that multi-billionaire playboy. Mr. Freeze will do his duty to save her for no one else can.

"I just have to be better..." Mr. Freeze concluded softly. "For you Nora, for our marriage, for our...future. I can make this work. I can do this..."

He can do this. He must. Looking back at the papers and files, Mr. Freeze returned to his desk and examined a different report. This one was a bit different as Wayne Biotech had examined other patients that displayed similar symptoms. "MacGregor's Syndrome" they called it, named after one of the doctors who studied the disease extensively. He grunted as he looked over the different people listed to have similarities to his wife's disease. Rather clever, he had to admit. A 60% commonality is still useful in meeting up a baseline whereas Mr. Freeze had to resort to lab rat experimentation to test his cures.

He might just have to return to Wayne Biotech to meet up with its medical teams for a discussion.

But first, the knock on the door required his attention.

"Enter!"

Much to his chagrin, the entrance to his office opened to reveal four individuals in winter clothes.

"Hey, Mr. Freeze!" one of the men waved hello to the supervillain. "How's the wife?"

"Why are you all here?!" Mr. Freeze fumed, "This base is supposed to be confidential! There are no assignments I have for you! Not yet...at least."

"Can't exactly blame us, uhh...Mr. Freeze." The former henchman with long dreadlocks spoke up. "You don't memory wipe us of this place's location...not that you should! Your secret is safe with us...for me at least, it's a secret."

"Real quick! Now that we're here, can we..."

Wordlessly, Mr. Freeze allowed them to take their seats in front of him with a slight gesture of a hand.

"See?" the unemployed goon grinned underneath his ski mask towards one of his colleagues, "He's really nice!"

"Nice? NICE?!" The frosty villain said in disbelief, perhaps a little too harsh towards the man. Mr. Freeze had done many a dishonorable deed over the decades. He surely can't be "nice".

Much to his own surprise, three of his henchmen nodded in agreement, although the fourth one was more reluctant.

"To be fair, aside from the pay, you do give out free ice cream for anyone that works for you. I can finally have ice cream parties to reward my elementary students."

"You also have a very safe and productive work environment!" The goon pointed at his own heavy-duty winter jacket. "Unlike the Joker or the Riddler, you at least berate us to wear winter clothes so we don't freeze to death in your secret lair."

The other goon seemed to be in agreement at the last statement. "For sure, those guys have a mad case of Bat Boners. Glad I don't work for the Joker anymore."

Raising a hairless eyebrow, Mr. Freeze was as pleased as a corpse with all these compliments. I'm not a nice person. Not anymore...forgive me, Nora...

"So..boss, when will we start doing those heists again?"

"I fear you are wasting your time here." Mr. Freeze answered plainly, "I have no plans as of tonight to carry out."

"That's a shame." A feminine voice remarked underneath the ski goggles and mask. "I wanted to quit my job at the Iceberg Casino hoping to start here. I guess I'm stuck with the Penguin."

Victor scowled when he heard the Pengiun's name. What a petty, greedy, fat dwarf of a supervillain he the displeasure to work near. He hopes that Nora will never be within a two-mile radius of that hub of debauchery and corruption.

"Is this an emergency?" he inquired, "Is that why you are all present before me? For a score of cash."

The woman nodded solemnly. "My landlord raised my rent recently and I'm already strapped between a lousy paycheck and raising my daughter on my own so I approached them if they knew that you had a...job opening."

"My condolences." Mr. Freeze muttered, "But I must reiterate, I have no options tonight for I must return to my current task with my files."

"That's a shame." The goon shrugged, "Well, you know where to find us, boss. See ya."

The three men exited the room as they discussed among themselves over getting more boxes of ice cream to take home from the marvelous ice cream machines Mr. Freeze has so graciously fixed.

"Have you brought up your financial burden to your landlord?" Victor asked softly when it's just the two of them left.

The woman only half-laughed and half-cried. "What do you think was the first thing I did when he told me the news?

"But I'll manage. I always do...thanks for the ice cream."

She got up from her seat and turned towards the exit.

"Wait!" Victor called out after her, "Consider this a professional courtesy..."

---

"What a productive payday..." The landlord muttered gleefully as he counted the cash he collected from his tenants. He was amazed why he hadn't thought of this raising the rent before. These people have been saving up some serious money only to end up in the pockets of their landlord. He was about to call it a night and head off to bed and dream of gambling at the Iceberg Lounge when the door to his office burst open to reveal two red glowing eyes.

"Oh shit! I'm being robbed!" the landlord cried as he quickly reached over to a shelf to grab his revolver except for Mr. Freeze beating him to it. He cursed even harder when his only weapon in the drawer was trapped under a layer of ice. "Damn you, Mr. Freeze! You're not getting my money!"

"On the contrary, you will hand it over to me." Victor disputed coldly as he slowly approached the man, his heavy boots thumping across the wooden floor.

"Oh screw you! Batman will save me and kick your ass back to Arkham!"

In response, Mr. Freeze switched firing mode on his freeze ray and shot a two-foot-long icicle at the landlord, pinning him to the wall by the collar. "Yes. He will." Victor agreed, pointing his freeze ray directly at his head.

"Okay...okay! You win, just take the case and leave!" The landlord pleaded.

"Now we are in agreement. However, this requires one clause for your part: lowering your rent to the previous rate."

"What? Are you insane?"

Another icicle found itself buried dangerously near the landlord's crotch.

"Deal! I'll notify everyone tomorrow! I swear! Don't take big me from me!"

Much to the landlord's relief, Mr. Freeze exited the room with the case full of the rent money as soon as he heard the vow. He then located the woman that he had talked to earlier.

"Your burden has been lifted. He swore to rescind his latest rent increase." Victor told her as he handed over the case.

"Thank you but most of the money here doesn't belong to me. They're my neighbors' money too." She sigh.

"Then distribute as you see fit." he retorted.

"Right, yes. I'll do that and,..oh. I won't tell anyone about your base. A Profesional Courtesy, you know. Can I work for you, still?"

"...."

"You're a lot kinder than my current boss."

"No...I'm not kind." Mr. Freeze replied softly as he walked away back to his secret base, remembering his first robbery and victim to his freeze gun. "I'm not kind at all."